ONE
BECK
One thing about living high in the mountains… fucking snowstorms. They come outta nowhere. And they love to fuck shit up.
One minute the road is a gray ribbon cutting through pines, the next it’s a white wall trying to swallow everything. My truck’s headlights carve twin tunnels through the blizzard, useless beyond twenty feet. I’m already cursing the decision to check the upper ridge when I see taillights, skewed wrong, half-buried in the drift where the shoulder drops into nothing.
A car. Small. Red. Sliding sideways like it’s already given up.
I slam the brakes, feel the chains bite ice, and I’m out before the engine quits ticking. Wind rips at my coat, snow needles my face. The driver’s door is open, dome light spilling weak yellow onto the drift. Inside, a woman is gripping the wheel like it might save her, eyes wide and fixed on the void beyond the guardrail.
She doesn’t see me at first. Then she does. And something in my chest locks tight.
She’s young—maybe late twenties—dark blonde curls plastered to her cheeks with melting snow, lips blue at the edges. Her coat is soaked through, thin city wool that might as well be paper up here. Hazel eyes hit mine and hold. Not screaming. Not crying. Just… looking. Like she’s already decided whether I’m salvation or the next disaster.
I yank the passenger door open. Cold rushes in with me.
“Out,” I say. Voice gravel from yelling over engines all day.
She blinks once, slow. “I—I can’t feel my legs.”
Shit.
I reach across, unbuckle her, hook an arm under her knees and the other behind her back. She’s lighter than she should be, shivering so hard her teeth clack. The second she’s against my chest the shaking eases a fraction. It’s like her body recognizes the heat and decides to trust it.
I kick her door shut with my boot. I carry her to the truck, and set her on the passenger seat long enough to crank the heat to full blast and shove the gear bag to the floorboard so she has room. Then I’m buckling her in, cranking the seat warmer, wrapping my spare Carhartt coat around her like a blanket.
She’s staring at me again. Close enough now that I can see the faint freckles across her nose, and the way her lashes are clumped with ice.
“Name,” I manage. It comes out rougher than I intend.
“Sabrina.” Her voice is small but steady. “Sabrina Hart.”
“Beck Ironwood.” I slam my door, throwing the truck into four-low, and start the slow crawl toward the cabin. “You hurt?”
She shakes her head. “Just cold. And… scared, I guess.”
“Don’t guess. Are you hurt?”
Another head shake. “No. Thank you. For stopping.”
I grunt. Don’t trust myself to say more. Because the second those hazel eyes locked on mine out there in the white, something primitive snapped awake in me. Not lust—not yet—just certainty. Bone-deep. The kind that saysminebefore reason has a chance to argue.
I’ve lived alone on this mountain eight years. Never once felt the cabin was too quiet. Never once looked at the empty side of the couch and wished for someone to fill it.
Until thirty seconds ago.
The road climbs, narrows, disappears under fresh powder. I know every curve, every dip. Sabrina stays quiet, hands buried in the sleeves of my coat, watching the windshield wipers fight a losing battle. Every few minutes she shivers harder, and every time she does I crank the heat another notch even though the cab is already a sauna.
When the cabin finally appears—dark logs, snow-heavy roof, single porch light glowing gold—she makes a soft sound. Relief, maybe. Or recognition.
I kill the engine. Circle to her side. She tries to climb out on her own; her knees buckle the second her boots hit snow. I catch her before she falls, scoop her up again like she weighs nothing.
“I can walk,” she protests. Her voice is weak.
“No, you can’t.”
She doesn’t argue after that. Just tucks her face against my neck, breath warm and shaky against my skin. I shoulder the door open, kicking it shut behind us, and carry her straight to the stone hearth.
