A twig snapped off to her right, and the hair on the back of her neck stood up. The forest often made noises–sounds she was familiar enough with to block out. But twigs only snapped when larger animals were close by. She turned, peering into the trees. Seeing wolf prints in the forest near their yard wasn't unusual–especially with such plump chickens clucking about. Although Felix’s presence scared off most predators, he was much better than a guard dog.
Large clumps of snow fell from a branch and landed in powder, making a muted crunch noise. “No reindeer games, Felix. I have eggs,” she warned in case he was sneaking up on her. It wouldn’t be the first time he flew just over the top of the snow and then landed right behind her to make her scream. He laughed his antlers off every time.
Movement on the porch drew her attention as Felix lifted his head. He’d been sleeping and yawned.
She shivered and hurried up the steps. “Some guard you are.”
He blinked slowly.You don’t see anyone on the porch, do you?
She smirked. “Only a giant, hairy rug.” Pausing, she gathered both corners of her pouch into one hand to scratch under his chin. “Stay awake for a minute, will you? There’s something out there.” She shivered and then ducked inside.
Inside, Grandma was practically climbing into the fridge, her backside poking out.
“If you’re having a hot flash, you could go outside,” Clove joked.
Grandma backed out, her arms full of half-empty containers. “All this is expired.” She dropped it into the garbage. Clove glanced in and groaned. “The soy sauce? Mustard? I didn’t know mustard could expire.”
“Do you mind running to town?” Grandma asked as she wrote a list on a pad of paper.
“Not at all.” She plucked the list from Grandma’s fingers. A ride into town on the snowmobile was always an adventure and sometimes a challenge in the deep powder. “Let me grab my pack.” They didn’t travel in the winter without their survival packs. Neither had ever needed the space-age blankets or emergency matches, but if they did, they’d increase their chances of survival just by carrying it.
“And if you see the Sheriff, buy him a hot chocolate,” Grandma called innocently.
Clove rolled her eyes at her grandmother’s attempt at matchmaking. The sheriff hadn’t stopped by since Thanksgiving, and she didn’t expect him back. Unless he ran out of apple pie filling. The thought put her in a pickle. If she took more to town and delivered it, he might think she’d made up an excuse to visit him. He'd come looking for one if she didn’t give him another bottle. What was a girl to do?
She plucked her key off the hook by the door. “I’ll buy a hot chocolate for a first responder anytime.” That would be a good middle ground. If she happened to see him at the Quick Stop, she could thicken the line between them by calling him Sheriff and buying a cocoa for a public servant. That would let him know she didn’t see a romantic future with him and they could stay friends.
“Not like that,” Grandma huffed as if Clove was a lost cause in the romance department. She was. She’d already established that fact when her own father didn’t want to keep her.
Grandma hadn’t brought up Allen since Thanksgiving, and Clove thought she’d given up on the idea. “Maybe you should date him,” she teased.
Grandma scowled. “Don’t be ridiculous!”
Clove lifted a shoulder in response, threw on her pack, and headed out. There wasn’t much more to say on the subject. She wouldn’t encourage a man she didn’t have feelings for. Heck, she wasn’t going to encourage one she did have feelings for–not that there was a man within thirty miles she’d want to get to know. Ugh! She needed to derail this train of thought because it only made her feel bad about herself. She was a perfectly lovely person, not hideously ugly–though she wouldn’t say she was a supermodel. They ate homestead foods fried in hand-churned butter, for heaven’s sake. She had a lot to offer a man–er, a particular type of man. She highly doubted a New York executive would get all that excited about her homemade smoked mozzarella cheese. He should. It was delicious.
The sun was out, blindingly so, and she stopped at the bottom of their drive–which was more of a bumpy dirt road in the best of times and a muddy mess in the worst of times–to switch to her shaded goggles. As she came into town, the coffee shop logo caught her eye, and her low spirits promised to lift if she coated them in warm chocolate.
“Don’t mind if I do,” she mumbled as she pulled into an open spot out front. A caramel cocoa and some conversation with Zoey, her high school best friend, was just what she needed.
The highway running in front of the place was plowed, though they only plowed half the parking lot. Residents often used snowmobiles and liked to have a couple of places in town to park when they had to shop. There was an unfamiliar truck and trailer outfit parked along the road.
Inside, an Acapella group crooned about Baby Jesus over the speakers and the heater pumped a blast of sweet mocha air. Red, green, and white streamers crisscrossed the ceiling. They peppered the wall above the refrigerator section with colored pictures. Every year, the shop held a coloring contest for the kids, and they’d really outdone themselves. There were three grand prizes, but every kid got a gift card for a free cocoa.
The coffee stop was a serve-yourself place with racks of prepackaged doughnuts, cookies, and brownies; protein bars; and jerky to go along with your drink. The wood floors creaked under her feet, and the countertops had cup rings that never went away. The fridge had everything from milk to sports drinks, and the jerky rack sported cow, deer, and even buffalo options.
The scents of coffee, cocoa, and cinnamon jingled together and provided an instant holiday boost—only two weeks until the big day.
Zoey was behind the counter. She wore a long-sleeved mauve and yellow flannel shirt rolled twice up her forearms with a white long-sleeved shirt underneath and a pair of dark jeans. She pulled her wavy brown hair back in a low ponytail with pieces framing her face and making her dark eyes look larger than humanly possible. She did some fancy trick with brown eyeliner that Clove could never quite master. Besides, the dark colors went well with Zoey’s caramel skin while Clove went yellowish. So unfair.
Trevor, the teenage kid who swept the floor and did odd jobs, leaned one hip against the wooden counter. He had on a Carhart stocking cap that seemed to be all the rage this year, which was funny to Clove because she’d been wearing them since she was in high school just to stay warm.
With the two of them was a stranger in a pair of retro Wrangler jeans and a fleece-lined dark brown corduroy coat. His matching brown felt cowboy hat sat on the counter next to an unfolded map of Montana. His hair was the kind of wavy that called out, “Run your fingers through me,” and one of the nicest chestnut browns she’d ever seen. Seriously, he may have been drawn by an artist tasked with creating the perfect cowboy image. Broad shoulders… trim midsection… brawny arms… the man had a great body and build. Where did they grow men like that? If there were enough of them in one town, she’d consider moving.
Who was she kidding? She’d never leave her cabin home. Reality was such a buzzkill. Seriously!
Since she’d walked in in the middle of their conversation, she went to the cocoa machine instead of joining Zoey for a chat. Something about the man made her feel giddy inside–like if she tried to speak to him she’d burst into a fit of teenaged giggles.
“You can snowshoe or cross-country ski through this area,” Trevor pointed to the map.
