The snow fell hard and fast, like someone had gotten tired of shaking out a few sprinkles at a time and decided to take the lid off the jar and dump the whole thing. The spring storm didn’t care that it wasn’t supposed to arrive until after midnight, or that the worst of the weather had been forecast to hit a hundred miles to the north. Jefferson was no meteorologist, but he had eyes—even though he could barely see his gloved hand at the end of his arm. The blizzard was here in full force.
He should have been in his truck by now, inching back to town, but an out-of-towner with more vacation time than brains had chosen today to head for one of the backcountry yurts. Which meant they were hiking across miles of snow-packed terrain alone—and not responding to calls on the number they’d left with the rental agency.
It wasn’t unusual for a few yahoos to hear “major storm” and think “fresh powder,” but that type usually traveled in groups. Jefferson wasn’t sure what kind of person shelled out hundreds of bucks to sleep in a glorified tent with a pit toilet in the middle of a whiteout. All the ranger station had been able to pass on was that their missing person was from California (always a bad sign) and had given their name as H. Johnson.
If H. Johnson wasn’t in trouble now, they would be soon, with the windchill well below zero and snow piling up fast. It was the kind of thoughtless stunt that put the lives of search-and-rescue teams at risk every year. Only this time every available park employee was scrambling to divert traffic back to Jackson, and Nate’s team had been about to head out in search of a party of lost snowmobilers, leaving Jefferson closest to the missing party’s probable location.
On minute ten of the final fifteen he’d allotted before turning back, he spotted a patch of neon-yellow on the slope ahead. As he waded uphill, forcing himself not to run, Jefferson was relieved to discover it wasn’t a body. H. Johnson (he presumed) had tucked a sleeping bag under a fallen tree. The trunk was spindly and cracked, probably the result of tumbling down the mountain from wherever it had sprouted from the ground. Nothing was growing here.
The lack of vegetation, the steep angle, the weather pattern over the last twenty-four hours: Jefferson tallied it all up and didn’t like the result. A rapid melt followed by a sudden drop in temperature and major accumulation was the classic recipe for avalanche conditions. Maybe his nerves were shot from worrying he wouldn’t find H. Johnson in time, but the closer Jefferson got, the louder his instincts screamed,Danger.
“Hello,” he called out. “Can you hear me?” The wind swelled, carrying the words away. Jefferson reached for the edge of the sleeping bag.
He felt the sting before he registered the canister aimed at his face. Jefferson was already twisting sideways when the force of a full-body collision sent him flying backward into the snow. They rolled a few times before he managed to throw off his attacker, mostly so the stranger would stop screaming in his face. Slipping off his backpack, he sat up, raising both hands to show he meant no harm.
“Are you H. Johnson?”
“Maybe.” She tested her weight, like she was getting ready to bolt.Good luck with that,Jefferson thought. It would be like running through waist-deep oatmeal. “Who are you?”
He brushed the snow off the top of his head. “Jefferson Jones. Search-and-rescue.”
“Oh.” She relaxed her stance. “Sorry about the bear spray.”
“It wasn’t a direct hit.” Though his eyes were still burning. Jefferson used a handful of snow to try to clean off the residue.
“You scared the bejeezus out of me.”
He held up a hand for silence. The wind had died down, and he wanted to make sure the yelling and crashing around hadn’t destabilized the snowpack.
A beat of silence, and then another. Maybe they were okay. He willed his heart rate to slow, but his body was still keyed up, almost as if…
Whomp.
Faster than thought, he was up and grabbing the woman by the sleeve. “Go,” he yelled, shoving her ahead of him.
Chapter 3
lovelillibetWhen you were a child, did you ever lie on the grass and imagine what it would be like to float with the clouds, weightless and free, surrounded by softness on all sides? That’s how my bespoke bedding feels: airy, buoyant, transporting.
Handmade sheets may seem like an indulgence, until you savor the heady elixir of merino and silk jacquard threads woven into pure Egyptian cotton. Once you’ve experienced a thread count that high, you’ll never go back to triple-digit percale.
Love, Lillibet
Image: A stack of plump pillows on a pristine white duvet topped with a single long-stemmed rose.
#caressyourself #luxelife #finishingtouch #sweetdreams
“Stop it,” Libby groaned, dodging the bony finger poking her in the ribs.
“No,” said Jean’s voice, because no one else could possibly be this annoying. “Time to wake up. We have places to go and people to see.”
“We do not. No jobs, no money.” At least sleep was free. Libby rolled to face the wall. She might have drifted off again if her roommate hadn’t started slamming the drawers of Libby’s dresser. “Unless we got called in?”
“You could say that.”
It was the tone that tipped Libby off more than the words. There was a lot of intent there—or rather, portent. Ice trickled under her skin, snapping her to full alertness. Shoving the sheet aside, Libby struggled upright. “What did you do?”
Jean made a show of checking over both shoulders. “Moi?”
