Mae laughs. “It is. Typical small town as in we have no secrets.”
“Sounds like a warning.”
“More of a heads-up, but if a man looks at you sideways like you owe him money, that’s Jace Redmond.”
“Should I be worried about him?”
“Not really. We call him Mr. Side-Eye. He has a scar he doesn’t want people staring at.”
The pickup. The driver with the scar. I lower my coffee cup. “I saw him earlier. Mr. Side-Eye fits.”
“Don’t take it personally. He’s been hiding up on the mountain for four years, and I’m about done with him.”
If he’s a recluse, he won’t cross my path again. Good. I bite into the cinnamon roll, silencing the questions about the stranger who’d only glanced at me.
The wind rattles the front door. Rain hits the window like gravel.
The café’s phone rings. Mae picks up, and then her face hardens. “Okay. Thanks.”
She hangs up. Looks at me across the counter. “Rockslide on the pass.” Mae sighs. “Took out a whole section. That’s the only road in or out of town, sweetheart.”
Unease prickles behind my eyelids. “How long will clearing it take?”
“Could be days. A week, maybe.” She watches my face. “Slide’s on the Denver side, sweetheart. You’re not getting home until they clear the road.”
That means I need a place to stay. I pull out my phone and hit call.
It takes two tries before someone picks up. “Ridgeview Lodge, this is Theo.”
“Hi. I have a reservation starting next Sunday. Is there any chance you have a room tonight?”
“Sorry. We’re full. Hikers booked every room the second the weather turned.”
“Okay. Thanks.” The call ends, and I blow out a breath.
Mae’s intense gaze bores into me. “Where are you going to sleep, sweetheart?”
My perfected twelve-year-old smile surfaces, a tight upward curve that’s more performance than genuine. It’s always been my way of saying:I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. I’ve got this.Even when I don’t. “My car’s comfortable enough for a night. Maybe two.”
Mae’s mouth opens, then she snaps it closed. Her gaze holds mine, a silent challenge, but she doesn’t argue. I pay my bill and head out, wanting to get situated before the weather worsens. I drive around until I decide on the trailhead lot.
It’s empty. My car sits in the middle of the row. The safest spot, I hope. Rain falls. All I can do is ignore it.
The back seat folds flat, giving me more room to stretch out, and I arrange my thin fleece. This isn’t so bad. But then wind rocks the car.
Rain lashes, relentless. Soon a chilling drip finds my left shoulder, a steady rhythm on the metal. I shiver, cardigan damp, glasses fogged, my last granola bar gone. The dark presses in, a claustrophobic prelude to Mother’s voice in my head. “Rosalind, sweetheart, when are you going to stop being such an optimist about what you can handle?” I close my eyes, feigning coziness against the cold and the drumming. It isn’t working.
Right now, handling anything seems impossible. And I hate that. One success would prove them wrong, yet I lie trapped, shivering, and alone in my car.
Sleep eludes me. That means it’ll be a long, wet night.
At eleven, headlights sweep across the parking lot.
An engine idles, and a door opens. Footsteps crunch on gravel, steady in the rain, then a knock vibrates at my window.
I scramble into the front seat, open the door, and the storm hits me sideways.
Three feet from my car, a man stands. Tall. Broad through the shoulders. Rain-plastered hair under a soaked baseball cap.Water sluices down his worn canvas jacket. A thick seam of pale tissue runs from his left temple down along his jaw.
