Page 3 of All Snowed Gin

But it’s going to be okay. I can’t be that far from the main road at this point. I don’t think. Then, I’ll be back on my way toward Hickory Hills, and with my family just in time for Christmas.

Pop!

The loud noise echoes through the Jeep, the back end swerving out from underneath me. I white-knuckle it even harder, holding on for dear life. My heart starts to race, and my pulse thrums in my ears. For a split second, I try and remember what to do. Letting up off the gas, I keep the wheel steady, trying to let gravity do its thing. No, not gravity. Gravity would keep me moving—downhill. And since I’m not the Wicked Witch, I am not even going to bother trying to defy that law of physics. Acceleration, that’s what I meant.

My Jeep rolls to a stop, my heart still moving much faster than the vehicle was, the crunch of snow underneath it a semi-welcome sound. Once I am confident we’re truly at a standstill, I throw it in park and set the parking brake. I don’t need the forces in the world to exert payback for mixing them up a moment ago.

I hop out, and a bitter, winter wind hits me instantly, chilling me to my core. Fuck, that’s cold! I don’t have much more than a heavy sweatshirt with me—I wasn't expecting big-coat weather—but I scramble to grab it from my backseat and put it on. It does little to block the wind, but it’s better than exposing my bare arms to the elements. Elements that are flying in my face and making it very tough to see.

“Okay, Blanche,” I say, patting my Jeep. I can almost feel her sigh under my touch, her own annoyance with me for the detour palpable. “Tell Mama what’s wrong.”

Another sigh from her, this one actually audible as the engine makes some kind of release noise, as I round her backside. And there it is.

Staring back at me, almost as if giving me the middle finger, is a flat tire. A fucking flat tire. How does one even get a flat tire in snow? Nothing obvious is poking out from it, and the only thing I can see on the ground is snow. So this is a mystery that might never be solved.

Le sigh.

Nonetheless, it’s one I need to fix. And one I can fix. I’m a farm girl at heart, coming from a long line of fruit and nut farmers, so I know how to change a tire. Turning back to my Jeep, I yank the cover off the spare. Or what I thought was the spare.

“Hell’s bells…” I mutter, staring at the tire in front of me. Or what used to be a tire is more accurate.

Stepping closer, I run my hand along the sleek black rubber, my thumb catching on the long, deep gash through the wall. The bright white flakes, still falling at a rapid pace, slip into the grooves of the tire as if mocking me. I get it, universe, it’s snowing. And now I’m stranded.

Last I knew, I didn’t have cell reception either. I tried to text a picture to my boss, Milo Hayes, before the weather turned, but it wouldn’t go through. Something that didn’t bother me at the time, but is now crawling under my skin like a chigger. The need to constantly check my phone is probably going to itch just as bad as that damn little insect too.

Great. Just great.

I let out a long, exasperated exhale, my normal optimism starting to fail me. This is the kind of situation that would try anyone. I just need a—

Wait, is that a house?

“Blanche…we might just be in luck!” I exclaim, patting her.

It’s hard to fully make out thanks to all this frozen precipitation, but a little ways up the road is a gate. Two tall, brick pillars, each with a flickering light, stand on either side of a long drive, one side of the wrought iron gate wide open. My heart dances, my insides warming with hope. I can’t actually see the house from here, but still, there must be one.

“Okay, I’m going to head toward that house and see if I can’t call someone about getting you a tire. You wait right here, and I’ll be back as soon as I can. Then, the second you’re all fixed up, we’ll be back on our way to Hickory Hills.”

I don’t get a response—not that I was really expecting one—so I take off toward the drive. My feet are already freezing, the thin sneakers I’m wearing not doing much to keep out the wet from the snow. But that’s okay—because this will all be over soon. As I walk, I let my mind wander, focusing on all the excitement of getting home. Christmas is fast approaching, and the idea that the whole family will be in one place for longer than a meal fuels me as I make the trek.

Before I know it, I reach the house. The massive structure looks like something out of a storybook. Clearly modeled after a log cabin, with classic architecture, beautiful log trusses, and huge windows, it speaks for itself. I’m left in awe of its beauty, especially in the snow, wishing I were stopping here for a long weekend retreat with friends rather than in search of a phone. But that’s my main purpose, so here goes nothing.

Lifting the heavy, ornate door knocker, I give it a few taps. The vibrations resound through the wood, the sound still loud, even dampened by the weather. I shiver, my body heat waning thanks to not being on the move, so I take a step back from the door. I bounce up and down, bending at my knees, trying to stay warm. No doubt whoever opens that door is going to think a crazy person has landed at their feet, but right now, not freezing is my priority.

Only, no one comes to the door.

I step back a little more, surveying the house. It’s mostly dark, only a faint gleam of light streaming through one window, as if a light is on in a back room. But there is smoke coming from the beautiful river-rock chimney, so someone is home. That’s real smoke, as in from a legit, wood-burning fireplace. Not the kind of thing you keep going if you’re not going to be home.

So, I do what any sensible person would do. I knock again. And then a third time. I have the knocker raised and ready for a fourth go when the door swings open, knocking me backward. And by backward, I mean flat on my ass. In the snow.

The cold, wet ground seeps through my leggings, my cheeks clenching from the shock of it. Which is also what has me popping back up to my feet in an instant, brushing off my backside. I don’t have time to look up though, barely through one swipe at my thighs before I’m greeted with a deep growl.

“What?!”

The voice startles me. It’s rough, intense, and clearly not happy. The only thing more shocking than it, though, is what it came from.

And yes, I do mean what.

Because the man before me is…more. More what, I have no idea. Just more. Tall, broad, with shoulders that look like he could lift this entire mountain and arms that are thick and muscular. I’m sure those tree trunks he has for thighs are just as overwhelming—and dare I say delicious?—as the rest of him. His dark features give him an air of mystery, the slight graying at his temples betraying his age.