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A few minutes of shooting was all she could manage before the cold became impossible to ignore. Her fingers were going numb even inside her gloves, and the wind had reached a level that made her worry about her ability to safely navigate back down the trail.

She took one last shot, a wide angle that captured the whole town with the mountains rising behind it, and then carefully stowed her camera back in its bag. It was definitely time to go.

Layla turned back toward the trail, pulling her coat more securely around herself as another gust of wind hit her full-force. The snow was falling harder now, in fat flakes that swirled in the wind and reduced her visibility dramatically. The trail that she’d made on her way up was already starting to disappear under fresh powder.

A small flutter of concern moved through her chest, but she pushed it down. It was fine. She’d be able to find her way back still; she had the map on her phone. She’d be back at Hearthside Cottage in an hour, maybe a little more given the conditions. She’d get there just in time for dinner, warm up by the fire with a cup of tea, and then she’d spend the rest of the evening organizing her photos and starting the article draft.

Everything was fine.

Layla started down the trail, moving carefully over the snow-covered ground, one hand on tree trunks when she could reach them for stability. The wind howled through the pines, and the snow continued to fall with increasing intensity. She knew she needed to get back to the B&B before the weather got worse.

Behind her, the lights of Fir Tree Grove glowed in the gathering darkness, warm and welcoming and impossibly far away.

* * *

Christopher stood at the front window of Hearthside Cottage, his hands clasped behind his back, watching the snow fall with increasing concern. The steady snowfall an hour ago had transformed into something much more serious: a full winter storm with wind that was rattling the windows and snow falling so thick it was difficult to see the street.

Behind him, the sitting room was warm and welcoming. He’d built up the fire an hour ago, and it crackled cheerfully in the hearth. Most of his guests were safely ensconced back in the bed and breakfast: the couples from Massachusetts were upstairs getting ready for dinner, the family with three kids were playing games in the sitting room, and a woman who had arrived last night on sabbatical with intent to finish her novel was writing in front of the fire. They were all safe, warm, and content, and dinner would be served soon, with plenty of hot cocoa, mulled wine, and apple cider later to keep everyone cozy during the storm.

But Layla wasn’t back yet.

Christopher checked his watch for what felt like the hundredth time. It was just after five-thirty, and the last time he’d seen her was that morning at the diner. He was sure she’d been busy around town, interviewing business owners and taking photos, but he’d hoped she would be back from the trail by now.

He turned away from the window and paced across the sitting room, earning a curious glance from the writer. He should have insisted on going with her. He should have been firmer at the diner when he’d warned her about the weather, or offered to act as a guide when she’d mentioned the hike. He should have done more than just express concern and then let her walk off into what could so easily become a dangerous situation.

But she’d been so determined to handle things herself. He hadn’t wanted to push, or come across as overbearing or patronizing. She’d made it clear multiple times that she didn’t need or want help navigating Fir Tree Grove, that she was perfectly independent and fine on her own.

Still. He should have pushed. He felt sure that something was wrong.

He grabbed his heavy parka from the coat rack by the door, one that could withstand genuinely brutal weather, and pulled it on. His winter boots were next, with treads that could handle ice and deep snow.

“Mr. Holcomb?” The writer had looked up from her laptop. “Is everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine,” Christopher said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. “I just need to run into town for a bit. I’ll be back in time to serve dinner.”

“In this weather?” The woman glanced toward the window, concern evident on her face.

“I’ve driven in worse,” Christopher assured her, which was true, although not particularly comforting given what “worse” could mean in mountain winters, or that Layla was potentially out in it.

He headed out to his truck. The engine started immediately despite the cold, and he let it warm up for a minute while he brushed the accumulated snow off the windshield and windows.

As he climbed into the cab and carefully backed out of the driveway, Christopher found himself wondering at the level of concern he felt. Yes, it was his nature to worry about people’s safety—that was just who he was, the caretaker instinct that had made him so good at running the B&B with Shelby in the first place. But this felt different… more personal. The anxiety that was tightening his chest wasn’t just general concern for a guest’s wellbeing.

It was worry for Layla specifically.

That was unwise, he knew. She wasn’t sticking around, and even if she had planned to stay longer, would he really want to get involved with someone who had such clear distaste for the town that he loved? Who clearly wanted nothing to do with small-town life?

Christopher didn’t have an answer, and this wasn’t the time to examine the question too closely. He needed to focus on finding her, on making sure she was safe.

The streets of Fir Tree Grove were nearly empty, most sensible people having taken shelter before the worst of the storm hit. Christopher drove slowly and carefully, his headlights cutting through the swirling snow. He headed toward the edge of town, toward the tree farm that marked the beginning of the trail to the lookout point. George was there until all hours working as customers came to pick up their trees, and his house was next door to the farm. Mabel Lowry, his wife, was usually there as well in the evenings, helping with any last-minute business. If Layla had gone up to the lookout point, they’d likely have seen her pass by.

And if they had, they might know if she’d come back down yet.

Surprisingly, the lights in the small, cabin-style office were still on, glowing through the swirling snow. Christopher climbed out of his truck and hurried through the snow to the shop entrance, pulling open the door and stepping into the warmth. The shop was beautifully decorated, wreaths and garlands hanging from every surface, the scent of fresh pine overwhelming and wonderful.

And there, leaning against the counter, stood George and Mabel Thornton, locked in a tender embrace. George had one hand threaded through Mabel’s silver bob, and it was clear they were lost in the moment.

Christopher felt his cheeks flush, and he cleared his throat, perhaps more loudly than strictly necessary.