CHAPTER ONE
Holly
Sunday, December 1st
12 days since my life imploded
35 days until I can return to civilization
Fact: Christmas is the most overrated holiday of the year, and writing those made-for-television holiday romances that everyone loves is pure torture. Lucky for me, I got fired and don’t have to worry about that anymore. This year, Christmas break will be nothing but don’t-go-into-the-basement-there’s-a-man-with-a-machete.
In my writing world, I mean. Not in my actual world. That would be concerning.
I hunker down in my way-too-thin peacoat—isn’t wool supposed to be warm?—and adjust my hold on the steering wheel, my thin gloves doing nothing to keep the chill at bay. Then I lean forward and squint through the windshield wiper blades, because that will make it easier to see through this whiteout that passes for snow.
Right now, my actual world is turning into more of a man-versus-nature survival story, which is its own brand of scary. If this ends up as a documentary, they’d better let my best friend, Avery, play me in the reenactments. She’ll make sure I come across as brave and determined instead of what I actually am—stupid and cold. Like, I’m physically freezing in this ice box that’s supposedly a heated car.
If this were a TV romcom, right about now a cow would wander into the middle of the road, causing me to crash into a pasture fence. But this is a man-versus-nature drama, not a feel-good romance, so instead I’m probably going to run out of gas, then have to fight off a pack of rabid wolves.
At least that will add some excitement to the documentary about my tragic death. Producers will be thrilled.
This is the first time I’ve driven in snow, let alone a blizzard, and right now even blinking feels dangerous. I guess I should have stuck to my original plan and driven down tomorrow, but when I looked at the weather forecast, it seemed smarter to come tonight and try to beat the storm.
I definitely should have told Nana I was coming early, so she knows to look for me when I disappear in this desolate wasteland of white.
The car radio is more static than song, while the defrost is rapidly losing the battle against my foggy windows. It’s been at least an hour since the GPS signal disappeared after assuring me I was only twenty minutes out from Snowbrook Creek.
The GPS is a freaking liar.
But I’m grateful for the annoyance this causes. It masks the terror that’s the logical response to the wheels of my sensible sedan sliding perilously along the (probably) dirt road. At least, I’m pretty sure I’m still on the road. At the very least, I’m road-adjacent. I think.
My wheels slide again, making me grit my teeth. Every time the back-end fishtails, I lose another year of my life.
It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine. And if it isn’t fine, well, that probably means I’m vulture food and don’t care.
Maybe if I end up tragically dead in a ditch, Monty will regret how things went down between us. Breaking up with me days before we were supposed to leave for Bora Bora was bad enough, but promptly dropping me as a client and then getting me fired from the television network I write—wrote—for was salt in the wound.
Of course, feeling bad about his actions would require having a heart, which Monty most certainly doesn’t.
I bet he’s swimming with stingrays while the leggy brunette he dumped me for suns herself on the deck of their over-water bungalow. He probably never tells her she needs an attitude adjustment. And if he did, she wouldn’t understand, because she barely speaks enough English to say hello.
Well, joke’s on him. I wasn’t that excited about Bora Bora, anyway. Who wants to spend winter vacation in a sunny paradise? I much prefer spending the holidays with Nana and Jack, her husband of two years. It’s just bad luck that it also means staying in Snowbrook Creek, Wyoming, where all businesses are closed by seven p.m. and online packages take ten days to be delivered.
But I can do anything for a month—even live in the 1900s. With any luck, when I leave town on January third, I’ll have a finished movie script to pitch and Nana and Jack in the backseat of my car. Because this will absolutely be my first and last visit to The Cowboy State.
At least, I’m pretty sure I’m still in Wyoming. If I accidentally cross over into Idaho, there will be a sign or something, right? Or maybe Wyoming is near Montana. Colorado? Geography has never been my strong suit.
My car wheels hit a patch of black ice, making my back-end fishtail the worst yet. I let out a yelp of fear, but my tires find a better grip on the hard-packed snow before I can get too excited.
I grit my teeth and squint even harder through the blizzard. Nothing to do but press on. Avery better look beautifully determined in this scene of the documentary, like an angelic warrior fearlessly moving forward.
There! That’s a barn, isn’t it? I can just make out the pitched roof and red paint under a mountain of white. That’s got to be a sign that civilization is close. If you can call a town of three thousand civilization.
The car’s wheels slip again, fishtailing me into a three hundred and sixty degree spin.
I squeal, slamming on the brakes. That only makes the car spin faster. What illogical sorcery is this?
A sickening swirl of white dances across my vision as the sound of my own scream rattles my eardrums. I feel like I’m on the tilt-a-whirl at a carnival. I hate those things.
Will Monty even bother to send flowers to my parents when I die? He definitely won’t make the effort to attend my funeral, even though we were together for almost a year and just broke up twelve days ago.
Not that I want him there, anyway. Not unless he’s prostrate in front of my coffin, his body wracked by great, gulping sobs as he apologizes for doing me dirty.
I close my eyes and squeeze the steering wheel, my shoulders nearly touching my ears as my foot aches from the force with which I’m holding down the brake pedal.
“Don’t die don’t die don’t die,” I chant aloud, the words jumbled into one continuous mantra.
I’m absolutely going to die. In freaking Wyoming. Because of snow. It’s as humiliating as it is annoying.
Something hard slams into the driver side door. My shoulder crashes into the window, and I barely manage to not hit my head. Then the car is forced to an abrupt stop that has my neck aching from the whiplash.
Stars burst across my tightly closed eyelids. Have I broken anything? My shoulder stings and my entire body aches with cold, but I don’t think I’m really injured.
If I really have hit a cow, I am going to be so freaking mad.
I pry open one eye, then the other, only to be met with … more white. I lift a trembling hand to my foggy window and rub a circle through which I can peer.
A snowbank. I’ve managed to crash into the snow mounded on the side of the road, probably from the plows that have been going through here since October. Maybe earlier. Is Wyoming ever warm?
I run shaking hands over my head and down my arms, then wiggle my legs and toes, confirming my initial assessment. I’m going to be sore tomorrow, but nothing seems broken or bleeding.
A freaking snowbank. I glare at the white powder pressed against my window as though it’s a sentient being out to get me.
Well, I’ll about to show the freaking snow who’s boss.
I turn the wheel of my car and press the gas pedal. The wheels spin, but the car doesn’t do more than slide an inch or two to the right.
I let out a growl and press the gas harder, making the back end of the car weave from side to side.
Still nothing.
This is ridiculous. I can see the road—at least I think it’s the road—out the foggy passenger-side window. It’s only a few feet away at most. Why won’t my stupid car drive to it?
After ten minutes, I’m sweaty and grumpier than a grizzly bear who’s just awoken early from hibernation. The smell of burned rubber fills the car, so I guess my tires are trashed, but if anything, I’m more stuck than before. Now the car isn’t even sliding when I spin the wheels.
I’m definitely not panicking, though. Everything is perfectly fine. All this does is solidify my determination to get Nana and Jack out of this wasteland and back to sunnier days in Southern California. And not just because my career depends on it.
But that snowbank is still firmly pressed against the driver-side window. Tiny ice crystals are even forming on the inside of the pane, and my breath is so cold I think it’s freezing on exhale.
I lean my head back against the seat with a frustrated groan. Instead of dying in a fiery crash, I’m going to freeze to death while slowly dehydrating. It’ll be a race to see which one gets listed as cause of death by the coroner when my body is eventually found.
Still not panicking. In man-versus-nature movies, man always wins. Well, almost always. Except in documentaries, where it usually goes the other way.
I take five deep breaths, forcing my head to clear. Then I look around my car and take inventory, since clearly I’m not getting back on the road.
At least Avery and my parents know I came down a day early. Hopefully, when I don’t check in and she can’t reach me on my definitely-out-of-service cell phone, Mom will call Nana.
Who am I kidding? Mom is still mad at Nana for how quickly she remarried after Grandpa passed away. Not that a year seems overly quick to me, but whatever. They’re barely on speaking terms most days, which means I’m absolutely going to have to rescue myself from this one.
Once the blizzard dies down, I’ll walk to that barn I saw in the distance. A barn means animals, and someone’s got to be checking on them, right?
But I can’t do anything until it stops snowing. My Los Angeles wardrobe did not prepare me for the frigid temperatures of Wyoming, and this wool coat is the warmest thing I own. My gloves are thin, designed for looks more than warmth, and my heeled boots are far from waterproof. As far as food or drink, I’ve got three-fourths a can of diet soda and half a bag of potato chips.
For the first time, I let the panic take hold. I’m absolutely in trouble. Big. Freaking. Trouble.
A loud knock echoes through the car. I whip around with a shriek, making my already sore neck scream in protest.
Someone is knocking on my passenger-side window.
At least, I’m pretty sure it’s a person. The window is now so foggy that I can’t be sure.
Maybe the cows have come to save me.
I press a trembling thumb to the button for the passenger-side window. Accumulated snow tumbles down like the Berlin Wall, splaying mushy ice across my leather seat and instantly chilling my face with the fierce wind.
Peering through the window is a man, not a cow, although he is wearing a cowboy hat. A thick scarf obscures the lower half of his face, making it impossible to determine his age.
“Are you okay?” he asks, shouting to be heard above the whistling wind.
I angrily brush the snow onto the floor of my car, leaving tiny puddles on the leather seat. It’s a losing battle, since each gust of air just brings in more snow. Why on earth would anyone live somewhere this frigid?
“Does it look like I’m okay?” I ask, glaring up at him.
“No, it looks like you’re good and stuck.”
It isn’t easy to tell over Mother Nature’s howling, but from the sound of his voice, he’s young—probably in his twenties or thirties. There aren’t any crow’s feet around his eyes, and he moves like someone used to hard labor.
He takes a step back, motioning for me to get out of the car. “Roll up the window. I’ll take you into town.”
236 Pages
4-5 Hours
61k Words
