Excerpt

The weather app lied.

All the weather forecasters were wrong. Two inches of snow! How about two feet?

Peter Kincaid gripped the steering wheel of his rented Ford Bronco. In front of him was pure white. The windshield wipers could barely keep up. The heat from the heater seemed to get weaker as he drove, as though it was fighting with the snow as well and losing the battle.

He was so sure the cabin he’d rented would only be about fifteen minutes from Aspen’s airport, but he’d been driving for more than an hour. He should have turned around a half hour ago, but he thought for sure it would be around the next curve.

His phone had no signal, or he would have asked for directions from Siri. Peter had to face facts…he hadn’t been smart enough to download the map and was kicking himself for it. Now he was lost.

Suddenly, the Bronco started sliding. He turned the wheel to straighten it and instead he over corrected, plunging into a ditch full of snow. The engine sputtered.

Then died.

One more try.

He turned the key. The engine flared to life. The car was four-wheel drive but Peter knew, having grown up in Colorado, that not even four-wheel drive could get him out of some situations. Especially like this one. But he had to try.

After shifting into Drive, he pressed gently on the gas pedal, but the tires just spun. He shifted into Reverse and tried to go backward but the tires still just spun. Trying to rock it loose, he shifted from Drive to Reverse, quickly, again and again. Nothing worked and then the engine died. He slammed a fist into the steering wheel, then slumped back in the seat and huffed out a breath.

Peter shifted into Park and turned the key. The engine turned over but wouldn’t start. His tailpipe was probably full of snow, which meant there was no way for him to keep warm.

He had a dilemma. Stay in the car and possibly freeze or head back to where he’d seen a mailbox sticking out of the snow and hope he could find the associated cabin. Of course, he could get out of the car, get even further lost and freeze to death, anyway. It was already four o’clock and soon the sun would be going down. He needed to do something and soon.

Never one to just sit still, he tugged his stocking cap lower over his ears, pulled up the hood of his parka, and tied it so only his eyes and nose were exposed. He pocketed his keys, grabbed his flashlight, his satchel containing his paint, brushes, and canvas, and stepped out of the Bronco and locked it. If someone made it to his car before he did, he didn’t want them to have an easy time stealing the car. Not that they could, or would for that matter, but old habits die hard.

The snow whipped wildly past him. He had on his night driving glasses, which allowed him to see better in the storm.

Snow was up to his knees, making it hard to move, but he worked his way over to the tracks his Bronco left. Walking in the tracks, even though they were rutted, was easier than wading through the huge drifts. Even in the last few minutes, the snow had started filling in the twin tire tracks.

He must have gone about half a mile when he found the mailbox sitting next to what could have been a road. He also realized he might have only walked one-hundred yards. It was hard to judge. He looked to the right, behind the mailbox, and thought he saw a light. The soft yellow glow called to him.

As he approached, he saw a chimney and smelled smoke. Or it could have been only in his head because the snow was coming down too hard for him to smell anything.

Peter trudged through the snow, which was now over his knees, until he finally reached the porch of a small cabin. Climbing the three snow-covered steps to the deck of the porch was almost harder than the walk had been. He was exhausted and almost done for.

He stood in front of the door, trying to catch his breath, but the cold air made it almost impossible. Peter raised his fist to the door and pounded on it three times before resting his arm against his right side.

The door opened, and a woman stood there, her face backlit by the light from inside and he couldn’t make it out. He did identify that she was holding a fireplace poker. The woman’s red hair looked like it had a halo around it from the glow of the fire behind her.

“What do you—”

“Help.”

“Come in.” She rolled her eyes and placed her right shoulder under his left arm and steered him into the small log cabin.

“Thank you,” Peter whispered the words just before he blacked out.

About Author Cynthia Woolf…