Winter Beginnings (Seasons in Montana: Winter)

Chapter One

Rory

I never would’ve discovered the Barrington estate if my best friend, Bailey Pace, hadn’t called me out of the blue two days after New Year’s, breathless with excitement and halfway through a peppermint latte. We met at age 8 while vacationing one summer in the Florida Keys, became best friends, and stayed close despite living on opposite sides of the country.

She’d just wrapped up her own whirlwind legal battle, and rekindled an old flame in the process, in Wintervale, Montana…The same small town I’d only ever heard about from her. Bailey had insisted I’d be the perfect new owner of a Victorian mansion that had quite suddenly hit the foreclosure market. At that point, I was still half-buried under piles of moving boxes in my Florida apartment, heart stinging from my ex-fiancé Julian’s betrayal. The sound of Bailey’s voice—eager, urgent—jarred me upright on my lumpy sofa.

“You want a fresh start, right?” she’d said in that no-nonsense tone of hers. “Well, here’s your chance. This place is old, a little bit spooky, but unbelievably charming. Buy it and make it yours. Jacob and I are planning to relocate permanently to Wintervale later this year, probably this summer. Wouldn’t it be fun to live in the same town for the first time in our lives? Tell me you’ll join me in Montana!”

At first, I thought she was joking. After another three hours on the phone, I finally believed that she was serious about moving to Montana and opening a law practice with Jacob. Then she forwarded the listing photos for the property known as the Barrington Manor. Even in low-resolution, the mansion looked like something out of a haunted fairytale. But something inside me stirred—maybe desperation, maybe longing. With a reckless mixture of trust in Bailey’s instincts and my own desire to leave Florida behind, I signed the paperwork. With a swipe of a pen, I’d bought a house I had never seen in person, in a town I barely knew, trusting only my best friend’s enthusiastic recommendation and the grainy images. New Year, new me…right?

Originally, the plan was to catch a flight to Billings and drive the rest of the way. But sometime between the adrenaline of my decision and the quiet dread of packing up my old life, I decided to make the trek by car. In a sense, it felt like a pilgrimage—a chance to process everything that had gone wrong in Florida and steel myself for the future I hoped to build in Montana.

So, here I was, coaxing my red SUV along a treacherous mountain road in early January. Snow-laden pines loomed on either side of the highway. The sky had turned a pale winter gray, tinged with a hint of sunrise gold. My breath frosted the air inside the car every time I muttered a curse when hitting another patch of black ice. If I’d been any less determined—or more sensible—I might’ve turned around and never come back. But Bailey’s words rang in my head: It’s all or nothing, Rory . You need this. And the truth was…I did.

By the time I saw the wooden sign for Wintervale— A Place to Call Home , the tension in my shoulders had grown almost unbearable. The sign itself was charming…handcrafted lettering, with leftover holiday tinsel still draped over its edges. A few scattered strings of white lights winked merrily in the early morning gloom, as though refusing to admit Christmas had ended. Despite my apprehension, a faint spark of excitement flickered in my chest. Maybe this place really could be the new beginning I needed.

As I rolled into town, the sun crested the far mountains, illuminating the small village in a wash of pinkish-gold. My first impression was that it resembled a living snow globe scene: pastel-painted shops lined the narrow main street, twinkle lights stretched from lamppost to lamppost, and the sidewalks were meticulously shoveled, with neat piles of snow banked on the curbs. Even the trash bins wore bright red bows. A giant pine tree anchored the town square, bedecked with silver ornaments that glinted in the faint sunlight.

Here and there, I spotted people hurrying by with puffy jackets and colorful scarves, their breath fogging in the air. A few paused to wave at me, as though I might be a friend they just hadn’t met yet. The friendliness startled me. After years living in flashy, competitive Miami, I wasn’t used to people welcoming strangers so openly. My chest twinged with something akin to homesickness for a place I’d never known.

I’d read about Wintervale’s attractions online while driving: a nearby ski resort, a sweet local café called Mistletoe & Mochas, and a small but vibrant downtown that came alive with tourists at several times a year for the town’s popular seasonal celebrations. Bailey’s glowing endorsements also rang in my mind: They have the best peppermint lattes, the friendliest shopkeepers, and it looks like a postcard year-round. She’d neglected to mention the biting cold, I thought as a wry smile crossed my face—although part of me relished the sensation of crisp, clean air—definitely a far cry from Miami’s smog, heat, and humidity.

A single traffic light blinked at me lazily, turning red as I approached. I braked, my SUV’s tires crunching on a light dusting of salt. Waiting there, I glimpsed the town’s largest building: Wintervale Town Hall, an elegant stone structure flanked by tall pines. Ribbons still looped around its pillars, and leftover holiday wreaths adorned the steps. Across the street, I caught sight of a hardware store. The sign read: Timberline Tools & Supply—We’ve Got You Covered . I made a mental note. If I was to restore a Victorian mansion, I’d be spending a lot of time—and money—at places like that.

At last, the light turned green, and I continued up the main road. My phone buzzed in its cradle, a local number flashing across the screen. I tapped speaker.

“Hello?”

A man’s voice, deep and warm, came on the line. “Hi, this is Cass Whitlock. I’m the contractor you reached out to. Got your message about the Barrington place.”

Relief and anxiety warred within me. “Cass, great. Thanks for calling back. I’m just getting into Wintervale now. Any chance you can meet me at the property today?”

“Sure thing,” he said, a hint of a chuckle beneath his words. “Let me wrap up a quick project, and I can be over in about an hour. Sound good?”

“Yes, perfect.” I released a shaky exhale. “Thanks. I’ll see you there.”

I ended the call and tucked my phone away. Cass sounded…nice, if a single phone call could convey that much. Bailey had mentioned a local contractor named Cass Whitlock, praising his reputation for reliability and skill. She’d also hinted he was easy on the eyes, but I’d brushed that aside. Business only, I told myself. No more entanglements. Especially not after Julian…I shivered. The past months had been a lesson in heartbreak. I wanted—no, needed—something different. And if “different” took the form of a run-down estate in a snowy Montana town where I knew exactly no one, so be it.

Soon, my GPS directed me onto a narrower, winding road where the property was situated at the end. Bailey had clued me in on the estate’s history: it belonged to a reclusive Cyrus Barrington, who passed away without a will, sparking a local legal fiasco. Edna Twinkleberry, a quirky older lady who insisted she was related to Barrington, had once tried to claim the house for a cat sanctuary. Meanwhile, the mayor, Theodore Snowcroft, wanted to demolish it for commercial development. Ultimately, they both backed off, letting the property slip into foreclosure. I, in turn, scooped it up at a price point I’d certainly never have found in Florida.

A part of me worried something must be wrong with it—beyond the standard old-house issues. But it was too late now, I reminded myself. The narrow lane curved through stands of towering pines, heavily laden with snow that glistened in the sunlight. Icicles hung from low branches, catching rays of soft winter brightness. The SUV’s heater struggled to keep the interior warm, so I wrapped my purple scarf tighter around my neck, wishing I’d also worn an extra sweater.

Finally, I glimpsed a break in the trees. An ornate iron gate, dusted with frost, stood off to the right, half-sunk in snow. A wooden sign read: Barrington Estate, circa 1889 . The letters had faded, and it looked as though someone had draped tinsel across the top in a half-hearted attempt at festivity. My stomach lurched with excitement and dread all at once.

I turned onto the driveway, forcing my SUV past the rusted gate, which squealed in protest. The drive was a mix of gravel and ice, lined by skeleton-like shrubbery that probably once formed a grand garden. Beyond it, the house rose—a looming, three-story structure crowned with turrets and gables. The winter sun cast long shadows, revealing missing shingles on the roof, broken or boarded windows, and peeling paint that had weathered to a patchy gray. Even so, the house held a stubborn majesty, like a proud old aristocrat refusing to bow to time.

My breath caught. This is it. My new beginning.

I parked near a crooked stone walkway. The engine’s rumble subsided, leaving an almost eerie silence. Snow blanketed every surface, reflecting so much light it almost hurt my eyes. High overhead, a hawk circled lazily. Wrapping my coat tight, I stepped out, boots sinking into the soft layer of snow. Cold air bit my cheeks, and I inhaled deeply, letting the scent of the evergreens fill my lungs.

For a moment, I just stared, half in awe, half in terror. The front porch sagged like a tired sigh. The turret on the left soared upward, though a few shingles hung precariously. The entire structure seemed to watch me, as though asking, Are you sure you’re ready for this, Aurora Lancaster?

Though Cass wouldn’t arrive for another forty minutes, curiosity propelled me forward. I carefully made my way up the porch steps, testing each board. A few gave loud creaks under my weight. Mental note…Check porch for rot. The front door, crafted of oak with intricate carvings of vines, let out a groan when I turned the handle. Then it swung open, revealing darkness and a rush of stale, frigid air.

My phone’s flashlight illuminated a grand foyer—high ceilings, a sweeping staircase, and what seemed to be a battered chandelier overhead. Dust coated everything in a velvety gray film. The floor squeaked underfoot, and in the corners, I spotted the telltale black patches of mold creeping up old wallpaper. My heart fluttered. I was half-charmed, half-horrified.

I paused to examine an old mirror leaning against the wall, its gilded frame chipped and tarnished. Wiping away a swath of dust, I glimpsed my reflection: wide eyes beneath a purple knit beanie, brown curls escaping from either side, cheeks flushed pink. I hardly recognized the tearful Florida girl moping around in old sweats I’d been only days ago. Despite the adrenaline rattling in my veins, I felt oddly…excited and alive.

A soft scuttling noise in the next room made me jump. Possibly a mouse—or something bigger. Time to exit, pronto. Cass was the professional. I’d let him do a more thorough exploration. Hugging myself for warmth, I hurried back onto the porch.

Back in my SUV, I cranked the heat, rubbing my palms together. Outside, the snow-blanketed grounds glittered in the pale sunshine. Without leaves, the trees around the property resembled skeletons, their branches etched against a bleached-blue sky. The hush was absolute, as though the world paused in anticipation. In the distance, I glimpsed glimpses of distant peaks, rising high and white, like silent guardians.

I fiddled with my phone to text Bailey: Just arrived at the mansion. It’s…huge. Pretty, in a haunted-castle way. Wish me luck!

She replied almost instantly:

You got this! It’s definitely a project, but if anyone can breathe life back into that house, it’s you. Also, keep an eye out for the local cat lady, Edna—she’s a sweetheart. And watch out for black ice. XO

I smiled at her cheeriness. Breathe life back into it. Yes, that was my goal, for myself as much as the house. My ex, Julian, had drained my confidence with his betrayals—both personal and professional. Maybe forging a new path here would finally let me cast that pain aside. At least, I sure hoped so.

A soft roar of an engine approached, interrupting my train of thought. I peered in the rearview mirror, seeing a blue pickup roll up the drive. My heart skipped a beat. Cass Whitlock. My soon-to-be partner in battling this monstrous renovation.

I opened the door, bracing as a chilly gust hit me. The driver hopped out: a tall man in a green parka, wearing a red knit beanie, a matching scarf looped at his neck. He had broad shoulders, a slight stubble along a strong jawline, and as he stepped closer, I caught sight of warm hazel eyes that seemed to gleam in the winter sunlight. A peculiar flutter danced low in my stomach. Bailey hadn’t been lying about his looks.

He offered a wave. “Rory Lancaster?”

I nodded, stepping around my SUV to meet him. “Yes, hi. Cass Whitlock?”

“Yep. Good to finally put a face to the name.” He took my gloved hand, giving it a firm, confident shake. His grip was warm despite the cold. Surprised by an unexpected tingle, I quickly withdrew, feeling my cheeks heat behind my scarf.

He turned to gaze at the mansion. “So this is the infamous Barrington place. You sure you’re not intimidated?”

A startled laugh escaped me. “I’m definitely intimidated, but I’m doing this anyway.”

He glanced over, those hazel eyes flicking briefly across my face, then dipping to my coat as though taking in the details. “Bravery or madness?” he teased gently.

I shrugged, nerves dancing in my chest. “A bit of both, maybe.”

His laugh rumbled softly. “Let’s go see what we’re up against.”

If I thought I was chilly before, touring the mansion with Cass made me realize the true meaning of cold. The interior was frigid, easily below freezing in places. Every breath we took puffed out in white clouds. My flashlight bobbed over cracked plaster, leaning doorframes, and warped floorboards. Cass periodically knelt to test beams, tapping them with a small mallet he’d pulled from his tool belt.

We ventured from the foyer into what might have been a parlor: a huge fireplace, an ornate ceiling medallion (mostly intact), and tall windows—one broken, one boarded. Dust and debris crunched underfoot, and a tattered rug lay half-frozen to the floor.

“Look at this crown molding,” Cass murmured, aiming his flashlight. The beam revealed intricate floral carvings beneath decades of grime. His voice softened with something akin to reverence. “Must’ve been handcrafted by an expert back in the day. If it’s not too damaged, we can restore it.”

Despite the gloom, a spark of excitement caught in my chest. “That would be amazing. I’d love to keep as many original details as possible.”

He nodded, shining his light on a partially collapsed arch leading to another room. “Exactly. With older properties, preserving the craftsmanship is half the fun.” A grin tugged his lips, and I felt a pang of warmth. His excitement mirrored what I was feeling, too.

Continuing on, we discovered the house’s central hallway, leading to a narrow set of back stairs. Cass frowned at a watery stain on the ceiling. “There might be a leak near that turret. We’ll have to check the roof. If moisture’s been seeping through all winter, the wood up there could be rotten.”

I exhaled a shaky breath. “I was braced for problems, but it’s still overwhelming.”

A gentle sympathy flickered in his eyes. “I get it. Don’t worry—every old house looks dire at first. We’ll figure out what’s salvageable and go from there.”

We made our way down a rickety flight of stairs to a half-basement. Cold air stabbed my lungs, and the smell of damp earth rose around us. Cass’s flashlight revealed a mess of old pipes, some likely original to the house, plus a hulking furnace that looked older than I was. Rust coated its edges, and I suspected it hadn’t run in years.

Cass whistled low. “That’s…definitely going on the replace list.”

A laugh bubbled from me—part nerves, part acceptance. “I’m guessing I can’t fix that with duct tape, huh?”

He chuckled, and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Might need something stronger, like a time machine to bring us back an updated model. Don’t worry. We’ll deal with it.”

Something about his reassurance calmed the wild energy coursing through me. I hadn’t expected a contractor to feel so…comforting. Or to find myself drawn to the subtle lines of his face, the softness beneath his confident manner. Shaking the thoughts away, I followed him back upstairs, grateful to leave the basement’s chill behind.

By the time we finished on the first floor, my fingers were numb despite gloves. We paused near a wide window, whose glass was partially intact. Outside, snow glittered in the angled winter sunlight. Cass’s breath puffed near my ear as he peered around my shoulder.

“Looks like a decent view,” he remarked, pointing out the distant mountains.

Our proximity sent a shiver through me. Though I was layered in a thick jacket, I could sense the heat radiating from him—subtle, but undeniably present. He smelled of spice and something faintly sweet, maybe the remnants of coffee. When he brushed past me to check a rotting window frame, I nearly forgot to breathe. Rory, get a grip, I scolded myself. He’s your contractor, not a potential date. Yet my pulse refused to settle. Every time our eyes met, it felt like a spark jumped between us. Maybe it was just the eagerness we both felt about taking on such a significant project.

Eventually, we headed back to the foyer. Cass tucked his flashlight into his coat pocket and exhaled a cloud of white breath. “That’s probably enough for today. I don’t want to push our luck with these floors. But I’ve seen enough to make a preliminary estimate.”

“Yeah,” I said, rubbing my arms for warmth. “This house is enormous.”

He gave me a sympathetic half-smile, stepping toward the door. “It’s big, it’s old, but not unsalvageable. I’ll be honest, though: it’s going to cost a fair bit. Might be a shock at first glance, but we can tackle it in phases.”

Even though I’d prepared myself, my stomach still twisted with anxiety. “I figured. I appreciate you not sugarcoating it.”

He paused, his gaze lingering on my face. “You don’t strike me as someone who wants sugarcoating.”

My heart gave a betraying flutter. The calm certainty in his tone, the flicker of challenge in his hazel eyes—some part of me thrilled at the idea that maybe he saw me as strong, not just desperate. “I guess we’ll see if I run screaming,” I joked, trying to hide how jittery I felt.

He laughed. “I have a hunch you won’t.”

Outside, the frigid winter air assaulted us once more, though the January sun was bright now, highlighting how badly the porch sagged. Cass halted near the front steps, pressing his boot against a suspicious board. “Definitely some rot here. We might want to secure this porch first so nobody goes tumbling off.”

I tucked my scarf tighter around my chin, my breath escaping in a shaky cloud. “Put it at the top of the list.”

We walked together toward my SUV, crunching over the snow. Around us, pines swayed in a light breeze, and icicles glinted like crystal daggers. The hush was broken only by the squeak of our boots. When we reached my vehicle, I realized I felt oddly reluctant to see him go. He was the first person I’d met in Winterhaven. Would we end up being friends? Or…? I shivered involuntarily. I was being ridiculous, letting my imagination run away with me on the basis of a simple attraction that was probably nothing.

He shoved his hands in his coat pockets, shoulders tensing against the chill. “All right. Next steps: I’ll write up an itemized estimate, email it to you tonight. You can look it over, see what we can handle immediately versus later.”

I nodded, noticing the solid lines of his chiseled jaw. “Thank you, Cass. Really. It helps to know I’m not alone in this.”

A flicker of something passed over his face—understanding, maybe. “Hey, this is my job, but it’s also my passion, shining new light on the beauty of the past.” His eyes met mine, and a gentle smile curved his lips. “I’m on your team.”

My heart thumped. Before I could respond, he took a small step closer, like he was about to add something more. Then, seeming to rethink it, he simply gave a short nod.

“I’ll be in touch,” he said. “Stay warm, Rory.”

“Y-you too,” I managed.

He turned, crossing the driveway to his blue pickup. I stood there, the wind rustling the fringe of my scarf as I watched him climb in and start the engine. My mind felt scrambled, a thousand thoughts competing: the cost of the renovation, the beauty of the old house, and the startling presence of my new contractor.

The moment Cass’s truck disappeared down the lane, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding, realizing my heart was still racing. Part of me felt a flicker of guilt—like I was betraying the vow I made to never trust a man again after Julian. But another part, perhaps the braver part, whispered that not everyone would hurt me.

Eventually, I climbed into my SUV, heater blasting to chase away the cold. I grabbed my phone to check messages, half-tempted to call Bailey right away. Instead, I started the engine, glancing back at the looming mansion. Even battered by time and half-buried in snow, it stood with a certain haunted dignity, as if waiting for someone to see its potential.

“I see it,” I whispered under my breath. “I hope you’re ready for us, because we’re going to try like hell to make you shine.”

Tossing the vehicle into gear, I drove away, heading back toward Wintervale’s quaint main street to find a bite to eat—and, if I could, a decent place to sleep that wasn’t a freezing Victorian with precarious floorboards. My mind churned through a hundred tasks: scheduling utility inspections, ordering space heaters, perhaps renting a suite at the local ski resort until the house was marginally livable.

But despite all the worry, a tiny thread of excitement wove through me. In the hush of the Montana winter, with snow swirling around and sunlight painting everything in dreamy sparkles, I felt something I hadn’t in a long time…Hope.