Winter Beginnings (Seasons in Montana: Winter)

Chapter Two

Cass

I left Barrington Manor feeling an odd swirl of excitement and old ghosts tugging at my chest. The road back into Wintervale seemed shorter than usual, maybe because I couldn’t stop replaying the sight of Rory Lancaster tiptoeing around broken boards, her cheeks flushed from the cold, her bright purple beanie framing a face equal parts anxious and determined. I’d shown her the property’s worst flaws—moldy plaster, sagging porch, missing shingles—and she hadn’t run. In fact, she looked ready to roll up her sleeves and fight for that creaking Victorian.

That stirred something inside me, making me grip the steering wheel tighter. Of course, it was my job to fix houses, to draw up estimates and guide owners through renovations, but I usually kept things strictly professional. Clients rarely turned my head. Yet the moment our eyes met in that dusty foyer, I felt a subtle spark. One I shouldn’t entertain, considering the secret that haunted my connection to the place that neither Rory nor anyone else in town knew about. And I was determined to keep it that way. After all, the mansion had belonged to Cyrus Barrington—my biological father. I’d spent months trying to bury the guilt and confusion about not claiming my inheritance, letting the old estate fall to foreclosure. Now, Rory had bought it, unaware of my link. It felt like fate was confirming the decision I’d made to keep quiet.

Focus, Cass. I pressed the gas, guiding my old pickup through Wintervale’s main street. The glints of sun breaking through the cloud cover glinted off the snow, and flakes swirled around the tires of cars ahead of me. The quaint shops, leftover holiday decor, and a handful of shoppers gave the town square a cozy charm. If I weren’t so preoccupied, I might’ve enjoyed it. But my mind churned with memories and the image of the beautiful new woman in town with her soft lips and uncertain smile.

I turned onto a quiet side lane that led to my workshop. Even though it was only midmorning, a pale winter light already slanted across the snowdrifts, elongating shadows of the tall elms that clustered around the property. My adoptive father, Mr. Whitlock, bought this building years ago, using it to store his carpentry tools. He passed it on to me when he and my mom died. Though they’d never had much money, they had hearts big enough to adopt me as a baby and had been the most wonderful parents anyone could have asked for. A pang of grief shot through my heart. They’d both been ill for a long time before their passing within a few months of each other, and even though it had been several years, I still missed them.

Shaking off that bittersweet thought, I climbed out of the truck into the biting cold. The workshop’s roof was pitched to let snow slide off; a curl of smoke rose from the woodstove chimney, promising warmth. I ducked inside, flipping on the overhead lights. The scent of sawdust, pine, and old varnish made me exhale. Home base.

I shrugged out of my coat and hat and hung them on a peg near the door. Time to draft the official renovation estimate for Rory. The place needed everything—structural reinforcements, new wiring, a partial roof rebuild, porch repairs, plumbing, you name it. And yet, I couldn’t help smiling when I imagined how her eyes might brighten if we restored the mansion’s original woodwork or the carved banisters on that grand staircase.

“Easy, man,” I muttered to myself, booting up my laptop on a scuffed oak desk. “She’s a client. Don’t get carried away.”

But my fingers felt oddly light as I typed out bullet points:

PORCH: Replace rotted boards, shore up substructure.

ROOF/TURRET: Patch missing shingles, check for leaks.

HEATING/PLUMBING: Replace the old furnace—suddenly I remembered a rumor about a generator on the property and wondered if I could get it to work. If so, it could offer some backup electricity for Rory—especially if she insisted on staying in the house.

ELECTRICAL: Upgrade wiring to code.

COSMETIC REPAIRS: Wallpaper, painting, refinishing floors, etc.

As I typed, I realized I’d never asked if she intended to flip the property—a common motive for out-of-town buyers. Then again, something in her eyes hinted she wanted to belong there. Could be my imagination, but it felt personal for her.

Half an hour later, I had a rough draft. I’d email it to her once I tidied it up. For now, I needed coffee and maybe a sandwich. My stomach rumbled, reminding me I’d skipped breakfast while trudging through that icebox of a house.

Before heading out, I let my gaze wander the workshop. Rows of lumber lined one wall—oak, cedar, pine—waiting for custom projects. A half-finished dining table sat in the center, clamps holding the pieces in place. My father built tables for nearly every family in Wintervale at some point, passing on that craft to me. The community valued real craftsmanship, which made me wonder: how would they feel if they discovered I was Cyrus Barrington’s long-lost son? Possibly the rightful heir to the biggest estate in the county?

The thought churned my gut. I’d chosen silence after seeing Edna Twinkleberry and Theodore Snowcroft duke it out in court. The last thing I wanted was to upset that shaky peace. Especially now that the property was in Rory’s hands. Maybe it was better to let sleeping dogs lie. My job was to fix her house, not to reclaim a father who never knew me. I grabbed my coat, inhaling the tang of fresh pine, and headed back into the chilly day.

Downtown Wintervale was busier now. Even though the holiday season had passed, a few tourists lingered, drawn by the scenic mountains and the ski resort just outside town. I parked in front of Mistletoe & Mochas, the café run by my friend Piper. A gust of wind followed me in, replaced by the welcoming warmth and scents of roasted coffee beans, cinnamon, and sugar.

“Cass!” Piper called from the register, pushing her messy strawberry-blonde ponytail behind one ear. “You’re on a roll—second time you’ve shown up this week. What’s going on?”

“Busy times,” I replied, stuffing my gloves into my coat pocket. “Got a massive new job at Barrington Manor, so I’ll need all the caffeine I can get.”

Her eyes lit with curiosity. “Ahh, yes, the new owner. I hear she’s from Florida?”

I gave a shrug. “Miami, apparently.” I couldn’t help the flicker of amusement at how fast news traveled here. “Let me get a turkey melt, plus your strongest mocha. Extra whipped cream.”

She handed me a number for my table. The café bustled with midmorning customers—locals reading the paper, a family with two kids sipping hot cocoa, an older couple quietly sharing a croissant. I chose a small table by the window. Pale sunlight streamed across the polished floors, reflecting off leftover tinsel still draped along the ceiling.

I tapped my foot absently while waiting, mind drifting again to Rory. She had to be freezing in that mansion. Even with a rumored generator, the place lacked stable heat. A pang of concern tugged at me. Would she try to live in the house right away? Most new owners waited until the property was somewhat functional. But she seemed determined, maybe enough to risk comfort.

Piper approached with my coffee and a grin. “Order’s in the works. So, that new owner… did you meet her yet?”

“Yeah,” I said, sipping the mocha, wincing slightly at the sweet peppermint rush. “Her name’s Rory Lancaster. She’s…interesting.”

Piper’s eyebrows lifted. “Interesting, huh?”

I shot her a look. “Let’s say she’s gutsy, for sure. Florida chick, definitely out of her element up here in the mountains, but she didn’t back down when she saw the property first-hand.”

Piper giggled, leaning one elbow on the table. “So you like her, right?”

I rolled my eyes. “You always jump to conclusions. She’s a customer, that’s all.”

She smirked. “Sure, Cass. Anyway, your sandwich will be out soon.”

She dashed off, leaving me to nurse my mocha and wonder if I was giving away more than I intended. If Piper caught a whiff of personal interest, maybe I wasn’t as subtle as I thought.

After lunch, I swung by Mrs. Jenkins’s house to fix a leaky faucet. She lived alone, ever since her husband passed a few years back, in a neat little cottage with cheerful flower boxes and crocheted doilies over every piece of furniture. The job was simple—just a worn washer and some rust in the threads. I replaced it, all the while making small talk about the weather.

“Thank you, dear,” she said as I packed up my wrench. “That drip was driving me insane. Do I owe you anything extra?”

“Only for the parts,” I assured her. “Just a quick fix.”

She patted my arm. “You’re a treasure, Cass. I hear you were hired to refurbish the old Barrington place, too. Be careful, dear—that house has quite a history.”

I forced a smile. “Yeah, so I’ve heard. The new owner seems nice, though.”

Mrs. Jenkins gave me a curious look. “You keep an eye on her, will you? That place can swallow a person whole if they’re not careful.”

I thanked her for her concern and left, ignoring the knot in my gut. If only she knew how close I was to that history—closer than even I cared to admit. But I’d keep that intel to myself, at least for now.

Back in the truck, I checked my phone. Rory had texted me:

Hey Cass, do you have a minute to talk about the house? Also, do you know if the generator in the mansion is functional?

My pulse skipped. She was diving in headfirst, apparently. I tapped to call her, and she picked up on the first ring.

“Hey, Cass,” she greeted, her breath a little uneven, as if she’d been hurrying. “I’m in the mansion’s foyer right now…found the generator in the basement. It looks like it might power some lights?”

“Potentially,” I said, pulling away from Mrs. Jenkins’s driveway. “That generator was installed during the last big dispute, as I recall. Could be working or might need a tune-up. I can check it for you tomorrow.”

“Perfect,” she said, sounding relieved. “Since I’m planning to move in soon, I need at least partial electricity so I don’t freeze my butt off.” A short laugh followed. “Turns out I left most of my furniture behind in Miami, so I don’t have much to lug in. But the moving company’s delivering my personal stuff next week.”

I paused. “Wait…you’re moving in permanently? Like, full-time? Right away?”

She hesitated, as though bracing for disapproval. “That’s the plan. I’m done with Florida. I was a real estate agent down there, but after…everything that happened, I want to start over. The mansion isn’t just a flip for me. I want to live here and, eventually, turn it into a bed-and-breakfast. A place folks can come year-round.”

A mild shock rippled through me. “You’re serious? Not flipping it for a profit?”

Her voice warmed, threaded with passion. “No way. This is my new home. I might have been a realtor, but I’m not in the mood for a quick sale. I want to keep it, run it, own it. I was thinking of naming it the ‘Evergreen Inn.’” She gave a little laugh. “It just came to me—forests, new beginnings…plus it sounds cute, right? Better than Barrington anything.”

Despite my initial surprise, a grin tugged my lips. “Evergreen Inn,” I repeated, tasting the name. “I love it. Feels fresh. Definitely better than sticking with the Barrington baggage.”

She exhaled happily. “I was hoping you’d say that. Anyway, do you have a second to swing by? Or do you want to talk details tomorrow?”

I checked the time. “I can come by in an hour or so. Need to pick up some supplies and then I’m free.”

“Great! I’d like to maybe ask maybe a million questions about how I can help with the reno, if that’s okay. Since I plan on living on-site even as we fix it up, so if you’re willing to teach me stuff, I can help with at least some of the grunt work.”

A chuckle escaped me. “You sure you’re up for that? Home reno can get messy.”

She scoffed lightly. “I used to stage and prep houses for sale as part of my real estate gig. I’m not clueless, I promise. Show me what to do, and I’ll roll up my sleeves.”

The mental image of her in dusty tight jeans, maybe paint streaked across her cheek, rummaging through old rooms, sent a jolt of warmth through my belly. “All right,” I said, trying to sound casual. “I’ll see you soon. We can talk about next steps. And maybe check that generator so you have at least partial power.”

She ended the call with a bright note in her voice. I stared at my phone, half smiling. Underneath that coat and hat, Rory Lancaster had some fire.

The sun sat lower on the horizon when I pulled back onto the Barrington property. Golden light stretched across the snow, turning everything into a gentle glow. Rory’s red SUV was parked near the porch. My breath fogged the truck’s window as I surveyed the house. In the dusk, it actually looked…romantic, in a gothic sort of way.

I climbed out, crunching over the icy gravel. She emerged onto the porch, waving. A rush of surprise flickered through me—she’d changed from her earlier outfit to a warmer look: heavy boots, thick jeans, a flannel shirt beneath a puffy jacket, and that signature purple beanie perched on her dark hair.

“Hey,” she called, stepping carefully down the creaking steps. “Thanks for coming.”

“No problem,” I said, my gaze sweeping over her. She looked flushed, possibly from rummaging around in the cold. “You surviving in there?”

She rolled her eyes with a grin. “Barely. But the good news is, the generator actually fired up for a minute. I turned it off because I didn’t want to blow anything, but it’s definitely not dead.”

“That’s promising,” I agreed. “If it’s functional, we can wire up some space heaters and a few lights for you. Enough so you won’t freeze until we get a proper system installed.”

She seemed excited, nodding vigorously. “I’m hoping that means I can move in once my boxes arrive next week. I don’t have real furniture anymore—I left most of it in Miami with Julian, my ex-fiancé and business partner. We co-owned a condo, and to be honest, I didn’t want reminders of that life. So I’ll just buy fresh pieces. I thought it might be fun to pick up antiques or vintage stuff that fits the mansion’s old vibe.”

My chest tightened at the mention of her ex. Julian. My mouth soured at the name. But I shook off the flicker of protective anger and tried to focus on the practical side. “That’s actually a great plan. Antique shops around here sometimes carry real Victorian pieces. Between thrift stores and estate sales, you can find treasures.”

Her gaze lit up. “Would you be willing to help me pick stuff out? I mean, if it’s not too weird. You know the era, and you’d spot any structural or design issues. I just—this place means a lot to me, and I want to do it justice.”

That swirl of warmth hit again. She trusted me. She’s your client, I reminded myself, but I couldn’t resist the invitation. “I’d be happy to help. We can coordinate it around the reno schedule. Sometimes I drive out of town for supplies, so we can poke around antique shops then.”

Her smile was radiant. “Thank you. This is all so new. I was a real estate agent, not an interior designer. But I loved staging houses, especially the older ones. For me, picking furniture that tells a story is half the fun.”

Something about her earnestness tugged my heart. She wasn’t in this for a quick profit or a superficial fix. She truly wanted to create a home, possibly for travelers as well, if her B&B dreams came to fruition. “Speaking of which,” I said softly, “should we go in and see if we can get partial power going? Maybe that’ll warm you up enough to keep exploring.”

She nodded, a playful grin curving her lips. “Lead the way, Mister Contractor.”

We stepped inside the dark foyer, Rory’s phone flashlight bobbing over dusty walls. My breath swirled in the frigid air. She guided me to a small side corridor, which led to a steep set of stairs descending to the basement. I recognized the stale smell of damp earth. My own flashlight revealed a tangle of old pipes, cobwebs, and a large portable generator near the far wall, partially covered by a plastic tarp, which explains why we hadn’t noticed it earlier around the maze of posts and beams.

“Ta-da,” Rory announced, voice echoing.

I crouched to examine the controls. “Yeah, definitely a newer model. Let’s see.” I toggled a switch, turned the choke. It coughed once, then roared to life. Bright, temporary lighting flickered on overhead—someone had strung a few industrial bulbs along the ceiling joists. The basement glowed with harsh yellow light.

“Wow,” she breathed. “That’s better than pitch-black. So, if we route this carefully, I could run a heater or two upstairs?”

“Potentially. You’ll have to mind the load. But yes, you could keep a space heater going, maybe a couple lamps or a microwave. Not everything at once, or you’ll trip the system.”

She practically bounced on her toes, excitement shining in her eyes. “Cass, you’re a lifesaver. I was dreading living here by candlelight.”

A laugh escaped me. “Well, you did pick a half-frozen mansion in Montana in January. Candlelight might’ve been your fate.”

She playfully stuck out her tongue. “Hey, it’s worth it. Miami was always too crowded, too modern for my sensibilities. I’m ready for some vintage charm and space to breathe.”

I paused, heart clenching at her candor. “I get it. Sometimes you just need a clean slate.”

Our eyes locked under the glare of the overhead bulb and an awkward pause followed. I could feel the warmth of the generator on my back, the swirl of dust in the air. Rory bit her lower lip, probably out of habit, and I found the nervous tic adorable. Then she cleared her throat.

“All right,” she said, voice lighter. “Let’s check which outlets or circuits upstairs might link to this. If you have time? I’m hoping to designate a small bedroom for myself and keep it heated.”

“Sure,” I agreed, shutting off the generator for now. “We can trace the wiring. Some might be old or damaged, so we’ll have to test carefully.”

She led me back up the stairs. Her gentle floral scent drifted over me, mingled with the musty hallway. Above us, the late-afternoon light turned the foyer a hazy gold. My chest felt strangely tight. I’d never wanted to know a client’s story so badly—what precisely drove her from Miami, how she ended up alone, why she risked so much on this battered mansion. But I sensed it was a raw subject, so I kept quiet.

We moved room to room, verifying which circuits still functioned enough for the generator to power safely. She jotted notes in a spiral pad, her face drawn in concentration, as if she were studying for a test. Whenever we brushed arms, my breath caught. The synergy between us palpable, at least to me, and I wondered whether she might be feeling it too.

After maybe forty-five minutes, we ended up back near the foyer. Snow had begun falling outside, flecking the windows with soft white. Rory hugged her arms to her chest, though the generator had allowed a small space heater to run in one corner. “This is manageable,” she said. “At least for a while, until you tackle the bigger electrical upgrades.”

I nodded. “I’ll prioritize hooking you up with a stable line. Or see if we can restore the main power safely once we fix any faulty wiring. And, uh, if you need any help with furniture or hauling stuff… let me know. I’d be happy to tag along, lift the heavy pieces.”

Her returning smile was bright, despite the dim foyer. “I’d love that. Honestly, I can use all the help I can get. As I said, I’m prepared to get my hands dirty, too. Whether it’s scraping off old wallpaper or cleaning grout, just show me what to do.”

“We’ve got a deal,” I said, once again feeling that rush.

I offered her a smile, then walked slowly to the door, shoulders brushing as I slipped past. Even that small contact sent a flicker of heat through me. Outside, the snowfall had thickened. By the time I reached my truck, my boots were dusted with white. I’d help Rory build her Evergreen Inn. And maybe, in the process, I’d lay my own ghosts to rest.