Christmas with the Park Ranger (Christmas in Hope Peak #10)

Chapter 1

PIPER

My windshield wipers are losing the battle.

I grip the steering wheel tighter, leaning forward as if those extra inches will somehow help me see through the wall of white currently trying to murder me.

My little SUV shudders as another gust slams into it, and I'm pretty sure we just drifted across what used to be the center line.

Not that I can actually see the center line anymore.

“I can do this,” I mutter, squinting at the road that may or may not still exist. "Everything is totally under control."

Ha! What are you smokin’, Piper? And can I get some?

The plan had been simple: drive from Denver to Deepwood Mountain, Montana, spend Christmas with my best friend Sadie, her new husband, and her brother Kade at the cabin they rented…eat cookies, drink spiked cider, and pretend I'm an adult who has her life together.

Easy. Straightforward. Zero percent chance of dying in a blizzard in the middle of nowhere Montana.

Except somewhere on my way through Hope's Peak, Mother Nature decided to throw a tantrum, and now I'm white-knuckling it through what I'm pretty sure is the beginning of the apocalypse.

My GPS app chooses that exact moment to freeze, the screen locking up with a ‘HAZARDOUS WEATHER WARNING.’

Well, duh.

I jab at my phone desperately, but even when I try to close out and bring it back, it's a lost cause. My battery’s at five percent and dropping, that little red bar mocking me for forgetting to charge it last night.

The wind hits again, harder this time, and the car actually slides sideways before the tires catch.

My heart jackrabbits into my throat.

Okay, this is officially bad.

I can't see more than five feet ahead. The road—if I'm even still on it—has disappeared under like three feet of fresh snow. The temperature gauge reads fourteen degrees and falling. And I haven't seen another car in over an hour.

I could die out here.

The thought hits me with crystal clarity, punching through the denial I've been wrapped in for the last few miles. This isn't just inconvenient winter weather, it’s a full-scale blizzard, and I'm alone and rapidly running out of options.

My hands are shaking now, and not just from the cold seeping through my coat.

I need to find shelter.

Pulling over and hoping for the best isn’t going to cut it. People freeze to death in their cars during storms like this. I've seen the news reports, watched the somber warnings about—

Wait.

Is that...?

I hit the brakes—gently, because I don’t want to spin out and complete this disaster—and lean so close to the windshield my nose almost touches it.

Through the swirling white, barely visible, there's a shape.

Dark. Solid.

A structure.

It could be a boulder. Could be my imagination, my oxygen-deprived brain creating mirages.

Or it could be my only hope.

I inch the car forward, and the shape solidifies.

Oh my god, it’s a cabin!

It’s small, rustic, and snow-covered, but definitely real.

"Thank you," I whisper to any deity listening.

I drive as close as I can before parking, then grab my purse and emergency bag. Getting from the car to the front door is like wading through chest-high Arctic ice. The snow is deep, the wind is vicious, and my practical winter boots—which seemed so smart in Denver—are immediately soaked through.

By the time I reach the tiny porch, I'm gasping, my lungs burning with cold, my face so numb I can barely feel it.

I try the door handle, expecting it to be locked.

But it turns.

And the door swings open so easily I practically fall inside, then shove it closed behind me to cut off the banshee shriek of the wind.

I lean against the door, panting. The cabin was unlocked. Just...open and available, like someone left it that way on purpose.

Then I notice the small wooden sign hanging beside the door, the words burned into it in careful letters:

EMERGENCY SHELTER

TRAVELERS WELCOME

PLEASE RESTOCK WHAT YOU USE

This isn't someone's private vacation home. It’s one of those mountain shelters Sadie mentioned once when she was telling me about how people in rural areas look out for each other. These cabins sometimes serve as emergency camps during bad weather.

I send a silent thank you to these unknown, generous strangers who own this cabin as I take stock.

It’s one space, basically, with a small room off to the side equipped with a composting toilet.

There’s a kitchen area in the corner, table with two chairs, a couch that's seen better days.

And—yes—a fireplace with a neat stack of wood beside it.

A pile of quilts are folded on the couch, while canned goods are visible in the open cabinet, along with matches, candles, and a first aid kit.

Someone has stocked this place thoughtfully.

And I’m grateful.

Because my phone is dead now (fully, completely dead) and even if it weren't, there's no signal. The bars have been gone since before the GPS died. I'm truly cut off.

But I'm alive.

And I'm going to do my best to stay that way.

Ten minutes later, I've got a fire crackling in the fireplace, my wet coat and boots drying nearby, and I’m wearing some oversized sweat pants and a T-shirt I found in a dresser. I have one of the quilts wrapped around me like a burrito.

The cabin warms slowly as I find instant coffee in the cabinet and heat water in a battered kettle over the fire.

It tastes like burnt dirt, but it's hot, and that's all that matters.

For the first time in what feels like hours, I let myself breathe.

No cell service means no one knows where I am, but Sadie wouldn’t be worried yet. I’m not due to arrive until tomorrow.

And honestly? There’s something almost peaceful about this…just me, the fire, and the storm raging outside like nature’s white noise machine.

The peace doesn't last long, though.

Because now that the immediate threat of death has passed, my brain decides it's a great time to spiral about everything else going on in my life.

Starting with the email I got yesterday.

TechFlow Solutions would like to extend an offer...

I should be thrilled. It's a good job offer. Great, even. A senior developer position with full benefits, stock options, and the kind of salary that would make my parents actually take an interest in what I do for a living.

I'd be working on the company’s flagship productivity app, contributing to something millions of people use every day.

I'd also be in meetings. So many meetings. Following someone else's vision, building someone else's dream, and fitting my creativity into neat little boxes labeled "brand guidelines" and "user experience protocols."

The thought makes my skin itch.

I love what I do now, especially the freedom of it. Waking up with an idea and just...building it.

Last month, I created an app that helps people find dog-friendly hiking trails based on their dog's size and energy level. It’s completely random, and totally unnecessary, but it has five thousand downloads and counting.

Before that, it was a recipe app that lets you input ingredients you have and get meal ideas based on your specific dietary restrictions and a signature chef’s cooking style.

Are these going to make me rich? Probably not. But they're mine. Every line of code, every design choice, every weird creative decision that makes users send me messages like "This is exactly what I needed in my life and I love it."

My parents don't get it. They're currently in Thailand—or maybe Vietnam?

Somewhere in Southeast Asia—doing the digital nomad thing they started after they sold their marketing firm.

"You should leverage your skills," Mom had said during our last video call, which she'd squeezed in between a beach yoga session and a business dinner. "Build something scalable."

They mean well. I know they do. But there's something ironic about two people who are literally on the other side of the world from their daughter lecturing me about responsibility and conventional career paths.

At least they're together, I guess. They have each other, even if work always came first—before family dinners, before my school plays, before pretty much everything.

I stare into the fire, the quilt pulled tight around my shoulders.

Somewhere, in some Thai restaurant or Vietnamese hotel, my parents are probably working through Christmas Eve, barely noticing the holiday.

Meanwhile, I'm here. Alone in a mountain cabin, hiding from a blizzard, trying to decide if I should take a job I don't want just because it's what successful people are supposed to do.

"Merry Christmas to me," I mutter.

My laptop is in my bag by the door, but there's no WiFi out here. No way to work on the meditation app I've been tinkering with—the one that pairs breathing exercises with customizable nature sounds because I got annoyed that every meditation app uses the same generic beach waves or rain sounds.

Some people want to breathe to the sound of a crackling fire, or a river. Or that specific type of wind that sounds like it's moving through pine trees.

See? This is what I mean. These weird, oddly specific ideas that pop into my head and won't let go until I build them. How am I supposed to do that while sitting in a corporate office, attending daily collabs trying to please some CEO who has nothing in common with the people he sells products to?

The wind howls outside, rattling the windows. I should probably be more worried about the whole "stranded in a blizzard" situation, but I kinda like being forced to stop. To sit still…and decide anything right now.

Tomorrow, I'll make it to Sadie's rented cabin.

We'll have that Christmas I've been looking forward to.

I'll tell her about the job offer, and she'll give me that look she always gives me when I'm overthinking things, and she'll say something wise like "What does your gut tell you?

" or "Stop being a dumbass and just do what makes you happy. "

I miss her. Miss having someone in my corner who actually gets it.