Chapter 5
Willow
By the time we reach the turnoff for Hearthstone Lodge, my hands are cramping from gripping the steering wheel.
The road snakes upward through the trees, snowy pines crowding the edge of pavement, limbs sagging under fresh powder.
It’s beautiful in that wild, untamed way only Montana manages, but the higher we climb, the heavier my emotions feel.
It’s been quite a while since I’ve driven this road.
“Almost there,” Spencer says from the passenger seat of my SUV, like he’s reassuring me instead of himself. “They plowed yesterday. Should be fine.”
“Should be,” I echo.
In the backseat, Atlanta’s practically plastered to the window, breath fogging the glass. “I can’t believe I get to see it again,” she says. “The photos don’t do it justice.”
“You’ve been up here already?” I ask.
“Twice,” she replies. “Mr. Sinclair wanted multiple assessments before moving forward. We did a preliminary walk-through with just the core team, then a follow-up with Holden and structural notes.”
Of course he did. I swallow around the sting of that, focusing on the road. This is his third or fourth visit. My first in what, ten years? I wasn’t avoiding it. Not exactly. Life just moved downhill away from whatever this place used to be for me.
Spencer clears his throat. “Don’t worry, Willow. It’s still standing.”
That’s what I’m afraid of.
We pull into the parking lot at the top, tires crunching over packed snow. Another SUV is already there, dark and glossy, parked with the kind of precision that screams business. Graham’s. Naturally, he’s early again.
He’s standing near the lodge’s sagging front steps when we climb out, coat open despite the cold, hands in his pockets like he has all the time in the world.
The wind tugs at his hair, at the hem of his charcoal overcoat.
For a second, he looks less like a developer and more like some ancient figure from a snow-dusted painting.
His gaze finds me, heat slicing through the frigid air.
“Ms. Grant,” he says. “Thank you for coming.”
I shut my door a little harder than necessary. “It’s my job.”
His mouth curves slightly. “I’m beginning to understand that you don’t do anything halfway.”
Spencer joins us, clapping his gloved hands together. “Well, look at her,” he mutters, eyes on the building. “She’s rough … but she’s not done yet.”
I follow his gaze and the breath rushes out of my lungs.
Hearthstone Lodge rises from the snow like a forgotten monument.
The once-proud roof droops in places, heavy with ice.
The wraparound porch sags, railings broken or missing completely.
The stone chimney stands tall, streaked with time and weather.
Windows are boarded or cracked, some fogged from the inside with years of dust and neglect.
Time didn’t ruin her. It just… marked her. She’s a wreck, but she’s still beautiful.
Memories hit in flashes -- my gloved hand gripping my mother’s as we climbed these steps; strings of colored lights along the eaves; laughter spilling from the great room; the smell of woodsmoke, cinnamon and wet wool. I swallow hard against the sudden sting in my eyes.
Atlanta bounces on her toes. “Look at those beams,” she breathes. “And the chimney! Can you imagine when the fire was going …”
“Let’s get inside,” Holden says, joining us with a clipped nod. “Before the wind picks up.”
Graham gestures toward the entrance. “Careful on the steps. They’re not completely stable.”
Of course he would know that. He’s walked them before. As we climb, a board creaks ominously under my boot. Graham’s hand shoots out, fingers wrapping around my elbow to steady me. Heat flares where he touches me, sharp and immediate.
“I’ve got it,” I say, maybe too quickly.
His hand lingers half a second longer than necessary before he lets go. “Didn’t say you didn’t,” he murmurs. His touch is strong and confident, like he doesn’t doubt for a second I’ll let him catch me.
Inside, the air is cold and still, carrying the faint scent of old wood and something sweet and long-faded like the ghost of Christmases past.
The lobby is dim, light filtering through dirty windows and cracks in the boards. Dust covers every surface, glittering in the shafts of pale sun. The reception counter still stands, its once-polished wood scarred and dulled. An old brass bell rests on top, green with tarnish.
Atlanta spins slowly, taking it all in. “It’s like walking into a photograph,” she whispers.
I move deeper into the room, boots crunching over broken glass and debris.
My gaze catches on the far wall, where a faded mural of the surrounding mountains still clings, paint chipped but recognizable.
I remember standing here as a child, tracing the painted ridgelines with my eyes, convinced I could feel the whole world contained in this lobby.
“What do you remember most?” Graham’s voice comes from just behind me.
I stiffen. “Excuse me?”
“You grew up coming here,” he says. “You said as much.”
Embarrassment rises in me. Had I sounded that sentimental? I don’t owe him this. He doesn’t get this part of me.
“Everyone in Hope Peak came here,” I say carefully. “It was the place for winter events. Holiday banquets. School dances. Fundraisers.”
“And you?” he presses, soft but insistent. “What was it to you?”
I should shut him down. Remind him that my personal history has no bearing on zoning codes. Instead, my mouth betrays me. “I remember the tree,” I admit. “Every year, right in that corner.” I point to a space where only a dead electrical outlet remains. “It was massive. Almost touched the rafters.”
Spencer chuckles. “Took six men to get it upright most years.”
“We’d have hot chocolate and carols and the worst homemade ornaments,” I continue before I can stop myself. “My grandmother always insisted we take our picture in front of it. Said it was ‘for posterity.’”
Silence settles, thick and strange. When I finally glance back at Graham, his expression has changed. There’s still calculation there. He’s always calculating, but something gentler has joined it. Understanding. Curiosity. A quiet kind of respect.
“This place mattered to you,” he says.
“It mattered to everyone,” I correct.
“Still,” he says. “You talk about it like it’s … family.”
My throat tightens. “Maybe it is.”
Holden clears his throat from behind us. “Structural assessment first, emotional revelations later, please.”
Graham recovers faster than I do, pivoting into business. “Right. The roof needs full reinforcement and replacement. Plumbing and electrical have to be replaced entirely. But the bones are solid, better than some active properties I’ve seen.”
He starts walking, and we follow through the lobby, past the closed doors of what used to be a lounge, into the great room. Even ruined, it’s breathtaking.
A massive stone fireplace dominates the far wall, flanked by floor-to-ceiling windows. Snowy peaks loom beyond the glass, faint and majestic through the grime. The hardwood floor is warped in places, water-damaged from a leak, but the pattern is still visible.
Atlanta actually presses a hand to her heart. “Oh,” she says. “It’s perfect.”
“It’s a disaster,” Spencer corrects. “But a salvageable one.”
Graham stands in the center of the room, turning in a slow circle. “This,” he says, “is what we build everything around.”
I cross my arms. “Define ‘everything’ please.”
He glances at me. “You know the broad strokes from the proposal. Restoring the lodge. Creating a high-end winter retreat experience. Bringing in curated dining and retail.”
“Curated,” I repeat. “Is that the new word for overcrowded?”
He huffs out a breath that almost looks like a laugh. “Curated means intentional. Thoughtful. Limited.”
“And expensive.”
“Quality costs,” he says. “But it also returns. You want this town to thrive?”
“Yes,” I say instantly.
“So do I,” he replies. “We’re just choosing different paths to get there.”
For a second, we stand there, chest to chest in the space between stubbornness and something else entirely.
The wind rattles the old windows. A loose board creaks.
Somewhere under all of that, I can almost hear the echo of holiday music, the murmur of long-ago conversations, the clink of glasses.
I absolutely love this place. I hate that he sees it too.
Holden interrupts again, mercifully. “We’ll need to discuss load-bearing walls and support beams if you plan to open up adjacent spaces, Graham.”
“Let’s start in the east wing,” Graham says, tearing his gaze from mine. “I want to show you how I see the suites reconfigured.”
As we move toward the hallway, his hand brushes the small of my back to guide me around a fallen beam.
The gesture is nothing, yet it’s everything.
My heart stumbles, and for one dangerous second, I let myself imagine what this lodge would look like filled with people again with the fire roaring, music playing, lights glittering.
And I hate the way my traitorous mind conjures up ideas. Because in that imagined picture, he’s standing right beside me.