Chapter 2
K reston
Kreston Collins cut the engine of his aging snowmachine and squinted through the blowing white at Lucky’s zig-zagging aircraft as it came in a little wonky, then landed on skis, bouncing over the snow. He’d cleared most of the snow with his truck plow when Lucky told him he’d be setting down in Polar Creek instead of Anchorage.
Lucky’s landing was rougher than usual, and Kreston winced—no surprise, given the heavy crosswinds whipping down from the Alaska Range. He shook his head at his best buddy’s piloting ability. He wasn’t a risk taker, but when the going got dicey, Lucky was skilled enough to not only keep his bird in the air but to set it down safely in one piece.
Lucky liked to brag, “I’ve never left The Beave up there yet!”
Kreston, also a bush pilot, was amused at his friend’s nickname for his plane, along with his offhanded Irish humor.
Lucky had radioed him about a diverted passenger, a Seattle woman in a hurry to get to Anchorage. Now she’d be stuck here until the storm passed, which wouldn’t be for several days according to the forecast. Not this time of year, when the powerful Bering Sea lows spun through the state, whipping up snow like a McDonald’s McFlurry stuck on whir .
Kreston blew out air and stepped out of his truck, trudging through the drifts toward the DeHavilland Beaver, cursing himself for forgetting his snowshoes. He braced himself for the inevitable complaints from another entitled tourist about the lack of cell service and gourmet coffee. Especially those from Seattle, who claimed their city made the best espresso drinks worldwide, even better than the Italians.
Kreston disagreed with that premise. He’d spent time in Italy, and there was no comparison.
“Quite the landing, wasn’t it?” Lucky greeted him as he climbed from the pilot seat and jumped into the snow. “Reminds me of that time in Tok when we had to get those hunters out.”
“Which time? The one where you gave me a heart attack or the other time where you gave me a worse heart attack?” quipped Kreston, grinning at his buddy. “How’d those new wheeled skis work for you?”
“Like a lucky charm.” Lucky grinned and moved in close. “I brought you an early Christmas present. Don’t say I never gave you anything.” He elbowed Kreston in the ribs and winked, which Kreston knew to be trouble.
Dreading what or who he would find, Kreston moved around the tail to the passenger door and flung it open.
He momentarily forgot the cold upon seeing the drop-dead gorgeous woman riding shotgun in the passenger seat. Auburn curls cascaded in waves from her wool headband, a stark contrast in the dim light like red maple leaves in the fall. Her eyes were a striking shade of amber-gold. Despite her obvious distress, something about her caught his attention—the determined set of her jaw, or maybe it was the way she held herself like she was ready for battle. She looked like a person none too happy with her new surroundings and intended to let everyone know about it.
The woman who swung her shapely bare legs to climb out of the airplane took his breath away. Not because of her good looks—that was a given—but what the heck was she doing in an impossibly short dress and a short suede jacket in this ungodly snowy weather? It had been a long while since Kreston was a fashion maven, but he seemed to remember one didn’t wear suede in a flipping snowstorm.
Not only that, she also wore the most impractical boots Kreston had ever seen in Alaska. Brown thigh-high patent leather boots with five, no, six-inch heels? The wind whipped her hair around her face, and for a moment, she resembled an actress on a movie set—beautiful, fierce, and completely out of place.
“Hello, I’m Kreston Collins. Welcome to Polar Creek,” he said smoothly in his hotel manager’s voice. It was rare to see visitors during a hellacious winter snowstorm.
Lucky slapped his shoulder. “Kreston is also our mayor. And our postal carrier. Not to mention one of the best bush pilots I know.”
Kreston caught the woman’s surprise. “Small town. We wear multiple hats here.”
“Right. How quaint.” Her glare could melt permafrost. “Mr. Collins, where in the heck is Polar Creek?” she tossed out, none too friendly.
“On the other side of Denali Park, a dozen miles west of the park boundary. I didn’t catch your name. ”
“Because I didn’t give it.” Her words were clipped and laced with aggravation. “I won’t be staying. I need to get to Anchorage as soon as the weather allows.”
“Her name is Sadie Foster,” Lucky happily provided. “Did you know she’s a big-shot publicist in Seattle? She handles celebrity clients, like the Seattle Seahawks and the Mariners—”
“Lucky, chill,” warned Kreston, appreciating his buddy’s good intentions. In the time it took to fly her here, Lucky had probably learned Sadie’s entire life story. The man could chat with a fence post and get its autobiography in thirty seconds.
“Just thought you’d like to know.” Lucky grinned, his eyes crinkling.
Kreston offered Sadie his thick-gloved hand to help her from the passenger seat.
“Thank you,” she said in a business-like tone.
Lucky turned to Sadie. “Did I mention Kreston here is quite the eligible bachelor—”
“Lucky, chill!” interjected Kreston, giving his friend the eye. “No one cares.”
“I’m not in the market,” Sadie cut in, her voice sharp enough to slice glaciers.
Kreston bit back a smile as he opened the cargo door. He grunted, hoisting two huge, heavy bags. “Yours, I presume?” he asked Sadie.
“Oh, those can’t get wet,” she said quickly, her amber hair sticking to her face along with the snowflakes.
“They’ll have to ride in the back with you, then.” Kreston considered offering her the front seat, but he didn’t appreciate her attitude. He carried her bags to the pickup and heaved them into one side of the back seat, then opened the door on the opposite side.
“Get in. You aren’t exactly dressed for this weather,” he said.
“Who are you to tell me how to dress?” she spat at him. “I’m doing just fine, thank you very much.”
Lovely. A woman full of piss and vinegar. She lifted a leg to climb unsuccessfully inside his tall pickup and grunted as she tried to get in.
“I’ll do the honors,” he mumbled, grabbing her by the waist and lifting her into the back seat, where she glared down at him. “Get a good look?”
“Regretfully, no.” He slammed the rear door closed and rounded the front of his pickup. “Not something I’m into with snow stinging my face,” he grumbled, his hair whipping like a tornado had hold of it. He opened the driver’s door, slid into the seat, and sat back.
“What are we waiting for?” Sadie asked impatiently.
Kreston didn’t reply. Instead, he pointed to Lucky, putting the Beave to bed inside the two-plane hangar the two friends built a few summers ago.
“Oh.” She said it as if he’d insulted her.
Kreston thought the best course of action was not to say much of anything.
Lucky hopped into the front passenger seat, and Kreston shifted into four-wheel drive for the two miles into town.
“Forecast says the storm will intensify.” Kreston glanced at Lucky. “Supposed to snow for the next four days.”
“No!” Sadie yelled from the back seat, her expression darkening like the storm clouds. “There must be a way to get to Anchorage! ”
“Not unless you have a dog team hidden in your designer bag.” Kreston turned on his brights in the waning light, then looked in the rearview mirror. “No roads between here and Anchorage. Good thing Lucky diverted you here when he did.”
“Yes, he’s quite the hero,” she bit out. “Maybe you should write him up for a medal in your capacity as mayor. Or do you handle that as a hotel manager? Hard to keep track of your many royal titles.”
Wow, this woman was a piece of work. Remind me never to go to another big city if this is what most women are like these days.
Sheets of white swirled around them on the drive to town, which was treacherous but silent except for the howl of wind and the truck’s engine. Lucky fell asleep, and Kreston was stealing glances in the rearview at his passenger, noting how she stared straight ahead, giving off a “don’t talk to me” vibe.
He speculated on what put those shadows in her eyes and the defensive edge in her voice. Not that it was any of his concern. Kreston was aware of his passenger’s white-knuckled grip on the wimp handle. “So, you’re up from Seattle?”
“Yes.” She wasn’t exactly long-winded. At least she wouldn’t talk him to death.
“Welcome to Alaska,” he said, for lack of anything else to say. Something told him she felt anything but welcome. He might have been sympathetic if she wasn’t so cantankerous.
As they crested the hill overlooking town, the Polar Creek Hotel came into view, its windows glowing amber against the intense storm. The two-story log building stood like a sentinel in the swirling snow, smoke curling from its stone chimney into the darkening sky.
“There’s your digs.” A hint of pride laced his words. “Been here since 1947, and it even has indoor plumbing.”
“How up to date.” Her voice dripped with icicles.
He sucked in a breath. This woman could prove difficult to get along with.
“Well, you know, we try to keep up with the times.”
Lucky’s loud snores stopped when Kreston cut the engine after parking in front of the Polar Creek Hotel. Through the windows, he noted how the massive stone fireplace cast a warm glow around the lobby. Several people relaxed in the mismatched armchairs around the crackling fire, and the Gossip Trio were no doubt trading juicy stories while enjoying Jessie Thompson’s fresh-baked sourdough slices.
The scent of wood smoke and baking bread met Kreston as he opened the door. He detected the ghost of a smile Sadie quickly suppressed. She was pretty when she wasn’t scowling. More than pretty, if he was being honest—which he wouldn’t be, because she was trouble, wrapped in impractical boots and a suede coat ruined by wet snowflakes.
“It’s blowing hard. Go ahead inside, and I’ll get your bags,” he said.
“I don’t need protection from a little snow.” Sadie stiffened but didn’t move away. “You’re a porter too? I don’t need help with my bags.” She grabbed one and tried to roll it through knee-high snowdrifts, the wheels spinning helplessly into the powdery white mounds.
“Suit yourself.” Kreston grabbed the mailbag Lucky had flown in.
Sadie rolled her eyes. “Is there anything in this town you don’t do? ”
“I don’t make espresso drinks,” he said over his shoulder. “In case you were wondering.”
“Never said I wanted one.” Her voice could frost windowpanes.
Kreston figured she was the type who always had to have the last word. He felt sorry for her boyfriend, whoever the poor schmuck was. He’d heard Lucky say something on the radio about a cheating ex. He could see why.
He watched her struggle with the luggage until he couldn’t take it anymore. Rolling his eyes, he strode outside and grabbed the heaviest bag from her hand.
Her feet slid out from under her, and his instant reflex caught her before she went down.
“Careful,” he cautioned, gripping her waist with one hand and her bag with the other. “It’s slippery out here in the wilderness.”
Their eyes met for a moment, and she stiffened.
“Thank you for the fascinating insight into Arctic physics.” This woman might be abrasive, but she sure didn’t let go of his arm.
“Last chance to camp in the snow if this is too rustic for you.” He hadn’t had a woman hang onto him like this in a good while, and he kind of liked it. Jeez, was he that hard up?
The double doors burst open, and a tall, big-boned woman with a yellow bun called out, “About time you got here. Thought your truck got buried. We were about to send out a search party.”
Lucky woke up, yawned, and tugged up the waistband of his tan Carhartts. “Couldn’t get these two to stop ogling each other. Glad we made it, though.” He gave Jessie a quick wink as she held the hotel door open, and he stumbled inside.
“No, we didn’t! Is he always like this?” asked Sadie, exasperation in her voice as she pointed a thumb at Lucky.
“Lucky? Nah.” Kreston shook his head, guiding her toward the door. “Usually, he’s much worse.”
Kreston’s dear friend turned to Sadie. “Hello, I’m Jessie Thompson. I run the Crooked Spoon bar and restaurant here in the hotel.” She gave a subtle nod in the general direction.
Once inside, Sadie released Kreston’s arm and marched to the check-in desk, her designer boots clicking against the wooden floors. He caught himself watching how the firelight softened her face as she took in the lobby’s warm glow. Her gaze lingered on the enormous fireplace and the guests scattered across worn sofas and chairs, all of them lounging like they were in their own living rooms.
The scene delighted him, and he smiled. This was exactly the authentic wilderness charm he’d envisioned when he took over the hotel. Creaky spruce-hewn floors stretched beneath thick woolen rugs, while vintage oil lamps cast a gentle glow over the local artwork and mounted antlers adorning the log walls. The whole place felt like a cozy wilderness retreat, exactly as he’d intended.
Something in Sadie’s expression caught his attention—a flash of vulnerability that made her look like she was nursing a fresh wound. He wondered what had brought that shadow to her eyes, then quickly dismissed the thought. Whatever her story was, it wasn’t his business. The last thing he needed was another complication in his already overfull life .
Any warmth in the moment vanished when Kreston stepped behind the reception counter.
“Don’t tell me you’re also the check-in clerk?” She said it like she was annoyed by it.
He’d wanted to make things easier by checking her into a room, but her attitude made him reconsider. “I’ll have Aloha check you in.”
“Excuse me? Aloha?” Her perfectly shaped eyebrows arched in disbelief.
He couldn’t help but enjoy her bewildered expression. “Yes, Aloha.”
“I’m sure my plane landed in Alaska, not Hawaii,” she snorted, making a pretense of glancing around. “Do you have actual rooms, or should I just curl up by the fire for a cozy pajama party?” She gestured toward the crackling flames in the massive stone fireplace.
“Depends.” He paused, savoring the moment. “For visitors, we try to manage something resembling a bed instead of the usual ropes and straw we normally have available. For you, we’ll even toss in a few modern conveniences at no extra charge.”
“How generous.” Her words could have etched glass.
What is this woman’s problem?
Kreston eyed her ruined suede leather jacket, a mottled brown-gray mess from the wet snow. “Interesting fashion choice. Channeling your inner Maverick from Top Gun , or is grunge making a comeback in Seattle?”
She glanced down at her sodden jacket, then flicked her eyes up at him. “Sorry to disappoint, but I left my F-18 Super Hornet parked at Pike Place Market with my grunge band.”
Quick-witted. He’d give her that.
This storm was stacking up to be a long one, and if he had a lick of sense, he’d stop noticing things—like the glint in her eyes when she was irritated, or how her legs seemed to stretch forever from under that short skirt and those impossible boots.
The storm howled outside, settling in like it planned to stay a while. Kreston had a feeling it wasn’t the only force of nature he’d be contending with in the days ahead.