Chapter 2
Riley
Ishouldn't have said that. Shouldn't have mentioned Edith at all.
I stood at my kitchen window, watching Holly LaBelle drag extension cords around her yard like she was rewiring the world. She'd been out there for an hour, moving things with determined efficiency, breath coming out in white puffs that vanished into the cold air.
She was trouble. Everything about her screamed complications I couldn't handle.
The way she moved like she was dancing to music only she could hear.
The way she'd looked at me when I'd mentioned Edith, like a grandchild full of regret.
The way her hand had felt on my arm, warm and soft and completely unaware of how dangerous it was to touch me.
But it was more than that. Something primitive in my gut had recognized her the moment I'd seen her working with those lights. Mine. The word had echoed in my head, unbidden and unwelcome. She felt like coming home to a place I'd never been.
Which was fucked up on about ten different levels.
I turned away from the window and grabbed my coffee mug, downing the cold dregs. Coffee was practical. Coffee didn't ask questions or look at me with green eyes that saw straight through years of carefully built walls.
The smart thing would be to avoid her. Keep my distance until she got bored and went back to Vancouver. City girl like her wouldn't last two weeks in the isolation up here.
That's what I should want.
So why was I still standing at the window, watching the way her jeans hugged her curves when she bent to untangle cords?
Edith. That's why. Edith, who'd saved my sanity with her letters when everything in Afghanistan had gone to hell. Who'd written about her granddaughter for three years until I felt like I knew Holly before we'd ever met. Who'd somehow arranged this from beyond the grave.
Edith had started writing to our unit after her husband died.
Something about honoring his memory by supporting soldiers like he'd been in Korea.
What started as generic thank-you notes had turned into real correspondence.
Personal letters about her granddaughter who planned parties in the city, about the Christmas competition she entered every year, about how the mountains looked when snow first fell.
She'd somehow known we'd need the reminder that good still existed in the world.
Her care packages had kept us alive. Not just the food, though her cookies beat anything the mess served, but the practical stuff. Socks, hand warmers, Advil tucked into every box. The things that showed she understood what we really needed.
And the photographs. Christ, the photographs of this place. Mountains and trees and her cabin with its blue shutters. Pictures of a world that was clean and quiet and safe. A world worth fighting for.
When the IED took out our convoy, when I woke up in that field hospital with half my hearing gone and shrapnel scars covering my left side, Edith's latest letter was what the medics found in my gear.
The one where she'd written about the spare room in her cabin, always ready for anyone who needed a place to heal.
I'd never planned to take her up on that offer. But three years ago, when I'd shown up broken and desperate, she'd taken one look at me and pointed to the cabin next door.
"That one's for sale. Owner moved to Florida. You interested?"
I'd bought it the same week. Edith had brought me dinner every night for a month, until I'd finally worked up the nerve to tell her she didn't need to take care of me.
"I'm not taking care of you," she'd laughed. "I'm being neighborly."
She'd been neighborly for three years. Never pushing, never asking questions I wasn't ready to answer. Just there, steady as the mountains themselves.
Now she was gone, and her granddaughter was here, and I had no idea how to explain any of that without sounding like a charity case.
A sharp crack outside made me turn back to the window. Holly was standing under the big pine, looking up at something in the branches. Even from here I could see frustration in the set of her shoulders.
Not my problem.
I headed for my workshop, determined to mind my own business. I had a cabinet to finish, an order already late because I'd spent the morning splitting wood instead of working.
I made it exactly ten minutes before the lights went out.
Not just Holly's lights. Every light on this side of the mountain.
"Shit." I grabbed my flashlight and headed outside. The temperature had dropped fast, and thick clouds were rolling in. Storm coming, the kind that could dump three feet and knock out power for days.
Holly was standing in her yard, staring at her dark display like she could will it back to life. She'd put her jacket back on, but she was shivering anyway.
"Circuit overload," I called across the space between our cabins.
She turned toward me, face pale in the gathering darkness. "What?"
"Too many lights on one circuit. Blew something." I walked closer, close enough to see disappointment in her eyes. Close enough to catch that vanilla scent that made my body go tight. "Happens all the time up here. Grid can't handle the load."
"Can it be fixed?"
"Eventually. Power company will get to it when they get to it." I glanced up at the darkening sky. "Might be a while, with this storm."
She followed my gaze, then looked back at me with worry creeping into her expression. "Storm?"
"Blizzard. Should hit within the hour." I jerked my head toward her cabin. "You have a generator?"
"I... maybe?"
Of course she didn't know. I should walk away. Should let her figure it out herself. It wasn't my job to take care of Edith's granddaughter.
But I could hear Edith's voice in my head, talking about family. How you didn't let family face things alone.
"Come on," I said, already walking toward her porch. "Let's check your backup systems."
"You don't have to."
"Yeah, I do." I tried, and failed, to keep my voice gruff. "Edith would haunt me if I let her granddaughter freeze to death."
I found the generator in the shed, along with two gas cans and a note taped to the fuel cap in Edith's handwriting: Pull cord three times, flip red switch, wait for green light.
Even dead, she was still taking care of people.
It took twenty minutes to get the generator running and essential systems back online. Heat, water pump, refrigerator. The basics. Holly hovered nearby, asking questions I answered in grunts, trying not to notice how she bit her lower lip when concentrating.
When I finished, she was standing by the kitchen door, watching me with those green eyes that saw too much.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "I don't know what I would have done."
"Frozen, probably." I wiped my hands on a rag, avoiding her gaze.
"Generator should run eight hours on a full tank.
I'll bring more fuel in the morning. This isn't Vancouver," I continued when she started to protest. "You can't just call someone when things go wrong.
Up here, you depend on neighbors or you don't survive. "
She set her shoulders, looking less like a city-girl, with more of that stubborn determination I'd seen earlier.
"Then I guess I better learn fast."
The wind picked up outside, rattling windows. The storm was moving faster than I'd expected. I should go. Should get back to my cabin before the roads became impassable.
"You have food? Water?"
"I think so. Grandma kept the pantry stocked."
"Good. Don't go outside once the snow starts. Visibility will be zero." I looked at her standing there in her white sweater, arms wrapped around herself. "Easy to get lost, even between our cabins."
"How long do these storms usually last?"
"This one? Could be three days."
The worry turned to something closer to panic. "Three days?"
"You'll be fine. Generator will keep the heat on." I turned toward the door, then stopped. "You know how to work a wood stove?"
"No."
Of course she didn't. I looked back at her, and something cracked in my chest. Something that had been frozen solid for years.
Edith would have invited her over. Would have made hot chocolate and told stories until the storm passed. Would have made sure she didn't spend three days alone and scared.
But I wasn't Edith. I was a broken soldier who lived alone for good reasons. Who couldn't handle Christmas music or unexpected visitors or women who looked at him like he might be worth saving.
The wind gusted, and the first snowflakes hit the windows.
"I'll be back in an hour," I heard myself say. "With supplies."
"Riley, you really don't—"
"One hour." I walked out before she could finish arguing.
Before I could change my mind and leave her to face the storm alone.
Because that's what Edith would have wanted. That's what being neighborly meant.
The snow was falling harder by the time I reached my cabin. I had maybe an hour before the roads became impassable. One hour to grab supplies and get back.
One hour to figure out how I was going to survive three days trapped with Edith's granddaughter without doing something stupid.
Like kissing her.
Like telling her the truth about what her grandmother meant to me.
Like admitting that for the first time in four years, I wanted something more than just to be left alone.
I grabbed my duffel and started packing. Practical things. Food, blankets, firewood. Nothing that would make this about anything other than survival.
But as I worked, I couldn't stop thinking about the way Holly had looked at me when I'd mentioned Edith. Like I was a piece of her grandmother she'd never known existed.
Like maybe she wanted to know more.
Three days. I could handle three days.
I had to.