Chapter 2
Beckett
The storm’s rolling in faster than forecasted. Figures. The weather guys down in Denver never get it right for the high country.
I throttle down the snowmobile and lift my visor. The air bites my face … sharp, clean and real. I love this part of the mountain. Just me, the trees, the sound of wind cutting through the pines. No noise, no people, no expectations.
I check one last trail marker, record a quick clip for tomorrow’s upload — something about “pre-storm prep” — then kill the camera. No one needs to see my breath fogging like a dragon or hear the way I mutter to myself.
That’s the difference between Beckett Tinderwolf the survival guy on YouTube and me, Beckett Schmidt, a man who just wants to be left alone.
I start the engine again, ready to head back toward my shop, when something catches my eye. Barely noticable tire tracks snake off the main road. Too small for a truck. Delivery van, maybe. Which is insane. No one should be driving this stretch in a snow squall.
I follow the tracks, half out of curiosity, half because if some idiot’s stuck out here, I’ll have to deal with it. Sure enough, a few minutes later, my headlight hits white metal and pink lettering. I blink.
Sugarplum Secrets.
The words curl across the side of a van in candy-pink script, complete with a silhouette of a woman in angel wings. What the hell?
Through the frosted windshield, I spot movement. It’s a woman bundled in what looks like … red velvet? Is that a Santa jacket?
I park a few feet away and kill the engine. When I step off the snowmobile, the snow crunches under my boots. I notice how deep it’s becoming with this gust of old man winter. I knock on the driver’s window. The woman jumps like she’s been electrocuted, then rolls it down a crack.
“You all right in there?” I ask.
I notice her eyes first. They’re a kaleidoscope of color staring at me - hazel I’d say.
She’s flushed, breathless, and probably freezing.
I’m concerned but intrigued at the same time.
She reminds me of a pinup ad for Christmas Eve misbehavior.
Like a runaway Santa’s helper who drove the sleigh off-road when it wasn’t equipped.
“I—I think so,” she says, teeth chattering. “I swerved for a deer, and now the van won’t start. And my phone … ” She waves it. “No service.”
“Yeah, welcome to the mountains.”
She exhales in visible relief. “Oh thank God. I thought you were a serial killer.”
I huff a laugh. “You always go worst case scenario first?”
She smiles at that, wide and warm despite the cold. “I’m Ruby.”
“Beckett. You’re not getting that van out tonight. Roads are closing.”
Her face falls. “But my shop …”
I point toward the thickening snow. “Unless your shop’s equipped with a snowplow, it’s gonna have to wait. You can stay with me until you can get help.”
She hesitates, looking back at the mountain of boxes in her van. “Can I at least bring some things? This is all brand new inventory. Some of it I’m worried about freezing.”
I sigh. “We have to hurry and I’m limited in what I can haul. Better make it count. I’ll help.”
I pop open the rear doors and whistle low. Pink boxes stacked to the roof, glittering ribbon, and—yeah—something definitely battery-operated just rolled across the floor. I pretend not to notice.
Ruby groans. “Okay, maybe not all of it.”
“Good call.” I unhook the small collapsible sled I keep behind my snowmobile. “We’ll load the essentials. It can handle about a hundred pounds of cargo. After that, we’re both walking.”
Her eyes widen. “You have a portable sleigh?”
I grunt. “It’s a cargo sled.”
“Same thing,” she says, already grabbing boxes and passing them to me. “Oh … careful, that one’s fragile.”
I glance at the label: Holiday Intimates Collection.
We pack fast, wind whipping against us. She’s surprisingly strong, bossy in the best way, tossing commands like she’s running a retail boot camp. By the time we’re done, snow dusts her dark hair and her cheeks are pink. She’s still wearing a big Santa jacket.
I tie down the last strap and nod toward the passenger seat of the snowmobile. “Hop on.”
She hesitates. “Is it safe?”
“Safer than staying here.”
Ruby bites her lip, then swings a leg over behind me. The Santa jacket flares as she settles, and before I can think, her arms circle my waist.
Warmth. Soft curves. A whiff of vanilla.
I clear my throat. “Hold tight.”
“Oh, I plan to,” she shouts over the roar of the engine.
We take off into the storm, snow flying, the sled gliding behind us. She leans closer with every bump, her laughter catching in the wind. By the time the cabin lights come into view, I’ve decided one thing for sure:
I don’t know who Ruby Garland is, but she’s already too much for my quiet world.