Chapter 3
Ruby
The cabin comes into view like something out of a snow-globe fantasy—log walls, soft golden light glowing through the windows, smoke curling from a stone chimney.
My first coherent thought: Of course, this gruff guy lives in a postcard.
Beckett steers the snowmobile right up to a wide porch before cutting the engine. The sudden silence feels huge after all that roaring wind. For a second, I just sit there, breathing, watching snow drift down in lazy, sparkling flakes.
I let go of him and wonder if he has bruises from how tight I was hanging on. Then he’s already off the machine, turning to give me a gloved hand to help me disembark.
Beckett moves with amazing efficiency that screams man who fixes things without being asked. He starts unhooking the sled we towed behind us — my precious, temperature sensitive cargo, safe and sound.
“You’re fast,” I say, tugging one of the lighter boxes toward the porch. “Do you moonlight as Santa?”
He grunts. “Only when I’m rescuing stranded elves.”
“Ha, ha.” My breath comes out in puffs. “For the record, I’m a full-sized woman with a small-business.”
“Good to know,” he mutters, hauling the rest like it weighs nothing.
When I follow him up the steps, I catch my first close look at his place. The cabin is magical with its massive cedar beams, double front doors, stacks of chopped wood lining one side.
He unlocks the door and steps inside without ceremony. Warmth spills out, wrapping around me.
A low, throaty bark echoes from inside the cabin. A blur of dark fur bounds into view, tail wagging like a snowstorm in motion.
“Easy, Ranger,” Beckett says, crouching to rub the dog’s neck. The shepherd mix (big, shaggy, gorgeous) leans into his touch with the kind of adoration that only belongs to man’s best friend.
The dog trots over to me, sniffing at my boots before sitting politely, like he’s deciding whether I pass inspection.
“He’s beautiful,” I say, holding out a tentative hand.
“Smart too,” Beckett replies. “He usually doesn’t warm up to strangers this fast.”
“Guess I must smell like candy canes and Christmas chaos.”
His mouth twitches. “Probably the chaos.”
Ranger gives a soft huff, as if agreeing.
“Boots off,” he says over his shoulder. “Don’t soak the floor.”
I unlace quickly and step in, toes instantly rejoicing against the thick rug.
The interior takes my breath for a second.
I gaze upward at the high ceilings with exposed rafters.
A stone hearth dominates one wall with a long leather couch facing it.
The kitchen sits off to the side and looks tidy.
Everything gleams with rugged simplicity that says built to last.
It’s not small, either. Definitely not the hermit shack I expected. More like rugged luxury.
“You live here alone?” I ask, setting my box near the entry.
“Yep.”
I nod slowly, eyes trailing over shelves filled with tools, a guitar resting near the window, and a couple of mounted photographs -- mountain shots, not animals, which earns him silent points.
Beckett starts peeling off the layers of his heavy jacket, and finally the insulated snowsuit.
Underneath, he’s wearing a fitted thermal shirt that clings to every broad line of his shoulders and arms. His chest stretches the fabric when he reaches to hang up his snow clothing on a hook by the door.
I shouldn’t notice the way the fabric clings, but my brain apparently didn’t get that memo.
I have to pretend to check my phone just to avoid staring outright. Oh yeah, still limited service. Oops!
Beckett moves straight to the hearth, crouching down to open the iron grate. He stacks kindling and logs with practiced ease. Light dances over his features bringing his face into focus with his hard jaw and the dark stubble. Unmarried, huh?
The fire crackles to life, throwing warmth and light across the room. Beckett glances back at me. “That should do it.”
“Thanks,” I say, pushing hair off my face. “I’d hug you, but I’m ninety percent frostbite and five percent embarrassment.”
His mouth twitches. “That leaves five percent unaccounted for.”
“Pure charm,” I tell him … just to see his reaction.
Something lights up in his expression. It could be amusement, maybe disbelief. But he looks away, crouching to stoke the fire again.
I take the chance to see what inventory is here with me. I’m still wearing the men’s Santa jacket with the tags attached. It’s probably the warmest thing I’ll find to change into. The problem is it’s now a little snow-soaked.
I pick up a box and look at the label. Holiday Intimates. Fantastic. I immediately close it, cheeks heating. Right. That’s not the one I meant to grab.
He stands, stretching to his full height, and suddenly the cabin feels smaller.
“You hungry?” he asks. “Got stew left from lunch.”
“That depends. How old is lunch?”
He glances at the clock. “Three hours.”
“Then I’m starving.”
He heads toward the kitchen, moving with a grounded confidence that makes me want to follow.
I linger near the fire trying to get my body temp up to at least a little below normal.
The warmth seeps into me slowly … like my body’s catching up to the fact that I’m safe, alive, and maybe a little smitten with my rescuer.
Beckett moves around his kitchen and it’s interesting to watch.
I had no idea that running your van off the road could land you somewhere like this.
In the meantime, I catch my reflection in the window — Santa jacket, messy hair, wide eyes.
Crap! I look like a woman who just crash-landed in a one of those crazy holiday movies.
When he brings me a steaming bowl and hands me a spoon, our fingers brush. It’s quick, but the spark lingers.
“Thanks,” I say softly.
“Eat,” he says, voice low, back already turned toward the fire.
I take a bite, warmth spreading through me again … and not just from the stew.
If I’m not careful, I might start to believe the universe stranded me just to meet a mountain man who doesn’t know he’s starring in my Christmas fantasy.