Chapter 4
Beckett
The storm’s still pounding outside, snow beginning to cling on some of the windows. Inside, it’s warm enough that I’m ready to peel off my thermal top. But that might make this woman nervous. Instead, I simply roll up my sleeves.
Ranger’s curled up by the hearth, snoring softly, one paw twitching in some happy dream. Usually it’s just me, the fire, and him. It’s quiet and predictable … just the way I like it. But now, there’s something else in the air. Her laugh. Her scent. A kind of warmth that doesn’t come from the stove.
Ruby’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, a bowl of stew balanced in her hands like it’s the finest thing she’s ever tasted.
The firelight flickers across her face, her cheeks flushed and glowing.
I try not to stare but her eyes are beautiful.
Ruby has a thick head of hair that is a little wild.
Somehow, it says only one word in my mind … sexy.
I notice she eats with genuine appreciation, not the polite kind. It makes me grin. The truth is, it’s been a long time since anyone but Ranger shared this space with me.
“Wow,” she says between bites. “This is amazing. You make this yourself?”
“Who else would?”
She smiles into her spoon. “Fair point. I just assumed you lived on jerky and canned beans, with a dash of mountain hermit sauce for seasoning.”
I can’t help it, I laugh. “Hermit sauce, huh?”
She points her spoon at me. “See? You can laugh.”
“Don’t spread that around,” I mutter.
For a minute, the only sound is the fire popping. I lean back in my chair, watching her. She’s comfortable here, even in her ridiculous Santa jacket.
I try not to think about how it felt a short while ago with her arms tight around me on the snowmobile, that red jacket flapping behind us like we were leading some deranged holiday parade. I almost laugh again, imagining my YouTube channel banner: “Surviving the Storm: Mountain Man & Ms. Claus.”
If I’d had a camera crew, that footage would’ve gone viral. Lots of views. If my subscribers saw that, they’d think I’d lost my damn mind. Mountain survivalist turned holiday chauffeur, hauling lingerie through a blizzard.
The mental image dissolves into something else as I remember her soft weight against my back, her breath at my neck. I clear my throat and shove the thought away, refocusing on the bowl in front of me.
She glances up. “You okay?”
“Fine.” I scrape the spoon across the bottom. “You got a sweet tooth?”
Her whole face lights up. “Depends. What’ve you got?”
“Dark chocolate and honey.”
“Oh, you’re talking my language. Be still my heart.”
I grab the stash from the counter and set it on the coffee table. She breaks off a square, holds it near the fire until it’s glossy, then bites it in half with a little noise that shouldn’t sound as good as it does.
I hand her the honey jar and a spoon. “Mountain gold,” I tell her. “From a local beekeeper.”
She dips the spoon and drizzles a little over the chocolate. “That’s sinful.”
“Goes with the jacket,” I say before I can stop myself.
Her eyes glance at mine, a quick, teasing spark. “Careful, you almost sound like you’re flirting.”
“Just making an observation.”
She grins and licks a drop of honey off her thumb, and every cell in my body decides to notice.
I stand and take both bowls to the sink. I need distance.
She calls after me, “So, what do I call you? Mountain Man? Captain Snowmobile?”
I pause, thinking which name to give her.
“Beckett Schmidt,” I say, rinsing the bowls. “Most folks just say Beck. But on the internet, I’m known as Beckett Tinderwolf. That’s my stage name.”
“Tinderwolf?” she laughs. “Yeah, anyone would know that’s not a real name.”
“Makes good branding for the business.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask, but what do you do on the internet?”
“Mountain survivalist channel - growing toward 200,000 followers right now. I’m also the snowmobile repairman for this area."
I glance over my shoulder. “What about you?”
“Ruby Garland.”
I raise an eyebrow. “That’s not a real name either.”
She gasps, mock-offended. “It is too. My mom was consumed with the Wizard of Oz. She said I was born to sparkle.”
I look at her. Hair mussed, wearing a Santa jacket, surrounded by mystery boxes of a sensual nature. Maybe her mom was right, just off a little. Or maybe Miss Ruby Garland is fibbing to me.
She catches my look and softens a little. “Actually, I’ve only had my store open for a little over a year. Christmas season last year carried me beyond Valentine’s day in sales. Now, I’m worried. I’m just a business owner with very tight margins.”
Tight margins? Damn! My brain immediately goes places it shouldn’t.
“All I can do, Ruby, is keep you from freezing for now. Once those plows come through and the roads reopen, I’ve got a truck I can haul you into town with.”
When she finally settles back on the couch, she pulls her knees up, resting her chin there. The firelight paints her skin in gold.
“I really appreciate your help, Beck,” she says sincerely.
“You’re welcome.”
“How do you get used to the isolation here. Do you like it quiet?”
“Mostly.”
She nods like she understands. “Then I’ll try not to ruin it.”
Too late. She already has. I throw another log on the fire, watching sparks spin upward. This cabin does feel lonely at times. But I won’t admit that to her. That’s why I have my channel—and Ranger. That’s enough. At least, I try to convince myself of that.
But Ruby is feminine noises, color and movement -- everything I swore I didn’t need. Somehow, the silence has never sounded better than it does with her sitting in the middle of it. And then there’s my dog. Ranger snoozes at her feet like he’s already chosen sides. Traitor!