Chapter 4
BEAR
The sight of the little car jammed sideways into a bank of snow hit me like a gut punch.
Worse was the woman—petite, bundled up, and trying in vain to shove the damn thing free. Every push just buried the tires deeper.
Before I could kill the engine, I spotted the glow of headlights coming down the mountain. A semi. Fast.
I threw my door open and hit the ground running, boots pounding through the snow. The air was sharp enough to cut, and my pulse was already hammering.
She had earbuds in—head down, Mariah Carey’s voice practically visible in the cold air—and she didn’t hear the truck’s air brakes scream. Didn’t hear me, either.
“Move!” I roared.
Nothing.
The semi’s tires hit a slick patch, the whole rig yawing left before jerking hard back right.
I didn’t think—just closed the distance, grabbed her around the waist, and took us both to the ground in the snow.
We rolled once, twice, my arm cradling her head as the semi blasted past, horn blaring, barely missing her car by a hair before thundering down the rest of the curve.
For a long second, all I could hear was my own ragged breathing. Hers, too—fast and shocked under me.
I pushed up onto my knees, snow sliding off my jacket. My pulse was still trying to punch its way out of my chest.
For a split second, the image of that semi fishtailing on the mountain twisted into something else—headlights in the snow, the skid of tires, the sick crunch of metal.
My mama’s voice in my head. My brother’s face as he waved before walking away the last time I saw him alive…
then the teddy bear on his casket, white roses on Mama’s.
I sucked in a breath, hard, and shoved it all back where it belonged.
The woman sat up, brushing snow out of her hair. Big brown eyes blinked up at me, wide and startled.
“What the hell were you thinking?” I barked. “You tryin’ to get yourself killed out here?”
She opened her mouth, shut it, then yanked an earbud free. “Excuse me?”
“You didn’t hear me yelling? Or the truck?”
“I—no! I was—” She gestured at the car, cheeks flushed pink from the cold. “It’s stuck.”
“Yeah, sweetheart, I can see that.” My voice was still rough from the adrenaline, the old ghosts clawing at my ribs.
I stood, offered her a hand. “You’re lucky I came along when I did. Another half-second and you’d be under that rig.”
She hesitated, then took my hand.
Small, cold fingers slid into mine, and for a heartbeat I didn’t feel the snow, or the wind, or the past pressing in. Just her.
She let me haul her up off the snowbank, and half way toward the cab of my warm truck. She pulled back, arms wrapped tight around herself. She was shaking—cold, scared, and, yeah, a little pissed at me for yelling like I’d dragged her out by the hair.
“I’m not going with you,” she said, chin tilted, voice trembling more from shock than defiance.
“Sweetheart,” I ground out, jerking my chin at the Prius half-buried in the bank, front hood folded like a card, “that thing ain’t moving. And standing out here waiting for a tow? You’ll be a pancake under the next semi that comes flying down this curve.”
Her lips pressed tight. She knew I was right. Didn’t make her any happier.
“Fine,” she said at last. “But for the record, I shared my location with about a dozen people already.”
“Good,” I muttered, turning toward my truck. “They’ll know where to pick up your body if you freeze to death.”
She gasped, like I’d just suggested I’d be the one to leave her body in a ditch. Then, before I could stop her, she whipped out her phone, snapped a picture of me, and sent it off with a furious flurry of thumbs.
“In case I’m never seen again,” she said matter-of-factly.
I would’ve rolled my eyes if I was the eye-rolling type. Instead, I kept my face carved from stone.
Figures. Big guy, beard, heavy boots, chain on my belt—first assumption is criminal.
Well… she wasn’t wrong. I was a criminal.
Just not the kind that hurt women.
And damn if it didn’t burn me that she couldn’t see the difference.
“Hold up.” She planted her boots in the snow like she was about to wrestle me. “We’re not leaving my stuff.”
“Stuff?” I glanced back at the Prius.
She nodded firmly. “All of it. Boxes, bags, everything.”
I growled low in my throat. The snow was still coming down heavy, wind picking up, and she wanted to argue about… crap.
“Lady, it’s junk.”
“It’s Christmas decorations,” she shot back, eyes flashing. “And they’re not staying here.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose, muttering a string of curses under my breath. Then I stomped back to her car, popped the hatch, and started hauling boxes into the bed of my truck.
Tinsel. Stockings. A plastic reindeer with a missing ear. By the third armload I was muttering, “Son of a bitch…” but I kept going.
She didn’t lift a finger—already sitting in the cab with her small hands spread in front of the heater vents, cheeks pink from the blast of warmth.
By the time I shut the tailgate and climbed into the driver’s seat, I was snow-soaked and irritated beyond measure.
And that’s when she giggled.
I turned, slow. “What’s so funny?”
Her gaze flicked to my beard. “Uh… you have tinsel in it.”
Sure enough, a silver strand had gotten tangled in my whiskers.
I ripped it free, tossed it onto the floorboard, and grunted. “Great.”
She was still smiling.
I tightened my grip on the wheel. After everything—the near-death tackle, hauling her damn Christmas explosion into my truck, the storm—she was laughing.
I hated Christmas. And right then, sitting next to Miss Holiday Cheer herself, I felt like the world’s biggest Grinch.