Chapter 5
HAZEL
“Snowstorm, my ass. What a bossy know-it-all,” I mutter, cranking up the Christmas carols until Bing Crosby is practically screaming over the hum of the engine. Heat blasts from the vents, but with the windows cracked just enough for the rope holding down the tree, the cabin is anything but cozy.
At least he’d been handsome. Broad shoulders straining against flannel, windswept blonde hair, blue eyes like the winter sky right before a storm…
“Pull it together, Hazel,” I tell myself, blowing on my frozen fingers before curling them tighter around the wheel. “You came up for a tree. A tree. Not to drool over some ax-wielding lumber-god who didn’t even have the decency to introduce himself.”
I reach over, rummaging through the clutter piled on the passenger seat—receipts, scarves, a stack of old library books, half a bag of gingerbread cookies.
No gloves. Perfect. My fingers are already prickling, pale and stiff despite the heater.
I’ll make it home. I’ll wrap my hands around a steaming mug of tea, burrow under blankets, and pretend this little adventure didn’t end with me insulting a strange man in flannel.
My jaw tightens as I catch sight of the sky through the windshield.
The colors have shifted fast. What had been streaks of orange and rose is already swallowed up in bruised purple and heavy grey.
The mountains loom darker through the treeline as the sun slips out of view, their peaks jagged shadows against the gathering clouds. A low curl of anxiety tugs in my gut.
“It’ll be fine, Hazel,” I murmur, flicking on my high beams as the dirt road stretches ahead. “Just the freeway, then home. No problem.”
The tree on my roof thumps with every bump, branches scraping against the car like fingernails.
The rope creaks but holds. I glance upward, watching the ridiculous pine’s silhouette bounce with each dip in the gravel road, and despite myself, I grin.
The lumberjack had warned it was too big.
Maybe he was right. Okay—he was right. But it’s mine.
My Christmas tree. My way of making this house feel like something other than a gaping, parent-shaped hole.
The thought softens me, a tiny balm against the cold biting my fingertips.
A single snowflake drifts across the beams of my headlights. Then another. Then a dozen more, spinning like glitter before vanishing on the glass. My stomach drops.
“Of course he was right,” I grumble, half annoyed, half unnerved. “Bossy, smug, irritating—”
Pretzel pokes his furry head from my coat pocket, whiskers twitching, beady black eyes gleaming like he’s in on the joke.
“It’s nothing,” I tell him, stroking a finger over his soft ears. “Just a little flurry. We’re fine.”
Trees tower on either side of the two-lane dirt road, gravel crunching under my tires, clouds thickening overhead. I have a small patch of wilderness in my backyard, but what would it be like to live up here, truly in the elements? Anything to keep my mind occupied as the storm gathers.
A red-breasted cardinal takes flight from a tree to my left, gliding gracefully into the forest and out of view.
What else hides out here? Deer? Bears? I’ve never feared animals—quite the opposite.
As a kid, I’d been fascinated by them, always lingering longest at the zoo. Always drawn to their wildness.
The snow thickens as I crawl down the winding road, my heart climbing higher in my throat with every mile. Branches sway overhead, shadows stretching longer, the car bumping harder than I remember on the way up.
But we’re not fine. Not really. The snow is thickening, drifting in waves across the windshield. My wipers squeak in protest, swishing faster, struggling to keep up. The tires slip slightly as I round a curve. My knuckles are white on the wheel, breath shallow, pulse too quick.
“You’ve got this, Hazel. It’s just a little snowstorm. You’ll be home before you know it.”
What had Mrs. Holmes told me about snow tires—or was it snow chains?
Well, it’s too late now. But as soon as I get into town, I’m making an appointment, especially if this is what the next few weeks will look like.
Not that I plan on making any more trips up this damn mountain.
I’m perfectly content commuting between the shop and home for the rest of winter.
The minutes stretch, each mile longer than the last, until finally the green sign for the freeway blinks into view through the curtain of snow, illuminated by my highlights. Relief crashes over me so fast I sag against the wheel, shoulders trembling.
I let out a laugh, shaky but real. “See? Piece of cake. Not a problem at all.”
Pretzel chitters, unimpressed.
“Don’t you start,” I warn, though my voice wavers as the storm picks up, flakes slanting sideways across the windshield. My chest squeezes. I hadn’t planned on driving through a blizzard. Not alone. Not on this winding stretch of road.
I just wanted my Christmas tree.
Now I just want to get home.
I turn onto the freeway, the sound changing as my tires grip asphalt instead of gravel. Snow piles on either side of the blacktop, but for the now the road stays mostly clear.
Glancing at my phone in its holder, I notice it’s only six thirty. Not even seven, but the road ahead is swallowed in darkness, my headlights carving out nothing but a narrow ribbon of black against a blanket of white. The storm’s moving in faster than I expected.
Two hours until home. Two long, dark, snowy hours.
I grip the wheel tighter, the leather slick under my damp palms. “It’s fine,” I murmur to myself. “This is the easy part.”
But easy doesn’t feel like the right word.
Minutes blur together, broken only by the shift of Christmas songs on the radio.
I force myself to sing along—loud, off-key, anything to keep my focus from the snow hammering the windshield.
My voice trembles when the car shudders under a sudden gust of wind, jerking to the side.
My heart leaps into my throat. I overcorrect, easing back on the gas until I’m crawling, headlights barely piercing the swirl of white.
I risk another glance at my phone. Fifteen minutes. Only fifteen. My stomach knots. Fifteen minutes of gripping the wheel like it’s the only thing anchoring me to the earth—and I’m still in the dead zone. Still no signal. Still alone.
The radio cheerfully croons, “It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” I mutter, raising my voice to sing along as if volume could scare the storm away.
“Everywhere you gooo,” I belt out, louder than necessary, willing my voice not to shake as another gust slams into me, the wipers screeching across the windshield already losing ground to the storm.
No cars in sight. That should be comforting—no headlights barreling toward me, no risk of being run off the road. Except it also means if I slide off, no one’s stopping. Not tonight. Maybe not until morning, when the snowplows come through to clear the freeway.
The thought lodges deep in my chest, sharp and cold. Alone. Stranded. Just me, a hedgehog, two candy bars, and no gloves.
Pretzel chitters from my coat pocket, burrowing deeper as if to scold me for dragging him into this.
“Don’t worry, buddy.” My voice wavers as I try to sound reassuring. “We’re fine. It’s just… a little storm. We’ll be home before you know it.”
But then the next gust comes harder than all the others.
The world becomes a blur of white. The wheel jerks under my hands, and suddenly I’m not on the road anymore—I’m spinning.
The headlights whip around in dizzying circles, catching trees, snowbanks, sky, and ground until it’s all the same endless smear.
“Please, please, please,” I whisper—praying, bargaining.
The tires catch, then slide again, skidding on something slick and invisible. Black ice. My stomach lurches as the car slews sideways. Then—impact. A soft, muffled crash into a bank of snow. The car shudders, snow spraying across the windshield before settling into silence.
For a long beat, I can’t breathe. My hands stay frozen on the wheel, eyes squeezed shut, chest heaving. Then a tiny sound—Pretzel’s faint, nervous squeak.
“I’m okay. You’re okay. We’re okay.” My voice shakes as I peel my fingers off the wheel, flexing them slowly, reassuring myself I still can.
By some miracle, the tree is still latched tight to the roof, pine branches bobbing smugly in the wind.
But the relief doesn’t last. I ease the car into reverse, pressing the gas. The tires spin, whining, the whole frame juddering before it lurches and settles uselessly. Again. And again. Snow spits from the tires, but the car doesn’t move an inch.
“No, no, no.” I tap my palm lightly against the wheel, then whisper, “Come on, Hazel. Think.”
I tuck Pretzel gently onto the passenger seat, then shove open the door. The wind slaps me instantly, cutting through my sweater. Snowflakes sting like needles against my cheeks. My hands ache, raw and white, as I rub them together, breath puffing out in desperate little clouds.
Circling the back of the car, I take in the damage. The tires have dug themselves into perfect little graves, rim-deep in packed snow.
Great. Just perfect.
“Well…” I mutter, teeth chattering. “Snow’s just water in another form, right?”
My family’s magic has an elemental affinity for water—rivers, rain, lakes.
Maybe I can make this work. I plant my trembling hands in front of me and close my eyes, calling that familiar tug, the thread of power just beneath my skin.
Slowly, reluctantly, the snow stirs. Tiny pellets shift and roll aside, clumping into little balls.
The smallest clearing forms, a bare scrape of dirt visible. My heart leaps.
But the magic takes more than it gives. My head swims; my fingers go numb. The cold gnaws deeper the longer I hold it. Black dots prickle the edges of my vision. Not enough. It’s not enough.
I lift my hands again, but the storm roars, an angry gust slamming me from behind. My knees hit the ice hard, pain flaring sharp and hot. I groan, watching helplessly as the wind fills the pit I just cleared, burying my effort under another thick drift.
“Well, goddess damn it all.” I push to my feet and stumble back to the driver’s seat, teeth clattering.
After slamming the door shut, I fold my frozen hands under my arms, curling inward, shaking. Pretzel squeaks softly.
“Was this worth it?” My voice cracks, raw in the silence. “Driving up here so late, in this storm… for what? A stupid tree? Just so I can sit in my too-empty living room pretending pine needles and string lights can replace—”
My throat closes. I glance at the treetop swaying outside the windshield, its upper branches bending under the storm. A replacement. A stand-in. Something to fill the space where laughter and warmth used to be.
Tears sting, hot against the frozen bite of my cheeks. “It won’t bring them back,” I whisper—to the tree, to myself, to the memory of headlights disappearing into snow the night everything changed.
The top of the tree sways back and forth in the wind, as if mocking me.