Mountain Man & Hot Cocoa (Log Cabin Christmas #11)

Chapter 1 - Ruby

The wind bites through my down jacket like it's made of tissue paper.

Snowflakes swirl around me, no longer the magical dancing crystals from this morning but vengeful little daggers stabbing at every inch of exposed skin. My hiking app stopped working two hours ago, right around the time the cute little snowfall turned into this blizzard from hell.

I'm going to die up here. I'm going to die, and they'll find my frozen body when the spring thaw comes, and my parents will stand over my coffin saying, "This is exactly the kind of impulsive nonsense we warned Ruby about."

Even in my potential final moments, I can't escape their disappointment.

"Come on, Ruby," I mutter to myself, my breath crystallizing in front of my face. "There has to be a trail marker somewhere."

I squint through the whiteness, searching for anything that isn't snow or trees. My boots, which the overeager salesman at the outdoor store promised were "perfect for winter hiking," are soaked through. My toes went numb about thirty minutes ago. Not a great sign.

This was supposed to be my big moment of independence.

My "take that, world" gesture after being called into my boss's office three days before Christmas and told that my position had been "made redundant.

" Three years of overtime and missed holidays, all to be told I wasn't essential.

The severance check burned a hole in my pocket until I impulsively booked this trip.

Ruby Harrison: Mountain Woman. That was the plan. Not Ruby Harrison: Cautionary Tale.

I pull my phone out again, knowing it's pointless.

No service, and the battery is at 12%. The hiking app shows my last known position somewhere on a trail that should be "moderate difficulty, suitable for beginners.

" The storm has made it impossible to see more than fifteen feet ahead, and everything looks the same. Endless white between dark tree trunks.

A gust of wind nearly knocks me sideways, and I stagger against a tree, clinging to it for balance. The temperature is dropping fast as daylight fades. I need shelter. Now.

"Hello?" I call out, my voice thin and immediately swallowed by the howling wind. "Is anyone out here?"

The forest answers with another blast of icy wind.

I force myself forward, no longer following any trail but simply moving in what I hope is a downhill direction. Downhill leads to valleys. Valleys might have cabins or roads or anything that isn't this endless white nightmare.

My foot catches on something buried beneath the snow, and suddenly I'm falling, tumbling down a slope I didn't even see. I roll and slide, desperately grabbing for branches, roots, anything to stop my descent. Pain explodes in my ankle as it twists beneath me.

When I finally stop, I'm lying face-down in snow deep enough that I have to push myself up to breathe. My ankle throbs. My backpack has twisted around to my front. I'm soaked, freezing, and now injured.

"Get up," I tell myself, my teeth chattering so hard I can barely form the words. "Get. Up."

I struggle to my feet, crying out when I put weight on my injured ankle. It's not broken. I can stand on it, but it's definitely sprained. I readjust my backpack and look around, trying to get my bearings.

That's when I see it—a faint glow through the trees. A light. A human-made light. Hope.

I limp toward it as fast as I can, ignoring the stabbing pain with each step. The light grows stronger, resolving into what looks like a window.

"Hello!" I call out, my voice breaking. "Help! Please, is anyone there?"

I push through the deepening snow, fixated on that glowing rectangle of salvation. As I get closer, I can make out the shape of a cabin. Substantial and solid-looking, with smoke curling from a stone chimney. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

I'm about twenty yards away when the cabin door suddenly flings open. The silhouette of a man fills the doorway: a massive silhouette, tall and broad-shouldered. For a split second, a new fear grips me. I'm a woman alone in the wilderness, limping toward a stranger's isolated cabin.

But the cold and the very real possibility of freezing to death override my caution. I raise a hand in greeting, or perhaps supplication.

"Please," I call out, my voice carried away by the wind. "I need help. I'm lost."

The figure steps out onto the porch, peering into the storm. He hasn't seen me yet. I wave again and take another painful step forward.

That's when my injured ankle gives out completely.

I crash down into the snow, a cry of pain escaping my lips as blackness edges my vision.

The last thing I see before consciousness slips away is a giant man rushing toward me through the swirling snow, his face obscured by a dark beard, his eyes wide with what might be shock or alarm.

And then nothing.

Hours Later

Warmth is the first sensation that returns.

Blessed, wonderful warmth, seeping into my frozen bones. I'm lying on something soft—softer than snow—and there's weight on top of me. Blankets. Heavy ones.

My eyelids feel like they've been glued shut, but I force them open. A wooden ceiling comes into focus. Rough-hewn beams. The crackle and glow of a nearby fire. I turn my head slightly and see a stone fireplace with flames leaping behind an iron grate.

"Where—" My voice comes out as a croak, my throat parched.

"Don't try to move yet."

The deep voice startles me fully awake. I turn my head toward it and feel my breath catch in my throat.

He's sitting in a wooden chair a few feet away, watching me with an intensity that makes my skin tingle.

The man from the doorway, and he's even more imposing up close.

Broad shoulders stretch his flannel shirt, and a thick dark beard covers the lower half of his face.

But it's his eyes that hold me. Hazel eyes that seem to contain entire forests within them.

"You're lucky to be alive," he says, his voice like gravel wrapped in velvet. "Another hour out there and you wouldn't have made it."

I try to sit up and wince as pain shoots through my ankle. Looking down, I see it's been wrapped in some kind of compression bandage.

"Careful," he says, not moving from his chair. "It's a bad sprain. You need to stay off it."

"Thank you," I manage to say, pulling the blankets closer around me. "For helping me. I got lost in the storm and—"

"What the hell were you doing out there?" His interruption isn't exactly angry, but there's a hardness to it. "There's been a winter storm warning for three days. No one should be on those trails."

Heat flushes my cheeks. "I didn't know. I'm not from around here. I just wanted to—" What? Prove something to myself? Run away from my problems? "—go hiking," I finish lamely.

He stares at me for a long moment, and I resist the urge to squirm under his gaze.

"You're from the city," he says finally. It's not a question.

"Denver," I admit. "I'm Ruby. Ruby Harrison."

He doesn't immediately offer his name in return, just stands up and walks to the kitchen area. I take the opportunity to look around the cabin.

It's one large room with the kitchen and dining area to one side, the living space with the fireplace where I'm lying on what seems to be a pullout couch, and a door that presumably leads to a bedroom.

Everything is rustic but immaculately clean and organized.

No photos or personal touches that I can see.

Nothing that gives away anything about the man who lives here.

He returns with a mug of something steaming and holds it out to me. "It's hot."

"Thank you, um—"

"Cole," he says after a pause. "Cole Davidson."

I take a sip from the mug. Some kind of herbal tea with honey, and feel it warm me from the inside. "Your cabin is beautiful," I say, trying to fill the silence that stretches between us. "Have you lived here long?"

"Eight years." His answers are clipped, as though speaking requires effort.

"It's really remote. I didn't even know there were cabins in this part of the mountains."

"That's the point." His jaw tightens beneath his beard. "No one's supposed to know I'm here."