Chapter 21 Louise
LOUISE
After brushing my teeth for the second time and washing my face, I’d changed into a clean pair of jeans and the thickest sweatshirt I’d packed—a red hoodie.
Unfortunately, there was no shower in the bathroom, so I did what I could with a roll of toilet paper and some hand soap. (Ouch.)
I’d cleaned the mud from my boots, then applied superglue to mend the flapping sole. It was beyond duct tape at that point. Then I pulled myself together the best I could with a sweep of mascara, a swipe of lip gloss, and a little blush to brighten my sallow skin.
Earl let me use the phone. I called every hotel in the phone book, but none had a vacancy, due to the winter storm.
Then I called Miles—no answer—and left him a message. I called Margie, no answer. I called Frankie at Frankie’s Auto Shop, no answer, and left him a message with my contact information. After that, I found my way to the restaurant and inhaled a bacon-double-cheeseburger, large fries, and a Coke.
After that, I was… lost. No hotel room. No car. No one left to call. So, with my bags in hand and nowhere else to go, I wandered the hotel like a ghost—up and down the halls, pretending I was just out for a casual afternoon stroll.
Eventually, I ended up on the roof. Then I made my way back down and stepped outside, hoping to clear my head and maybe take a few photos.
The ornate gazebo by the lake caught my eye—hand-carved wood, aged beautifully, a little weathered by time.
I recognized it from the resort website.
A wedding spot, if I remembered right. It was empty now, blanketed in snow.
I stepped inside, snapped a few pictures, then sat cross-legged on the wooden slats and let the stillness settle around me.
Hood up, coat zipped to my chin, I stared out across the lake, watching snowflakes swirl in the icy breeze before disappearing into the dark water. The sky had turned heavy and gray, smothering what was left of the afternoon light. Cold seeped into my bones, matching the quiet ache in my chest.
I didn’t know how long I sat there, numbing slowly, but at some point, a fishing boat slipped into view from one of the distant coves. A lone man stood at the helm, two poles in the water, a black cowboy hat dusted with snow.
I leaned forward, squinting against the curtain of falling flakes.
No mistaking that build. That presence.
It was Ryder.
My first instinct was to run. Spin around and disappear into the trees, away from the man I’d humiliated myself in front of. The man who looked at me like I was a stray dog that had wandered into his yard.
But instead, the view was so picturesque that I lifted my camera.
Click.
Zoomed in.
Click. Click.
His boat drifted slowly toward the shoreline, cutting through the glassy lake with an eerie stillness.
As he came into focus, so did his face—ruddy from the cold, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the water with a darkness that punched through the lens.
He looked like a man carved from stone, a tortured soul.
The intensity of this man was jarring almost.
Click.
He was beautiful in a way that hurt. Pain was etched into every line of his face.
He looked so alone.
So heavy. As if he carried the weight of a thousand unspoken things on those wide, unbending shoulders.
What made this man so heartbreakingly sad?
His gaze lifted from the water to the mountains, and something about the quiet reverence in the motion struck me. He wasn’t just looking—he was sad, longing, angry.
The camera slowly lowered from my face as I stared at him, no longer a photographer but a woman completely, utterly captivated. My skin tingled with goose bumps that had nothing to do with the cold.
Who are you, Ryder?
A man so cold to me… and yet, I couldn’t look away.
I lifted the camera again, as if pulled by something I didn’t understand. My hands moved on their own, framing him again and again. Click. Click. My lens was mesmerized—drawn to the quiet storm inside him, to the tragic poetry of his silence.
Then his head turned.
And his eyes locked with mine.
My heart slammed into my ribs. Busted. Wide-eyed and frozen, I lowered the camera like it had just burned my hands.
He didn’t move. Just stared.
So, naturally, I panicked—flashed a lopsided smile and waved like an extra in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.
He frowned—of course he did—then jerked the wheel and started guiding the boat toward the shoreline.
Oh, no.
“Were you taking my picture?” he called, his voice low and direct, cutting clean through the wind.
“No,” I lied, terribly, heart racing.
He raised a brow, eyes narrowing, gaze flicking to the very obvious camera in my hand.
“I was… photographing the lake.”
He didn’t say anything. Just kept drifting closer, and I realized—maybe for the first time—that I didn’t know whether I wanted to run… or take another picture.
Maybe both.
“Why were you taking pictures of me?” He demanded, clearly not happy. “Are you with the paper or something?”
The paper? The newspaper? Why would anyone from the paper want to photograph him?
“No, and I wasn’t taking pictures of you,” I said, lying again.
Embarrassed again.
“Come here.”
Okay.
I gathered my bags and walked down the short hill to the shoreline.
He nodded to the bags. “Why do you have your stuff out here?”
“No vacancy at the hotel.”
“You told me you’d booked a room here.”
“I did. They gave up my room when I didn’t show last night.”
He frowned. “Really?”
“Yep, according to Earl at the front desk.”
“Earl does the landscaping.”
“You know Earl?”
“Everyone knows Earl.”
“Well, no landscaping for Earl today. He’s working the front desk. I called every hotel in the area. Booked solid. I also called your boy Frankie. No answer. Everything’s closed down. Did he get my car towed?”
“No. Tomorrow.”
Ryder looked at the hotel, back at me, back at the hotel, back at me, then scratched his temple, tipping up his cowboy hat. “So, where’re you going to stay?”
“I’ll figure something out.”
“Meaning you’ll find someone else’s home to break into?”
The jerk was back. “Yep. But this time I’ll be sure to choose a house whose owner was raised with manners—and has a working heater.”
“You’re planning to sleep in that gazebo, aren’t you?”
I shrugged.
“You’ll freeze to death if you sleep out here tonight.”
“I’ll sleep in the lobby. Wouldn’t be the first time I slept next to a front door.”
Boom.
His eyes narrowed. “They won’t let you sleep in the lobby.”
I let out a loud, exasperated breath. “Then I guess I’ll sleep out here, freeze to death, and come back as a ghost to have them charged with involuntary manslaughter for forcing me to sleep outside during a winter storm.”
Ryder stared at me, unreadable. Then he turned and began shuffling things around in his boat.
Over his shoulder, he said, “Come on.”
I blinked. “What?”
“Come on,” he repeated.
“Come where?”
“Here. My boat.”
I didn’t move. I mean, was he serious?
My internal panic flared. Getting into a boat with a stranger, no matter how attractive and grumpy, was something every true crime documentary screamed don’t do. The man had held a gun to my head less than twenty-four hours ago. I wasn’t just walking into danger—I was paddling straight into it.
But… he didn’t kill me last night.
That had to count for something, right?
Besides, what were my options? I had no car, no room, no reception, and no friends in town. My only backup plan involved freezing to death under a gazebo.
So maybe it wasn’t trust I had in him—maybe it was necessity. Or maybe some quiet voice inside me didn’t believe he was dangerous.
At least, not in the way that would get me on the news.
“Miss Sloane,” he called, the edge in his voice slicing through my hesitation. “I’m not going to beg you. Trust me.”
The engine growled to life, the rumble vibrating through the air as he maneuvered the boat closer to shore.
“I appreciate the sentiment,” I called back, a note of sarcasm in my voice, “but the gazebo would probably be warmer.”
He didn’t reply. Just calmly tossed his cowboy hat into the back of the boat and began shrugging out of his coat.
Then, before I could process what was happening, he swung his legs over the side of the boat and dropped into the lake—fully clothed.
I gasped. “What are you doing?”
The water rose to his waist. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t pause. Just kept moving, dark and deliberate, cutting through the water like it was nothing. Absolutely unbothered.
And then—suddenly—he was on the shore.
Ryder bent, gathered my bags, walked back to the boat, tossed them in, then came back. Before I could open my mouth to protest or thank him, I was in the air.
“What—”
My breath hitched as he swept me into his arms like I weighed nothing. His arms were strong and solid, one behind my back, the other beneath my knees. Water dripped from his clothes, soaking into mine.
I didn’t need to hold on—but I did. My arms looped around his neck instinctively, my cheek brushing his stubble. The scent of him—earth and wind and something slightly burned—flooded my senses.
He moved with confidence, striding back into the water like I was a bundle of blankets instead of a woman losing her mind.
“I won’t drop you,” he said lowly.
I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. My heart had lodged in my throat.
Then he was lifting me higher, shifting his weight with impossible balance, and I was in the boat—tossed gently to the floor like a rag doll. The boat rocked violently. I curled into myself, knees to chest, trying not to move.
He hoisted himself in with one smooth move, not a single grunt. No drama. No need for it.
He handed me his coat without a word.
“Thank you,” I murmured, slipping it over my shoulders.
It was still warm from his body.
And it was ridiculous—insane, really—but some quiet part of me felt safer now than I had in days.
God help me.