Chapter 11
ELEVEN
JOVIE
The orange hazard lights cut through the white outside like someone dragged a highlighter across the storm.
The whole world outside the cabin shifts.
Moves.
Breathes different.
Rhodes and I both freeze.
Another plume of snow lifts around the plow as it grinds to a stop in front of the cabin. A diesel engine rumbles. Voices carry. A silhouette passes the frosted window—reflective jacket, boots crunching on ice.
My heart sinks before my mind catches up.
It shouldn’t.
This is good news.
This is what I need.
This is the whole reason I came.
Still… my chest tightens like someone’s pulling a ribbon too tight around it.
Rhodes stands first.
Slow.
Shoulders squared like he’s preparing for something he doesn’t want to face.
“You should get your things,” he says.
His voice is steady.
Too steady.
I nod, even though I feel unsteady all over.
The plow’s engine cuts out.
Silence rushes in.
A man calls out, “Ridge access is open! Anyone sheltering up here needs to come down before dark!”
Rhodes looks toward the window. “They’ll want us moving soon.”
Us.
The word hits harder than it should.
I gather my clothes, my bag, my laptop. Everything that feels suddenly too small to hold the weight of the last few hours.
When I straighten, Rhodes is waiting near the door.
His flannel is half-buttoned.
His hair is messy in a way that still feels like a secret we shared.
His mouth is a little swollen.
He looks away when he sees me notice.
And that hurts more than if he’d looked right at me.
“We should head down to the lodge,” he says. “Safer there till the flights start up again.”
“Right,” I say.
We step outside, and the cold slaps me awake. Not brutally—just sharply enough to remind me that the world beyond that cabin is real. The storm has stopped screaming, but the sky is heavy and gray, like the mountain hasn’t decided what to do next.
A man in a reflective coat nods when he sees us. “You folks good to go?”
Rhodes answers for me. “Yeah. We’re fine.”
I glance at him.
We’re not.
Or at least—I’m not.
But I say nothing.
We move down the path toward his truck. The snow crunches under our boots in a rhythm that feels too loud.
Rhodes opens my door first. Always the gentleman, even when he’s trying not to be anything at all.
I climb in. He closes it gently.
When he circles around to the driver’s side, he hesitates beside the hood. Hands braced against the metal. Head lowered for a breath.
I don’t call out to him.
I don’t know what to say.
He gets in, starts the engine, and the heater hums to life.
We start down the newly cleared road. Pines blur past the window, heavy with snow. The sky looks like it wants to snow again but hasn’t decided whether to gift us a miracle or a disaster.
I don’t speak.
Neither does he.
The silence is full.
Crowded.
Weighted with everything we did and everything we didn’t say afterward.
Halfway into town, he finally exhales.
“Jovie.”
Just my name.
Soft.
Rough.
It hits like a hand closing around my heart.
“Yeah?” My voice cracks.
He keeps his eyes on the road. “About earlier…”
My pulse stutters.
Here it comes. The careful distance. The whole ‘this was a moment, not a future’ speech.
Except—
He doesn’t say any of that.
Instead he grips the wheel harder, jaw tight. “I don’t regret a damn thing.”
Heat rises in my cheeks. “I don’t either.”
He nods once. “But I know you need to get home.”
My throat tightens. “Yeah.”
“And I’ve got animals to check on. Repairs to make. Things here that won’t wait.”
I turn toward him. “Rhodes. I’m not asking you to pretend you don’t have responsibilities.”
“And I’m not pretending you don’t have a life waiting for you,” he says.
We hit a long, narrow stretch of road where the view opens to the valley below. Wilder Mountain sits under a blanket of snow—garlands on the lampposts, smoke curling from chimneys, the huge evergreen in the square still lit even in daylight.
Christmas everywhere.
A place that shouldn’t feel like it’s tugging at me.
But it is.
“I’m coming back,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t answer right away. His jaw works. His eyes stay on the road.
Finally—soft, almost broken—he murmurs, “Don’t say that unless you mean it.”
“I mean it,” I say, steady this time. “I want to see you again. After Christmas. After I take care of my dad. I want to come back.”
His hands loosen on the wheel.
He doesn’t look at me, but I see the shift.
The breath he lets out.
The tension easing just enough.
“Then come back,” he says.
The words settle warm and dangerous in my chest.
We pull into the lodge parking lot. Greer stands near the porch, wrapped in a giant red scarf, waving both arms.
“Oh my God!” she shouts. “You survived!”
I laugh despite everything.
Rhodes parks, then looks at me.
The fire from earlier glows dimly in his eyes. Controlled. Banked. But still there.
“I’ll carry your bag in,” he says.
“You don’t have to.”
“I know,” he says. “I want to.”
I swallow hard. “Okay.”
We get out. Snow crunches again. The air smells like pine and cinnamon. Wilder Mountain hums with Christmas.
Greer bounds down the steps. “Tell me everything—wait, not everything, but oh my gosh, are you frozen, is the cabin okay, is he okay—”
I barely hear her.
Because Rhodes steps close.
Close enough for one last moment before everyone notices.
He leans in.
Not for a kiss. Not exactly.
His forehead brushes mine. So gently it shatters something inside me.
“I’ll see you,” he murmurs.
It’s a promise. I open my mouth to answer—
But a shout rings across the lot.
“Rhodes! Hey—Rhodes! We need you at the ridge line!”
He stiffens. Turns toward the voice. A ranch hand I don’t recognize is waving urgently, breath puffing in white clouds.
Rhodes looks back at me once.
Just once.
Then he runs.
And I don’t know whether to smile or cry, because this moment in time is over, and probably forever.