Vienna’s Valentine (Green Mountain Holidays #1)

Chapter 1

VIENNA

Maybe moving to Vermont wasn’t such a great idea.

When I arrived a week ago, the snow-covered mountains and white-dusted trees filled me with a welcome burst of hope.

This could be a new start, I told myself as I made my way into town, smiling at the quaint storefronts and old-fashioned lampposts that lined the sidewalks.

Shoppers in puffy coats and brightly-colored hats hurried from store to store, their breath puffing out in silvery clouds.

While I waited for the single traffic light in the center of downtown to change, I watched two women dart across the street, pink-cheeked and laughing.

As I emerged from my car and took a deep breath of the crisp air, I immediately felt lighter. Worry lifted off my chest, allowing me to take a full breath for the first time in months.

I could live here, I thought; my pace slowing so I could get a better look at the bookstore I was passing.

Inside, several people sat reading in squashy seats before a fireplace.

White twinkle lights lined the shelves, and a large calico snoozed atop one of them.

I could come here once a week and treat myself with a new book.

Read in front of the fireplace, like these people are doing.

Maybe I’ll even make friends with one of them.

Well, assuming everything went according to my hastily-arranged plan. But a week ago, success seemed promising.

Now?

I’m not so sure.

Maybe if I were in one of the houses I passed a quarter-mile back, snugged into the trees with their windows glowing faintly through the growing storm and whorls of smoke curling from their chimneys, it would.

Maybe if I were still at work, surrounded by the cheerful buzz of customers and the happy clink of silverware, instead of inching my way along a darkened road and squinting to see through the buffeting snow.

But I don’t live in one of those houses, and my shift ended half an hour ago. So there’s no other option than to venture into the storm.

My fingers tighten on the steering wheel as a gust of wind threatens to drag me off course. My tires slip on the snow coating the road, spinning for a second before regaining traction. My windshield turns to a blur of white, and I switch the wipers to double speed in hopes of clearing it.

A dull throb builds behind my eyes.

My right leg, which was already aching from hours spent on my feet, starts to cramp from working the brake.

Fear niggles at me, bringing with it reminders of terrible car crashes I’ve read about—spinouts on black ice, cars hurtling off cliffs, and massive pile-ups in whiteout conditions.

What if I end up as another statistic?

What if I never get the chance to build the life I’ve hoped for here, with weekly trips to the bookstore and a place to call my own and maybe even, one day, the life I’ve dreamed of?

What if I made it through everything back in New York only to perish on a deserted road in the Green Mountains?

“No,” I say, hoping that by hearing it out loud, it’ll add more credence. “It’s going to be fine. I just need to find the trailhead. It can’t be far from here.”

And besides, I add to myself. It’s not like this is the first time I’ve driven in the snow. Living in New York—Troy, more specifically—I’ve had plenty of experience driving in snowy conditions. This shouldn’t be any different.

Almost as if the weather wants to prove me wrong, another gust slams into the car. A frightened meep escapes as I fight to keep the tires steady. Despite the cold, sweat prickles along my back. Pain spears through my teeth and jaw.

Once I have the car under control, I steal a quick glance in the rearview mirror. Just as it’s been since I left town, the road behind me is empty.

I’m not sure if I’m surprised by that. On one hand, I’d think that Vermonters are used to this kind of weather. I imagine the locals scoffing at storm warnings and dire weather forecasts; confident in their skills after years of driving in the snow.

On the other hand, maybe the locals aren’t on the roads because they know better.

But it’s not like I had much of a choice.

The first night I was in Bliss—the sleepy little New England town I’ve come to call home—I thought I’d spend the night in the far shadows of the grocery store parking lot.

But not an hour in, I was woken by a police officer knocking on my window, sternly telling me I needed to leave.

“If you’ve been drinking,” the grizzled officer told me, “I’ll give you a ride home. Or if you’re looking for a place to stay, we have a motel in town that doesn’t charge much.” Almost apologetically, he added, “The closest shelter is in Montpelier, unfortunately. But I can give you directions.”

I was mortified.

And after I swore up and down that I hadn’t been drinking, that I was just tired after a long day on the road and thought I’d stop for a quick nap, I drove off with the promise of finding a real place to stay and no intention of actually keeping it.

Instead, I headed out of town in search of a remote, wooded area to spend the rest of the night.

That’s when I found the trailhead north of Bliss, with a small parking lot that isn’t visible from the road.

Is it the ideal place to stay? Of course not.

I’m sleeping in my car, after all. But it’s secluded and hopefully off the normal patrol route of the town police.

Oh, and serial killers who lurk in the woods waiting for innocent victims. Hopefully, I can avoid them, too.

Although, would any serial killers be out tonight? Or would they be warm and comfortable at home, sitting by a cozy fire and planning for their next grisly murder once the weather is better?

Or… maybe the storm is the perfect cover.

I can almost see him—a black-clad killer on cross-country skis, moving swiftly and silently among the shadowed trees, a knife glinting dully in his hand, or worse yet, the dark stock of a rifle.

He’d be nearly invisible in the swirling snow, or possibly mistaken for wildlife.

Then he’d find an unlocked back door and creep inside, his intention set on murdering the sleeping victims within.

Or he’d find a stupid woman sleeping in her car in the middle of a snowstorm. And he wouldn’t bother trying to unlock the door. He’d just shoot me right through the window.

I give my head a quick shake to clear the gruesome image away. “Worry about driving,” I scold myself. “Not imaginary serial killers who have better things to do than search for victims in the middle of a Nor’easter.”

Taking a deep breath, I hold it for a few seconds before releasing it.

Then I do it again. Back when things started to get really bad, I downloaded a free meditation app with guided breathing exercises that are supposed to help you de-stress.

I wouldn’t say the exercises were totally effective—they didn’t exactly erase the reason I was stressed to begin with—but they helped a little.

And right now, I can use all the help I can get.

With the wind whipping the snow into whorls of white, it’s hard to see much of anything aside from the twin beams of my headlights. Thankfully, the road is lined with trees on either side and not a cliff’s edge I could accidentally drive right off of.

How much further to the trailhead? A glance at the clock tells me it’s been eleven minutes since I left work, which, on a normal day, would have been twice as much time as I needed.

I wish I’d thought to pull up the directions on my phone, but back in the safety of the restaurant parking lot, it didn’t seem necessary.

The turnoff is only three miles outside town, after all, and marked with a distinctive wooden sign. Surely I’d spot it, snowstorm or not.

Or maybe I drove right past it.

Maybe I’m headed north into a swath of nothing.

Maybe I’ll come upon one of those deadly cliffs, and the wind will blow me right off it.

Or maybe my car will run out of gas and I’ll end up lost in the middle of the mountains.

My jaw clenches. My muscles are a mass of knotted rubber bands. Anxiety bands around my chest.

Before moving here, I would have said I’m comfortable driving in the snow.

But it’s clear my perception of winter driving wasn’t the same as this.

Back in Troy, where I lived for the last few years, the roads were cleared quickly.

The snow turned dingy gray only hours after falling.

There were always cars around, even in the worst of storms. Even when I found myself caught in bad weather, I was never alone.

Not like this.

Not the sole car on a deserted road, with only my imagination for company.

Friendless.

No family worrying about me.

No home to come back to.

Everything I own is right here, in my nine-year-old Hyundai. And the only home I own is one with four wheels.

How did it come to this? I ask myself for the umpteenth time. I had a plan. A real one, with college courses and savings and a decent-paying job I’d keep until I got my degree. I had my life outlined years in advance. I took pride in how neatly everything was laid out.

But I know how it happened.

One wrong step. That’s all it took.

And now I’m alone in the eerie gray, hoping I can find the turnoff for the trailhead so I can have a place to stay for the night, not even letting myself contemplate that my layers of clothing and blankets won’t be enough to keep me from freezing.

Forcing the new unwelcome thoughts back—lovely, now I’m not only worried about cliffs and serial killers, but freezing to death, as well—I squint through the windshield at the blur of white ahead of me.

I flick on my high beams, but it doesn’t help.

The rapidly falling snow coats the pines that line the road, making them blend in with everything else.

“Crap,” I mutter. “Where is the stupid turnoff?”