Whiteout

Chapter One

Five hours.

That’s how long she’d been driving already, and Breanna hadn’t even reached the state line yet. Maybe she should’ve stayed on I-5 instead of cutting over to Route 39, but that’s the way her GPS sent her, so she took it. Cranking up the tunes, she passed Klamath Falls and grinned. “Seventeen more miles.”

With her Spotify playlist blasting, she excitedly waved goodbye to Oregon as the ‘Welcome to California’ sign appeared. The state of her birth, though she would be nowhere close to her family in LA. She hadn’t even told her mom she was making the trip. She’d only worry. Besides, just hearing the name Dalton made Sarah Benjamin sad. It surprised Breanna she got to keep her dad’s last name.

Bad blood between her mother and her late father’s family. Namely, her grandmother, Valerie Dalton, whom Breanna had never even met. She’d never met Shane Dalton either—not that she could remember, anyway. He died when she was just a baby.

So when she received an official-looking letter from St. John, Maynard St. John, Attorneys at Law, on her grandmother’s behalf, requesting her presence at Dalton House, it aroused her curiosity. What did Valerie Dalton want? Breanna doubted it was a desire to meet her son’s only child after twenty-one years. But it could be, right? The woman had to be in her seventies now. Maybe she’d had a sudden change of heart in her old age.

Yeah, and maybe shit doesn’t stink.

The correspondence, signed by one Derek St. John, said little. No clue why she was being summoned. He only stated he was following the wishes of his client and advised Breanna to plan to get there before the Thanksgiving holiday—and the arrival of winter weather in the Sierra Nevada. Mountain roads can be treacherous when the snow comes.

Did he think she was an idiot?

Chrissakes, just because she was a California girl, didn’t mean she’d never driven in snow before.

After marinating on it for a week, she left word with the lawyer’s secretary to let him know when to expect her. The week of Thanksgiving break would have to do, and too bad if Derek St. John or her grandmother didn’t like it. Breanna had friends to see, parties to go to, and classes to attend. Okay, she was on the flexible undergrad track for her BA in English. If she wanted to, she could log into lectures on her laptop, comfy in her pajamas, from the sofa in her apartment—or from anywhere, for that matter, but the old lady didn’t need to know that.

Her gaze flicked over to the snow-capped range of peaks to the east. Overcast, the midday sky looked dreary, but the clouds weren’t ominous. Yet. She’d be fine. But Breanna still had five hundred miles, some seven hours of driving left before she reached her destination, and her ass was already numb.

A hundred and forty miles later, her bottom screaming at her to get up and stretch, gas gauge down to a quarter tank, she got off the highway. Refuel. Restroom. Coffee. There was no time to waste if she wanted to reach Dalton House before dark. Estimating she’d only need to make one more stop after this one, Breanna stood in line, Styrofoam cup in hand, rubbing circulation into her aching backside with the other. As long as the weather held, and barring any unforeseen hazards on the road, she should be good.

Her ass protesting once more, she sat back down behind the wheel, burning her tongue on the steaming hot battery acid that passed for gas station coffee. Yuck. Breanna grimaced into the cup, her phone vibrating on the center console.

“Hey, Kay,” she answered.

“Just checking on you. You there yet?”

Kayleigh, her closest friend at college, and her roommate, was a worrywart. An old mother hen in a twenty-year-old body. She was the girl who forbade the consumption of jungle juice at parties—especially those held on Greek Row, cockblocked the fuckboys, and forced her to eat something besides cheap ramen noodles for dinner. And Breanna loved her for it. God only knows just how many bad decisions she’d saved her from.

“Hell, no.” She expelled some air, tipping her head back against the seat. “Just made it to 395.”

“You’re not being safe.” Breanna could just picture Kayleigh shaking her head. “You should stop. Get a room and rest for the night.”

“No, I’ll be fine,” she assured her. “It’s only a few more hours.”

“Stubborn.” Kayleigh sighed through the phone. “Have you even bothered checking the weather, Bree? They’re predicting—”

“Snow. I know.” Swallowing a sip of the putrid battery acid, she glanced up at the sky. “I’ll be there long before it gets here, so don’t worry, okay?”

“Yeah, I bet that’s what the Donner Party said too, and look what happened to them.”

“So dramatic,” Breanna said, chuckling at the historical reference. “I think it’s pretty safe to assume no one’s going to be eating me—dead or alive.”

Kayleigh giggled. “Well, should that lawyer guy or Grandmama serve fava beans and a nice chianti at dinner? Run. Fast.”

“Will do.” And she started her car. “I’ll text you when I get there.”

The cloud cover grew more dense the farther she drove. No longer merely overcast, the sky appeared heavy, saturated in a deepening gray. Breanna wasn’t too concerned, though. According to her GPS, Dalton House was less than an hour away.

Like a good, obedient girl, she exited off the highway as the robotic British male voice instructed her to. She preferred him to the Siri-sounding woman. A checkpoint was set up on the road in front of a mom-and-pop store. Coming to a stop, Breanna lowered her window.

“Evening, miss.”

She tipped her chin. “Hello.”

“You’re gonna need to get chains on those tires before I can let you through. We’re expecting a doozy of a storm. Can’t have you getting stuck out there on the pass.”

“But—” It’s not even snowing yet.

“Sorry, miss.” He pointed toward the little store. “Hank’s got ‘em if you’re needing some. Seventy-five bucks and he’ll put ‘em on for you too. Have you back on the road in a jiffy.”

“Okay, thanks,” Breanna assented, raising the window. “This is some bullshit. Hank must be raking it in.”

Figuring she might as well top off her tank before heading inside the store, Breanna pulled up to the gas pump. A cold gust slapped her in the face as she exited the car, making her clench the unzipped jacket tightly around her middle. Trees danced on either side of the road, their naked branches bending to the will of the wind in the thickening darkness. Gazing heavenward, the slate-gray altostratus ominously churned.

Triggered by a familiar tickle in her nose, she sniffed the air. The scent of an approaching storm mingled with sweet benzene. Breanna zipped her worn, black leather bomber, and winding a scarf around her neck, made her way across the small parking lot. Bells attached to the door clanked into the glass as she wrestled with it, a sudden squall pushing her inside.

It was as if the passage of time had forgotten this place. To her left was a small diner with a checkered floor, red vinyl seats, and an old-fashioned soda fountain. To her right, a counter with rows of penny candy—cost twenty times that now—and a cash register. In front of her were several aisles of grocery essentials and sundries.

A balding head popped up from behind the counter. “Need something, miss?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. Chains.” Behind her, the door burst open again. Breanna shivered, tingles creeping down her spine. “The officer at the checkpoint told me to see Hank.”

“That’s me.” Pointing a thumb backward at his chest, he cracked a crooked grin, revealing a crooked front tooth. “I’m Hank.”

“Can you put them on for me?”

“Be happy to.” His head bobbed. “Where’s your car?”

“Right outside,” she said, handing him the keys. “The white Miata.”

Breanna heard a snicker at her back. A voice, smooth and deep, muttered low, “Figures. Damn girly car.”

She whirled around to find six feet of rugged man standing behind her. Bearded. Suede coat lined with sheepskin. A black Stetson on his head. Dark hair brushed his shoulders. Eyes the color of whiskey. “Yeah, well, I am a girl.”

“I can see that.” Smirking, he dropped his head to the side and winked.

Probably drives one of those big-ass pickup trucks to compensate for having a tiny dick.

Flustered by the stranger’s boldness, Breanna turned back to Hank. “How long will it take?”

“Not too long,” he assured her. The crooked grin fixed on his face, he bobbed his head to the left. “Why don’t you get yourself a cup of coffee while you wait? Have a piece of banana cream pie. My wife makes it. Best damn pie in the world, trust me.”

“Can’t pass that up, now can I?” She smiled at Hank, side-eyeing the tall, dark, imposing stranger. Brushing past him, Breanna took a seat on a vinyl-covered stool at the end of the counter.

Sweet on her tongue, she licked thick, whipped cream from her lips. Hank did not exaggerate. The pie was chef’s kiss, and the coffee sublime, especially after the gas station sludge she’d been existing off of.

Rubbing his hands together, cheeks reddened, Hank came behind the counter as she washed down the last of her pie with a sip of coffee. “You’re all set, miss.”

“Great, thanks.” Breanna handed him her credit card.

He just held it in his hand, staring at it. “Dalton, huh? You any relation to Valerie?”

“Yeah, she’s my grandmother. Why? You know her?”

Tucking his tongue into the corner of his lip, Hank nodded. “Well, I’ll be goddamned. I had no idea. You’d have to be Shane’s girl then.”

“That’s right.”

Brows cinching together, his eyes flicked to the windows behind her. “It’s startin’. Best get you on your way.”

The bold one sat in a booth. Hat on the table, a mug of coffee poised at his mouth, he shook his head. “Suicide. Chains or no chains, she’s gonna slide right off the mountain in that thing.”

Standing up from the stool, Breanna sniggered. “It’s just a few snowflakes.”

Slowly, he swiped his tongue across his lip and grinned.

“And every storm starts with just one.”