Chapter Ten
Snow crunched under the truck tires beneath her. A thick, heavy layer of vanilla frosting, it clung to boughs of pine. Gazing out the window, Breanna swiped at her cheek and looked for some kind of sign she hadn’t lost her mind. But there were none.
No footprints.
Nothing.
Except for the path the sheriff made plowing his way in, the surrounding snowscape appeared undisturbed.
With her thumb to her temple, Breanna rubbed at the tender bump on her forehead. Could she have dreamt it all? She squeezed her eyes closed. Maybe her scrambled brain had conjured up the bold stranger from Hank’s to see her through her ordeal, to keep her safe in the storm.
The sheriff drove across a small bridge, a stream cascaded over icy rocks below.
“So I don’t lose you, princess. Just don’t fall into the stream, okay? Think you can manage that?”
I think I must be going crazy, Sinjin.
Because there’s no way she could have imagined all that. Every minute detail. His woodsy masculine smell. Eyes the color of whiskey. The warmth of his skin. The feeling of that thick, curved cock filling her.
Peeling her gaze from the window, Breanna turned to the portly fellow. “What day is it?”
“Tuesday.”
Yeah, a chance encounter with a stranger hadn’t put the past three days in her head, and no one could convince her otherwise. Sinjin was real, and he was out there somewhere. She’d better keep those thoughts to herself, though, or else Grandmama might have her committed.
“How much further to Dalton House?”
“Not too far.” He patted her knee. “Just a few miles. That cabin you were in is one of a dozen scattered on the property. Folks reserve ‘em for hunting and fishing.”
“Hold up.” Her brows cinching together, Breanna asked, “This is Dalton land?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He chuckled. “Darn near the whole mountain belongs to the Daltons.”
“It does?”
Dalton Pass Road. Course, it does.
“Has for generations. Back to the pioneer days,” he said with a bob of his head. “See, crossing the Sierra Nevada in covered wagons was tricky business, and the timing of it meant life or death. When George Dalton and his traveling party reached the pass, it was already October, so he had a tough choice to make. Build a shelter and stay here, or take the risk of getting caught in the snow and perishing.”
“He had another month before winter. That wasn’t enough time?”
“A wagon train could only travel about fifteen miles on a good day, dearie. It’s a hundred miles across this range. Peaks twelve thousand feet high. Not to mention these mountains get more snow than most others. Massive snowdrifts from September onward.”
“So, no, not enough time then,” she absently said, her gaze following their winding path through the trees. “He stayed, I take it.”
“He sure did.” Turning toward her, the man clicked his tongue. “Built the original house down there at the start of the pass. You might’ve seen it.”
“I think so.” Pursing her lips, she shrugged a shoulder. “Did everyone else stay too?”
“Some wagons did. The rest of ‘em pushed ahead on their journey.”
Breanna thought of the Donner Party tragedy then. Pioneers migrating to California from the Midwest in 1846, became snowbound here in the Sierra Nevada. When their food supply ran out, with no other alternative, they resorted to cannibalism—surviving off the bodies of those who had succumbed to starvation, sickness, or the elements. Only forty-eight of the eighty-seven people who were trapped in that early snowfall survived.
She shuddered. “What happened to them? Did they make it?”
“Don’t rightly know.”
Her father’s family had quite a history, of which Breanna knew nothing, but then she didn’t even know what her dad looked like. She’d never seen a photo of him. Her mother choked up every time she asked about him, so she quit asking a long time ago.
“How did George end up with an entire mountain?”
“No one else wanted it, I reckon,” the sheriff said, shrugging his shoulder. “Living up here ain’t for the weak, you know. That storm you were stuck in was just the first of many. Won’t see the grass again until May. June, maybe.”
“Why live here then?” Breanna wondered out loud.
With a lift of his brow, he grinned. “Well, I’d say you’re about to find out.”
The snow-covered road curved to the left, sharply inclined, and then went right, coming out of a forest of trees. And there in the clearing stood Dalton House. Grand, rustic elegance. The house—no, scratch that—the mansion appeared to be three levels. Stacked stone, timber, and glass. Blue sky and snow-capped peaks for a backdrop.
Holyyy…
Words escaped her. Breanna didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but it sure wasn’t this. She smirked. “Must have been for the lovely view.”
“Well, they do say it’s better from the top.” With a soft chuckle, he stopped and threw the truck into park. “I’m glad you’re all right, Miss Dalton.”
“It’s Breanna.” She smiled.
“Jordy.” He smiled back with a dip of his chin. Coming around with her duffel bag, Jordy opened her door and gave her a hand out of the truck. “Watch your step now. It can get slippery.”
The large stained wood door, inset with squares of beveled glass, opened as they approached. A woman stood just inside the threshold. Hair more salt than pepper, cut in a shoulder-length bob. Black horn-rimmed glasses accentuated her perfectly arched brows. Dark red lipstick. Her makeup was impeccable.
Grandmama?
Immediately, she dismissed the thought. This woman, while older, appeared to be far too young to have a son who would’ve been forty-three if he were still living. With fillers, Botox, and whatnot, it was hard to tell these days, but Breanna guessed the woman to be in her mid-fifties—sixty at most.
Clutching her sweater tight around her middle, she waved, hastening them inside. “Thank God, we’ve been so worried.”
“She’s all right, ‘cept for that goose egg on her noggin. Must’ve knocked it pretty hard.” Jordy closed the door behind them. “Found her down in one of the hunting cabins—the one by the stream.”
“Goodness, it’s a miracle you found the place. You surely have a guardian angel looking out for you,” the woman said, inspecting the bump on her forehead.
Sinjin.
Though she’d hardly describe her dark savior as an angel.
“We’ll have to get Randall up here to take a look at her.”
“I’ll call him.” Nodding, Jordy looked at Breanna. “He’s the chief paramedic down in the village. Darn good one, too. Closest doctor is in Sacramento, and that’s a couple of hours from here.”
“I’m fine.” She forced a smile. “Really.”
“Better safe than sorry.” Her arm circled Breanna’s shoulders, and she took her bag from Jordy with the other. “Mr. St. John asked me to extend his thanks. He’s on a Zoom call with a client, or he’d have told you so himself. Let me know when we can expect Randall.”
“Will do, Francie.”
“You’ll be here for Thanksgiving dinner, won’t you?”
“As long as the weather holds.” He winked. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Breanna’s gaze flitted around the grand foyer, though it was much too large to call it that. The space was bigger than her and Kayleigh’s entire apartment. Stacked stone and textured walls. Exposed wood beams in the ceiling, a massive chandelier of black antlers suspended from three floors above.
“You take care now, Miss Breanna.” The sheriff tipped his hat. “You’re in excellent hands with Francie here. I’ll be seeing you.”
“Thank you, Jordy.”
He just smiled, and with that, he was gone.
“How about I take you up to your room?” The woman Jordy called Francie led her toward the right side of an imperial staircase. “We can get you settled while Mr. St. John concludes his business.”
“Derek St. John or the other one?”
“Yes, Derek.” She lowered her gaze. “There’s only one, dear.”
“Oh.” St. John, Maynard St. John. “There were two on the letter.”
“Raymond St. John started the firm—Derek’s father. He passed away several years ago. It’s just he and Mr. Maynard now.”
“I see.”
At the landing, behind a sitting area, a central staircase went up another level. Francie steered her to the right, away from it. Each recess in the hallway housed a double door, sconces on either side.
She stopped at the third one on the left and opened it. “Here we are.”
Following her inside, Breanna contained a gasp. Jesus. This wasn’t merely a room, it was a suite of them. A fire burned in the living area with a flat-screen TV mounted above it. A bedroom lay beyond an open set of double doors. But it was the floor-to-ceiling glass, the majestic mountainscape on the other side of it, that took her breath away.
“Oh, wow…”
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“I’ll say.” But the word didn’t do it justice.
“You never tire of it, because you won’t ever see it the same way twice.” Clasping her shoulder, Francie tipped her chin toward the expansive covered deck, complete with an outdoor seating area, fireplace, and a fancy schmancy hot tub. “I have a feeling you’ll be out there a lot.”
Breanna followed her into the bedroom. Francie sat her duffel bag on a chair. It looked woefully out of place in its sumptuous surroundings. “Do you live here?”
“Not here in the main house,” she said. Opening the drapes, she pointed out the window. “My husband and I live in the caretaker’s house just over there. A breezeway attaches it.”
“I see it.”
“I’m always here should you need anything.” Tilting her head, Francie smiled, her gray eyes kind. “I’ll let you unpack, and I’m sure you’re dying for a nice, warm shower. Bathroom’s through there. You’ve got plenty of towels. Mr. St. John or myself will come and get you for dinner.”
“Does he live here too?”
“Oh, no.” She snickered. “His office is in Sacramento, but he’ll be staying with us through the holiday. He only came here for you.”
What about Grandmama, his client? Speaking of…
“I’d like to see my grandmother. She’s who I came all this way for.”
Not some stuffy old lawyer.
“Wait for Mr. St. John.” Biting her lip, Francie’s hand fell to her forearm. She squeezed. “I have to get to work on dinner. Hope you like duck.”
“I don’t know. I’ve never had it,” Breanna admitted.
“You’re going to love it,” she assured her. “Trust me.”
As much as she wanted to flop down on the plush-looking king-sized bed and take a nap, Breanna figured unpacking, showering, and making herself presentable for Valerie Dalton was a much wiser decision. Not that she wanted to impress the old lady—okay, maybe she did a little—but for her mom, truth be told. To win the approval she never got.
Rifling through the travel bag she once thought cute, Breanna removed her laptop and set it on the bed. The iPhone Jordy rescued from her Miata was dead. “Where’s my charger, dammit?”
In the car, of course. Duh.
Cursing her dumb luck, she hefted her stuff into a bathroom that was at least the size of the bedroom and shrieked at what she saw in the mirror. “Oh God, this is hideous.”
The swollen lump over her right eye, a lovely shade of purple, broken skin in the center of it scabbed, was impossible to miss. “Ugh, some impression you’re going to make, Bree. How am I supposed to cover this?”
After a decadently long, hot shower, she carefully applied her makeup. Patting foundation and concealer over the spot did little, so she opted for a simple eye and went bold with her lip. Parting her hair on the side, Breanna swooped it over the bump.
“Best I can do.” She wrinkled her nose at herself.
It’s not like she had a plethora of clothing options with her, but Breanna had chosen what she brought with her grandmother in mind. She opted for a chunky, cream-colored half-turtleneck sweater that reached a bit past mid-thigh. Together with leggings and a pair of suede booties, she deemed it suitable enough. The outfit would have looked better with her cute over-the-knee boots, but she ruined them during her trek through the storm.
As ready as she was going to be for dinner with Grandmama and her stodgy, old lawyer, Breanna returned to the living room, taking a seat in front of the fire. Darkness veiled the mountains, yet the snow-capped peaks seemed to glow beneath a moon she couldn’t see.
It was out there somewhere, though.
And so was Sinjin.
Of that, she was sure.
A knock sounded upon her door. She got up, and when she opened it, her eyes went wide.
The man standing there wasn’t stuffy or stodgy, and he sure wasn’t old.
“Miss Dalton.” He extended his hand.
Stunned, Breanna shook it.
“Derek St. John.”