Page 2 of Wren's Winter

Yeah, I could be my own friend.

The service here was spotty, but the road I had carelessly tried to brake for was the one I needed. My boots made tracks in the fresh snow as I walked to the top of Sitka Lane, assessing how far I’d have to go with my suitcase to get to the log cabin. I was pleased to see it only a short distance away, exactly like the picture in my email. I could walk that far.

Pulling on my favorite pink beanie, careful not to touch my injury, I grabbed my bag but left the smashed potato chips. Once I got to the cabin, I would use the provided Wi-Fi and arrange for a tow truck. That’s what people did in these situations, right? I am a smart, independent woman who doesn’t need her asshole boyfriend to carry her bags.

Halfway up the road, my suitcase slipping from my hand every two feet, doubt of my independent abilities crept in. Sweat dripped down my back, and I shrugged off my thick coat to stuff it into my luggage. The only sound on the street was a light birdsong and the crunch of the new white boots I bought for a trip to Aspen. The one Buck said he was going to take me on the previous Valentine’s Day. That fell through when he, instead, went with three of his buddies from high school.

You understand, right, Wrenny? I love how cool you are, not at all like those other girls my friends have for girlfriends.

Annoyance fizzed through me as I picked up my bag again, the motivator I needed to make it. While it was likely only five minutes after I left my car, it felt like thirty before I got to the cabin’s driveway. I slipped twice, my gloves getting soaked in the powdery snow.

The road ended in a high snowbank, with two identical log cabins on each side. The one I was facing had a green door, the one behind me a red door. Both two-story, with a porch spanning the width of the house. Each had a high-pitched roof for the snow to fall from and a small balcony on the second floor. This had to be it. There were only two houses at the end of Sitka Lane.

Hoisting my suitcase up on the patio, I pulled out my phone to check the address against the number in the email. 143 Sitka.

I was expecting the key to be in the lockbox next to the door, but I hadn’t come across it yet. The wind was cooling me off from my hike. My thin white sweater was no match for the winter air. Another text came though as I read the instructions. This time, it was Buck asking for the recipe for my deviled eggs. The ones I made every year and he accepted praise for.

It was the first one that popped up on Google. You’d think an accountant for a Fortune 500 company could figure out how to search on the Internet.

Ignoring his text, I walked around the building, looking for the lockbox and finding nothing on the wall. A large outdoor chest sat on the edge of the porch beside a pile of perfectly stacked wood in a wrought iron holder. Across the expanse of the wall, a big window showcased a darkened room. A leather couch sat behind an oversized green rug with a fireplace in the middle of the wall. In the distance, a few bulky jackets hung from a pine wood rack. Must be from the previous guests. The starkly tidy house lacked little touches of a lived-in space, with generic scenery pictures identical to the landscape outside and a single framed picture of an older couple.

Stepping back from the window, I glanced again at the numbers on the house and the email. This was it, 143 Sitka.

The door had a keypad on it. Maybe that was the code I was supposed to use. On the porch again, I tried the code to get a flashing red light. After a second time, the red light glared brighter.

A glance across the street at the other house had me hesitate. That house didn’t have numbers posted, and this was the right address. It was the only one that came up on my navigation in all of Washington State.

At the bottom of the letter was the phone number to call if there were any issues. I clicked on the number and watched the screen as it tried to connect, tried, tried. Call failed. Sure, service would be spotty up here, but why have a number if I couldn’t get in?

A third time yielded the same results. Great, Buck’s little plea for deviled eggs goes through, but my rescue can’t. Got it.

As I was about to try again, an engine rumbled down the street, and a large white truck pulled into the driveway. I huffed a sigh of relief. This had to be the owner. Who else could it be? She must have realized she had given me the wrong code and had come to let me in.

The driver turned the truck off, a sudden quiet falling over the street. The door opened, and I set my phone on top of my oversized suitcase and trudged the stairs to the truck. “Hi! Are you Agatha? I can’t get into the house with the code and…”

A long leg swung out from the seat, followed by a second.

It was a man. A muscular man. He stomped toward me, and I took a step back.

Alone on this snowy road, with no streetlights, and my car parked too far forward in the snowdrift, I should have been worrying about this man being a serial killer. But damn if he wasn’t the most handsome man I had ever seen. He didn’t appear to be much older than me, maybe in his late twenties. Dark hair peeked out of his hat, over the greenest blue eyes fringed with long thick lashes. He had a mouth that was full and soft. A mouth that was currently frowning at me.

“Oh, I’m guessing you’re not Agatha.”

“No, I’m not,” he grunted out, running a hand over his unshaven face. Thumbing behind him, he pointed to the house on the other side of the road. “Agatha’s house is there. You’re some visitor renting the cabin?”

Okay, so not a serial killer, probably. A helpful serial killer? An extremely hot, helpful serial killer.

No, this guy didn’t look helpful. He looked annoyed.

As the handsome man approached me, his grim face and narrowed eyes gave me the sinking feeling that maybe I should have kept going when I missed my turn.

Adrian

Few things tasted better after a long day on the mountain than a good beer. I had the requisite tall can in the parking lot with my friends before we parted ways, our snow pants rolled down around our waists, and the sweat from a hard ride still damp under our beanies. We all grabbed a can out of the small cooler in Tam’s trunk. It had been a tradition—as far back as I remember—that the last person to our meeting spot in the morning supplied the beer for after our runs. And every week, it was always Tam. Cracking open the tall can, I took my first swig as a young woman approached our group, her blue eyes on me.

“Hey, could I ask you to help me with my rack?” She thumbed behind her at a Subaru parked five spots down with a set of skis leaning against the door. “The lock is sticky.”

Tam grabbed the can out of my hand and pushed me forward. “He’d be delighted.”

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