Page 8 of Grumpy on the Mountain
Not your problem,I remind myself.Not your responsibility.
But when she goes down hard on a patch of ice, instinct kicks in and I'm turning around, hauling her over my shoulder before my brain can catch up with my actions.
She lets out a startled yelp as I lift her, the sound carried away by the wind. Her body is light against my shoulder, tense with surprise.
"Put me down!" she protests, voice muffled against my jacket.
I ignore her, focusing on each careful step across the treacherous ice.
"I can walk!" she insists, but her fingers grip my coat, betraying her fear.
"Easy," I mutter, steadying her on her feet with hands that could probably span her entire waist.
"Thanks," she breathes, and for a second we're just standing there on the doorstep of the café in the snow, her looking up at me with those green eyes, me trying to remember why helping her is a bad idea.
Then I remember exactly why it's a bad idea, because touching Molly Jennings feels like touching a live wire, and I've got enough scars without addingelectrically stupidto the list.
I drop my hands and step back.
When I glance into the café, I can see three sets of eyeballs pressed against the window like amateur spies who think they're being subtle. Etta, Mabel, and Betty, are watching our every move with the intensity of people placing bets on a horse race.
Great.
We trudge back inside, both of us shaking snow off like wet dogs.
"Well?" Betty asks, suddenly moving and wiping already-clean mugs.
"Dead as disco," I confirm.
Molly shivers, brushing snow from her hair. The simple action releases a hint of vanilla that cuts through the café's coffee scent. It's distracting in a way I don't want to acknowledge.
"Is there somewhere I could call a taxi?" Molly asks earnestly.
The silence that follows is broken only by the wind rattling the windows.
Then Betty starts laughing. Actually laughing, hands on her hips, like Molly just asked if there's somewhere she could rent a rainbow colored unicorn.
Etta and Mabel join in, the sound carrying through the café like this is the funniest thing they've heard all year.
"Oh, honey," Betty gasps, wiping her eyes. "A taxi. In Stone River Mountain."
"There's no taxi?" Molly asks, looking around at all of us like we might be playing some kind of elaborate prank.
Mabel wheezes, holding her stomach. "The nearest taxi service is in Asheville. Forty miles of mountain roads away."
"We don't even have Scuba up here," Etta adds, clearly enjoying Molly's city-girl naivety.
Mabel slaps Etta's shoulder, swiping a tear from her eye. "Uber.Not scuba."
Molly's face falls, her earlier bravery crumbling. "But how am I supposed to get to Sienna's? I can't walk in this."
Through the frosted windows, the town's disappeared. Nothing but white fury swirling against dark skies.
"Not unless you want to be a human popsicle," Betty confirms.
And somehow, despite every instinct that's kept me alive through years of service, despite knowing that getting involved with anything related to Riley is a guaranteed path to disaster,despite the fact that this woman represents everything I came to Stone River Mountain to escape, I open my damn mouth.
"Get in my truck," I say, the words escaping before I can stop them. "I'll drive you."
