Page 6 of Wrapped Up with the Mountain Man
I watch the couple, still deep in separate phone conversations, and something cold brews in my gut. Somewhere upstairs, Dove is probably trying to explain to two kids why their parents care more about stock prices than bedtime stories.
Mrs. Ashford ends her call and approaches Ray, her expression all business. Early forties, polished to perfection, radiating the kind of entitlement that comes with never hearing the word "no."
"I need to confirm reliable internet and cell service," she says to Ray, not acknowledging Jake or me. "My husband and I have critical calls tonight."
"Yes, ma'am, but the storm may cause interruptions—"
"Interruptions?" Her eyebrows draw together.
"The storm's severe. We're recommending all guests remain on property until it passes."
"Unacceptable. We have a flight tomorrow morning."
I step forward. "Ma'am, the airport will be closed. Nothing's flying until this passes."
She looks at me like I'm something she scraped off her shoe. "And you are?"
"Tannon McKenzie, maintenance supervisor. I monitor all weather systems for the lodge."
"Well, Mr. McKenzie, some people have commitments that can't be rescheduled for weather."
Her dismissive tone makes my jaw clench. "Weather doesn't care about your commitments. Roads are already impassable."
Mr. Ashford joins us, silver-haired and confident. "What's the problem?"
"This man says we can't leave tomorrow."
He looks at me with the same dismissive expression. "Surely that's an overstatement. We have an important meeting in Denver."
"Nature doesn't reschedule." I pull out my tablet, show them the radar. "Two feet of snow, sixty-mile-per-hour winds. You're not going anywhere."
"We'll rent a helicopter if necessary," Mrs. Ashford snaps.
"No helicopter's flying in this."
Both stare at the screen like they're waiting for the storm to change its mind.
"How long?" Mr. Ashford asks.
"Could be three days."
Mrs. Ashford looks apoplectic. "Three days? The Tokyo deal!"
"Will have to wait," her husband interrupts. "We'll work remotely."
They exchange a look of pure frustration, and I realize with disgust that neither has mentioned their children once.
"What about Mia and Bentley?" I ask.
Both look at me blankly.
"Your children."
"They have Dove," Mrs. Ashford says dismissively. "That's what we pay her for." She dismisses the thought of her own children as if they were just another service to be managed.
They walk away without another word, already back on their devices. I watch them claim chairs near the fireplace, completely absorbed in their separate worlds.
"Jesus," Jake mutters. "Those poor kids."
