Page 1 of The Mountain Man's Curvy Christmas Treat
1
Ivy
The scent of cinnamon and vanilla fills every corner of Lottie's Mountain Bakery as I carefully stack the last gingerbread house into my delivery crate. Christmas Eve morning, and I'm buzzing with excitement despite the gray clouds gathering outside the windows.
"That's the Hendersons' order," I murmur to myself, adding an extra bag of sugar cookies decorated like snowflakes. "And these are for the Callaways up on Pine Ridge Road."
I've been making deliveries for Lottie for eight months now, but Christmas orders always make my heart sing. Families gathering around tables laden with treats I helped create—there's nothing more magical.
"Ivy, honey, you seeing this weather report?" Lottie calls from behind the counter where she's boxing up the last few orders. Her dark hair is dusted with flour, and concern creases her usually cheerful face.
I glance at the small TV mounted in the corner. The meteorologist is pointing at an ominous swirl of white covering the entire mountain region. "...unprecedented snowfall expected, with accumulations of two to three feet possible. Blizzard conditions are likely by early afternoon..."
"It's just snow," I say, wrapping my scarf around my neck. The red wool matches my Christmas sweater with a reindeer that lights up. "I've driven in snow before."
Lottie shakes her head, wiping her hands on her apron. "This isn't Vancouver snow, sweetheart. Mountain storms are different. Meaner." She pulls out a folded piece of paper from her pocket. "That Murphy cabin is way up the mountain, honey. Last delivery of the day. Maybe skip that one and save it for after the storm?"
I take the paper and study the address. C. Murphy, 1247 Ridgeline Trail. The order is simple: two dozen Christmas cookies, assorted. But it's still an order, which means someone is counting on me.
"I've never missed a delivery," I say, tucking the address into my jacket pocket. "Besides, it's Christmas Eve. What if he's expecting them for family dinner or something?"
"Colt Murphy doesn't do family dinners," Lottie mutters, but she helps me load the last crate into my van anyway. "Man's lived up there alone for three years now. Barely comes to town except for supplies."
The wind picks up as I arrange the deliveries in order of location, working my way up the mountain. Murphy's cookies go in the insulated bag so they'll stay fresh even if the delivery takes longer than expected.
"You call me when you finish the Hendersons," Lottie says, giving me a worried look. "If the storm gets worse, you turn around and come straight back. These cookies aren't worth risking your life over."
I smile as I climb into my little white van and start the engine, Christmas music filling the cab. Everything looks so beautiful with the first snowflakes beginning to fall. Like the world is getting dressed up for Christmas.
The first few deliveries go perfectly. Mrs. Henderson tears up when she sees the gingerbread house. It's an exact replica of her own cottage, complete with candy cane fence posts. Each stop fills me with warmth despite the steadily falling snow.
By the time I reach Pine Ridge Road, the flakes are coming down harder, but my van's handling it fine. The windshield wipers work overtime as I navigate the winding mountain road, Christmas carols keeping me company.
"Silent night, holy night," I sing along, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel. "All is calm, all is bright."
The irony isn't lost on me twenty minutes later when my van hits a patch of black ice.
It happens so fast I don't even have time to scream. One moment I'm carefully navigating a curve, the next I'm sliding sideways toward the guardrail. I yank the wheel, overcorrect, and suddenly I'm spinning across the road like a Christmas ornament someone dropped.
The van slides backward off the pavement and into a snowbank with a soft thump that seems too gentle for how terrifying the last ten seconds were. The engine dies. The Christmas music cuts off.
I sit in the sudden silence, hands shaking on the steering wheel, heart hammering against my ribs.
"Okay," I whisper to myself. "Okay, you're fine. Van's fine. Just stuck."
I try to restart the engine. It turns over but when I put it in drive, the wheels just spin uselessly. Through the windshield, I can see I'm wedged pretty thoroughly into what looks like a drainage ditch filled with snow.
My phone shows no signal. Of course.
The snow is falling harder now, already starting to accumulate on my windshield. In the distance, maybe a quarter mile up the road, I can see the warm glow of lights through the trees.
The Murphy cabin.
I grab the insulated bag with his cookies, pull my hat down over my ears, and step out into the storm. The cold hits me like a slap, but I start trudging up the road, following the tire tracks that are already being covered by fresh snow.
The lights get brighter as I approach, and I can make out a solid log cabin nestled among towering pines. Smoke curls from the chimney, promising warmth. Relief floods through me as I knock on the heavy wooden door.
It opens after a moment, and I find myself looking up at the largest man I've ever seen.
