Page 3 of Mountain Man's Naughty Elf
I needed time. And distance.
Decision made, I veered toward the staff parking lot, hopping awkwardly as I shoved my feet back into my curly-toed boots. My little Honda was dusted with fresh snow—the forecasted storm was moving in faster than expected, thick flakes already falling steadily.
I fumbled with my keys, looking back to see if Nolan had followed. No sign of him, but I wasn't taking chances. I jumped into my car and started the engine, cranking the heat as I peeled out of the parking lot.
Only when I was on the main road did I allow myself a moment to breathe. The USB drive was still secure in my hat, but now what? I couldn't go home—that would be the first place Nolan would look. I needed somewhere to lay low until I could figure out how to expose him without getting bulldozed by his political machine.
I pulled over and grabbed my phone to call Martha, but the signal showed only one bar. The storm was interfering with reception. As I stared at the screen, trying to decide what to do, the weather alert I'd been dreading flashed across my display:
WINTER STORM WARNING: BLIZZARD CONDITIONS. TRAVEL NOT ADVISED.
Perfect. Just perfect. This was a tree-mendous disaster.
I looked up to see the snow falling heavier by the minute, already accumulating on my windshield despite the wipers working overtime. I needed to find shelter, and fast.
The only option was to head toward the mountain cabins. Maybe I could hole up at one of the vacation rentals until the storm passed. I put the car in gear and carefully pulled back onto the road, my tires struggling to find traction.
I'd gone less than a mile when it happened. A gust of wind rocked my little car, and as I turned a corner, the rear wheels lost their grip completely. I spun once, twice, the world around me whirling like someone had stuck me inside a snow globe and given it a violent shake. Then came the sickening crunch as my car slid off the road and into a snowbank.
The airbag didn't deploy, thankfully, but my engine died instantly. I tried to restart it—nothing. Just the clicking sound of a car that had given up the ghost.
"Oh, sugar plum fairy," I muttered, banging my head lightly against the steering wheel. This was snow joke. I was in serious trouble.
I tried my phone again. No signal at all now.
I was stranded in a blizzard, wearing an elf costume, with stolen evidence against the mayor tucked in my pointy hat, and no way to call for help. This was definitely not how I'd planned to spend my evening.
The temperature was dropping rapidly, and my thin holiday getup offered little protection. I had no choice—I needed to find shelter on foot.
I rummaged in my glove compartment and pulled out the emergency supplies I kept there: a small flashlight, some granola bars, and a compact emergency blanket. I wrapped the metallicblanket around my shoulders like a bizarre cape, grabbed my purse, and took a deep breath before opening the car door.
The wind nearly ripped it from my hands. Snow immediately pelted my face as I stepped out, my ridiculous curly-toed boots sinking ankle-deep into the winter onslaught. I knew there were cabins somewhere nearby—I just had to find one.
I moved forward, each step a battle against the elements, the bells on my elf attire mocking me with their cheerful sound. The air was more precipitation than oxygen, white flakes swirling so thickly that the world beyond my outstretched arm might as well have been another dimension. The flashlight helped only marginally, its beam swallowed by the swirling white.
"Left Santa’s Toyland and landed in Narnia," I grumbled, hugging the emergency blanket tighter around me.
I don't know how long I walked. Long enough that I couldn't feel my toes anymore, and the coiled tips of my boots had transformed into absurd snow-covered tentacles, making each step feel like I was dragging tiny abominable snowmen attached to my feet. The wind howled around me, and more than once I thought I heard wolves.
Do they even have wolves in Colorado? My frozen brain couldn't remember.
Just when I was starting to consider the real possibility that I might actually freeze to death dressed as one of Santa's helpers, I saw it: the faint glow of lights through the trees.
"Oh thank God," I gasped, pushing forward with renewed energy.
As I got closer, I could make out a substantial log cabin nestled among the pines. Smoke curled from the chimney, and warm light glowed from the windows. It looked like the cover of a Christmas card—or the setting for a horror movie about stranded travelers. At this point, I was willing to risk the horror movie.
I stumbled up the steps to the porch, my bells announcing my arrival like the world's most festive warning system. With numb fingers, I banged on the door, probably more frantically than was strictly necessary.
No response.
I knocked again, harder this time, adding a desperate, "Hello? Is anyone home? Stranded elf seeking shelter!"
I heard heavy footsteps inside, then the door swung open.
And there he was—the mountain man.
He filled the doorframe like a human blockade—at least a foot taller than me with shoulders that belonged on a mythological gatekeeper. His dark beard couldn't hide the scar that sliced through his left eyebrow, and his blue eyes assessed me with the wariness of someone who'd seen too much of the world to be surprised by a half-frozen imp on his doorstep.
