Packing is quick work, considering I only brought a few days’ worth of clothes. Fitting in the new socks and toiletries from the general store, along with the small collection of gifts I’ve accrued from the family, is a bit of a challenge, but I manage to squeeze it all in. I top the bag off with the tin of tea that Jillian gave me as a parting gift. As if leaving weren’t hard enough, losing Logan’s family too is just the cherry on top of an ice cream sundae of suckiness.
My duffel bag’s zipper snags when I try to tug it closed, and I blink back frustrated tears. I know I’m in rough shape when the smallest inconvenience starts the waterworks. I manage to wrestle it closed with a huff. Lacing up my boots, I try as hard as I can not to think about where they came from, who bought them for me, and all the warm, fuzzy emotions attached to those memories.
Ripping a page out of my notebook, I jot down a quick message.
Decided to brave the storm. I’ll text when I’m back in Boston. Thanks for everything.
For a second, I consider writing a separate note specifically for Logan’s eyes only, but I decide against it. Why make this harder than it needs to be?
I don’t really have a plan when I step out into the snow, carrying my laptop bag and my duffel bag slung over my shoulder. The snowstorm has stopped, at least, so visibility will be fine on the roads. The snow itself has piled over a foot high, but this is Colorado. It snows like this every other day, from what I understand. The snowplow guys must be experts at getting the roads clear in no time, right?
Before I can psych myself out, I trudge the hundred or so yards back to the house and around it to the driveway. With one great heave, I toss my duffel into the truck bed, peering over my shoulder to make sure the noise didn’t grab the attention of anyone inside. The last thing I need before I leave is to make a scene.
I tug on the door handle, and naturally, it’s locked.
No, Summer, the last thing you need before you leave are the damn truck keys.
I dig through my pockets but come up empty-handed. I must have left the set that Jillian gave me in my cabin, which I locked behind me already. But I know there’s a spare set on the hook near the back door of the house.
It’s easy enough to sneak back into the foyer and grab what I need. What’s harder is the gravitational pull I feel as soon as I hear the familiar voices of the family inside, talking shop by the fireplace. I can hear Grandpa Al’s soft snores from his recliner and Jillian in the kitchen, getting dinner going. And when Logan’s deep, manly laugh echoes down the hall, my whole body quakes.
A very real, very scary thought occurs to me.
I could put the keys back on the hook so, so easily. Ten short steps into the living room, and I could snuggle up next to Logan on the couch, join in the laughter, and be a part of the family. All I have to do is put the keys back.
Instead, I shove the keys in my coat pocket and rush out the door. I don’t even try to be quiet. I need to get out of here before my overactive imagination causes me any more problems.
Hopping into the truck, I replay the memory of Logan teaching me how to drive a stick shift. His hand on my thigh, encouraging me.
Focus, Summer. Ground the clutch, put it in neutral . . .
Soon the wheels are crunching against the freshly fallen snow. The truck groans and creaks, clearly unhappy with me and my choices. It takes every scrap of patience and a few emergency prayers, but I manage to get the truck to the property line, turning where I think the road begins.
So much for clear roads.
The sun is setting just ahead, reminding me that I’m mixing dangerous situations here. Driving in the dark for the first time and in the snow? This isn’t the best choice I’ve ever made, but it’s the only one that feels right.
I pull my coat tighter under my chin and reach for the heater, cranking it all the way up. The truck sputters and coughs up nothing. Perfect. Looks like I’ll be freezing for the next hour.
Maybe it’s the cold, or maybe it’s because I’m finally off of the Tate property, but my feverish thoughts begin to clear.
What am I doing? What if I can’t get the truck all the way to the airport? What if I get stranded out here when the sun goes down and have no way to keep warm? What if no one knows I’m gone and I freeze to death?
Flashes of me, blue-lipped and shivering in the middle of nowhere, fill my mind. I’m such a fool. I should turn back. I should never have—
The front left tire hits a big bump hidden by the snow, rocking this old rust bucket to the side. I whip the wheel to the right, trying to realign the wheels, but they don’t respond. Instead, in one horrifyingly real moment, the truck slides off the road straight toward the drainage ditch.
A scream bursts from me as the truck dips into the ditch with a thud, knocking me against the steering wheel with the force of it.
Once I catch my breath, I struggle to change gears, putting the truck into reverse, and slam my foot on the gas, pleading with fate to throw me a bone. Instead, what I get is spinning tires, gaining no traction in the snow and mud. I try again and again and again, tears welling in my eyes.
What am I supposed to do? I’m nowhere near the airport, and who knows how far from the cabin I am.
In a moment of desperation, I put the truck in neutral and climb out, stumbling down a few feet into the muck to try to push the heap of metal out with brute strength. But I’m not built like a hockey player. I’m built like a damn hockey stick.
Well. I’m officially stuck.
I climb back into the truck, shivering in my now waterlogged clothes. With shaking hands, I pull out my phone to confirm what I already expected—no signal. Classic Lost Haven.
Numb inside and out, I turn off the truck and lay my head against the wheel. Tears fall steadily down my cheeks, and for the first time since I arrived here, I’m really, truly, utterly alone. And thank God I am, because there’s no one to hear me cry.
I let it all out—all the anger, the frustration, the sadness, and let myself completely fall apart.
• • •
I don’t know how long I sit there before I hear the faint crunch of footsteps in the snow. I look up and over my shoulder, momentarily blinded by a flashlight shining through the back window.
Which is worse, freezing to death, or getting murdered by some lunatic who preys on women stranded on country roads? I haven’t yet decided when a familiar voice calls my name.
“Summer?”
Logan’s deep, gravelly voice fills me with the sweetest relief I’ve ever felt.
Whipping the door open, I half fall out of the truck and into his arms. He crushes me against his chest, those bulky arms holding me closer than anyone has ever held me. I breathe him in, letting his warmth spread through my freezing limbs. When we finally pull apart, he cups my cheek and looks down at me, his eyes brimming with worry and hurt.
“Are you okay?” he asks, scanning my face and body, checking for injuries. Knowing someone cares this much about my well-being is like a drug.
“I’m okay,” I say as I sniffle. “Just dumb.”
“You’re not dumb,” he says firmly, correcting me. “You just did a dumb thing. There’s a difference. Come on, let’s get you out of the cold.”
“What about the truck?”
“The guys and I will come and get it tomorrow morning. Believe me, no one is trying to drive down these roads tonight. Well, except for you. What was your plan, anyway? To leave the truck in the airport parking garage?”