Chapter Two

JACOB

I always hated flying.

The cramped seats, the too-loud hum of the engines, the inability to move—it all grated on me. Even with my noise-canceling headphones and a decent view from the window, the flight from Chicago to Bozeman felt endless. The turbulence didn’t help either; every jolt and shudder seemed designed to test my patience.

But the flight itself wasn’t the problem. My real issue sat neatly folded in the briefcase under my seat, along with the case files for the Barrington property dispute. It wasn’t the legal complexities or the tight timeline that gnawed at me—it was a name…

Bailey Pace.

Seeing her name on the opposing counsel list had been a punch to the gut. It had been years since I’d last seen her, but her name brought everything rushing back: the good, the bad, and all the unresolved feelings I thought I’d buried.

The plane dipped slightly as the captain announced we were preparing for landing. Outside the window, a stretch of white clouds gave way to snow-covered peaks. The vastness of Montana was striking, even from the air. Rugged, untamed, and sprawling in a way that made Chicago’s gridlock feel laughable.

I shifted in my seat uncomfortably, trying to ignore the ache in my back from sitting too long. Focus, Jacob. This is just a case . It doesn’t matter who’s on the other side of the table. But the rational part of my brain couldn’t override the memories that had come flooding back the moment I saw her name.

Bailey Pace... The girl I once thought I’d spend forever with. The woman who walked away from what could have been when we couldn’t reconcile our dreams. Fate sure had a funny sense of humor for bringing us together again in this way—at Christmas, no less.

The plane touched down with a jarring bump that matched my sour mood.

Bozeman’s airport was small and efficient, a far cry from the chaos of O’Hare. I weaved through the crowd of travelers bundled in puffy coats, dragging my designer suitcases across the linoleum floor. After a brief stop at the rental counter, I found myself holding the keys to a basic sedan.

“Wintervale?” the rental agent asked brightly as she handed me the paperwork.

I nodded curtly, straightening the sleeves of my overcoat. “That’s right. I get the pleasure of spending my holiday this year working on an important legal matter in the middle of the boondocks.”

Her smile had the faintest trace of pity. “Well, it’s a beautiful drive this time of year. The snow makes everything look like a postcard. Maybe you’ll change your mind about Wintervale by the end of your trip.”

I chuckled, shaking my head before thanking her and making my way to the car, where I tossed my bag into the backseat and slid behind the wheel. The cold hit me immediately, sharp and biting, even inside the vehicle. I let the engine warm up while fiddling with the GPS, punching in the address for the Wintervale Resort.

The drive started uneventfully, the highway cutting through open fields blanketed in fresh snow. Gradually, the landscape transformed. Mountains rose in the distance, their peaks disappearing into the low-hanging clouds. Forests of evergreens stretched on either side of the road; their dark green needles heavy with white.

Despite the breathtaking scenery, my thoughts were anything but calm.

Bailey Pace... Her name refused to leave my mind, like a song on repeat.

We’d met in high school, two ambitious, middle-class kids from a small suburb of Seattle who dreamed of something bigger. She wanted to be a lawyer. So, did I. We bonded over late-night study sessions, mock trial tournaments, and whispered conversations about the future.

But when the time came to leave, our dreams diverged. I was desperate to escape the confines of where I’d grown up, to carve out a new life somewhere far away from my alcoholic father and the chaotic household of my childhood. Bailey, on the other hand, wanted to stay close to home, near her family and the roots she’d planted.

In the end, we couldn’t reconcile our paths. I left to attend university in Chicago, and she stayed behind. The breakup was clean—amicable, even. Or at least, I’d thought so at the time. But it left a scar I hadn’t dared to examine too closely ever since.

Now, years later, she’d come back in my life, attached to a case that had brought me halfway across the country.

By the time I reached Wintervale, the sun was low on the horizon, and a soft golden glow hung over the snow-draped town.

The sign welcoming me to the village was quaint, painted in cheerful red and green with the words A Place to Call Home scripted underneath. The town itself looked like something out of a Christmas movie. Twinkling lights stretched across the main street, and every storefront was adorned with garlands and wreaths.

It was the kind of place that would’ve charmed Bailey instantly, and I felt an odd pang in my heart.

The ski resort that the town was best known for sat on the outskirts of the city, perched on a small hill overlooking the village. Its elegant stone facade was draped with icicle lights, and I spied a gigantic Santa Claus sitting in a sleigh piled high with gifts in one of the huge bay windows on the upper floor.

I chose to park the car myself in the lot, even though the firm was covering the expense of the rental. I never trusted valets not to ding the paint of my luxury BMW back at home, and I didn’t feel right giving up the habit just because someone else was footing the bill. After grabbing my bag, I made my way inside the hotel as my boots crunched against the packed snow. The warmth of the lobby covered me instantly like a blanket, carrying with it the scents of pine and cinnamon. A massive fireplace crackled in one corner, and the flickering light from the hearth cast soft shadows across the polished wood beams.

“Mr. Wilder?” The receptionist greeted me with a smile. “Welcome to the Wintervale Resort. Your room is on the second floor, overlooking the slopes. If there’s anything you need during your stay, don’t hesitate to let us know.”

“Thanks,” I said, taking the keycard the clerk handed me.

The lobby bustled with activity as it was around dinner hour. Families huddled near the fireplace, sipping mugs of hot cocoa, while couples admired the towering Christmas tree in the center of the room.

And then suddenly I saw her...

Bailey.

She stood in front of the elevator bank, clutching her messenger bag in one hand and looking down at her phone with the other. Her chestnut hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders, and her fitted gray turtleneck hugged her frame in a way that made it impossible not to notice.

I froze, my breath catching in my throat. She turned slightly, just enough for me to see her profile—the soft curve of her cheek, the faint freckles dusting her nose.

She looked exactly the same.

No. Not the same. More polished, more confident. But there was still a familiarity about her that made my chest tighten.

She didn’t see me.

The elevators dinged and the doors to one of the compartments slid open. Bailey looked up, offering a polite smile to the young mother next to her and patiently waiting while the rather harried-looking woman ushered three kids and a stroller into the elevator before stepping in after her. The doors slid shut, and I watched her go, my pulse pounding in my ears.

So much for my own compartmentalizing.

Theodore Snowcroft’s office was in the heart of Wintervale’s modest town hall. The building had an old-fashioned charm, with high ceilings and dark wood paneling that smelled faintly of polish and history.

Snowcroft himself was waiting for me in a small conference room, seated at the head of a long table. He stood as I entered, his posture straight and imposing despite his age.

“Mr. Wilder,” he boomed, extending a hand twice the size of my own.

“Mr. Snowcroft,” I replied, shaking his hand. His grip was firm, his gray eyes sharp and assessing.

“Thank you for coming all this way,” he said, gesturing for me to sit. “I trust you’ve reviewed the case.”

“I have,” I said, pulling out my briefcase and flipping it open. “The Barrington estate is in foreclosure, and you’re seeking to sell it to a commercial developer to fund infrastructure projects for the town.”

“Precisely.” Snowcroft leaned back slightly, his expression measured. “Wintervale is at a crossroads, Mr. Wilder. Our economy is struggling, our population is declining, and our infrastructure is crumbling. The Barrington property sits on a piece of prime real estate in this town, and frankly it represents an opportunity we can’t afford to waste.”

I nodded, glancing at the photos of the property in the file. Barrington Manor—or what was left of it—was a decaying relic of another era. Its once-grand facade was marred by peeling paint and broken windows, and the surrounding grounds were overgrown and untamed.

“And the opposition?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

Snowcroft’s mouth tightened. “A certain Miss Edna Twinkleberry.”

I raised an eyebrow. “She claims to be a relative of the late Cyrus Barrington.”

“Claims,” Snowcroft pointedly repeated. “Her evidence is tenuous at best, and her proposal for the property is absurd. A cat sanctuary? Holiday-themed, no less. It’s an insult to the people of Wintervale.”

I leaned back in my chair, studying him. His tone was controlled, his words carefully chosen, but it was clear he was doing his best to keep his emotions in check, making me suspect there was more he wasn’t telling me.

“You have a history with Miss Twinkleberry, I presume,” I said, testing the waters.

Snowcroft’s jaw tightened. “What’s in the past is irrelevant to the needs of the city.”

His curt tone made it clear that the subject was off-limits.

“Understood,” I said, pivoting back to the case. “Then let’s focus on the facts. I’ll need detailed financial records, zoning ordinances, and any documentation that could support your claim.”

Snowcroft nodded. “You’ll have my full cooperation.”

Later that evening, back at the resort, I sat in my room with the case files spread out across the desk. The paperwork was straightforward enough: foreclosure proceedings, property appraisals, and legal correspondence. But my eyes kept drifting to a single page, the one that listed Bailey as opposing counsel.

I stared at her name as her image rose in my mind from earlier.

I closed the folder and leaned back in my chair, rubbing a hand over my face. It had been years since I’d last seen her, but I had to admit the memories felt as fresh as yesterday.

I thought I’d made peace with how things ended. She made her choice, and so had I. We’d said our goodbyes and moved on—or so I thought.

But seeing her again, even from across the room, had stirred something that frankly I wasn’t sure I was ready to face.

This case was supposed to be simple. Just another client, another problem to solve, and another win under my belt. But now, with Bailey in the picture, nothing felt simple anymore.