1. Archer

1

ARCHER

"This storm is going to be a record breaker, Archer." Clyde takes my basket, snatching up items two at a time to scan through the register.

"That's why I'm here. Extra provisions and some storm treats for Gizmo." I hold up a box of marrow bones. "These are his favorite."

"You spoil that dog."

"He deserves it."

Clyde pauses to adjust his suspenders. He turns to grab a stuffed squeaky toy from the rack, dropping it in the bag. "I bet he'll love this. These sell like hotcakes every month."

"Now, who's spoiling my dog?" I laugh.

"It's called a business strategy. Do something nice for your customers, and they'll keep comin' back."

"You're the only general store in town, Clyde. I'd say that's a pretty solid business plan."

"Probably," he winks. "You know you're welcome to stay with me and the Mrs. Go home, pack a bag and collect Gizmo. We'll ride out the storm together."

"That's a mighty tempting offer, Clyde. You know how much I love Ada's cooking. But I'm going to have to pass. I love me a good winter storm. There's nothing like being snowed in alone with a warm fire, a fine bottle of whiskey, and a good book."

"I get it, but you're all the way at the top of the mountain. If we get a few feet like they say we're gonna, you won't be able to get down that mountain for days."

"All part of my master plan." I wink.

When I retired from the Army, I bought myself a new truck and traveled across the states, searching for a place to call home. I saw some beautiful towns and met some great people. But the minute my feet touched the soil of Whiskey Creek, I knew… this was where I was meant to put down roots. I've been here for five years and I'm still in love. Giant pine trees that brush against bright blue skies. Crisp, clean mountain air. Bear, moose, deer, bobcats, and American eagles. Whiskey Creek has it all. You can even drive to the base of the mountain and find sprawling beaches on the other side of town.

It's a solid, tight-knit community with less than two thousand residents. The people are kind and humble. The crime rate is practically nil unless you count the disputes between the McGregors and the Finleys over their chickens. That in itself is a crime.

I love this town.

"Ada's granddaughter's fixin' to visit in a month. We'll have you over for dinner. She's a nice girl. I think you'd like her. A bit on the plain side. But smart as a whip."

"The last thing on earth I'm looking for is a woman. Not that I don't appreciate them, because I do. However, they're also a lot of work. And a lot of drama."

"I see your point," he chuckles. "But a man as young as yourself needs to think about settling down. You don't want to spend your life alone."

"I'm not alone." I pick up my bags. "I have Gizmo."

"Yes, that's true. But a man needs more than a dog."

"I don't know about that, Clyde. Gizmo's pretty amazing."

"You are a stubborn, old goat. I'll give you that." Clyde blows out a breath.

"I'm not stubborn. I know what's right for me. I appreciate you, buddy." I head for the door. "I'll text you so you'll know I'm alive."

"You do that. And think about meeting Ada's granddaughter, will you?"

"I'll think about it," I lie. "Stay warm and give my best to Ada."

"Will do!"

I trudge through the snow, open the cover on the back of my truck, and set the bags inside next to the bundles of oak I picked up from Wild Oak. I snap the cover in place, and I notice about six inches of snow has fallen since I walked into Clyde's General Store. I really wanted to take a drive to The Grind for some fresh coffee beans, but this snow is falling too fast.

I back up to the gas pump, fill my tank, then head up Route One. I crack the window to let the cold air in. After four tours baking in the sweltering heat of Iraq, winter is hands-down my absolute favorite season. I love the glacial weather.

Up ahead, the light turns yellow. I carefully pump my brakes, thankful for the four-wheel drive. I sit at the red light, watching the snow fall while I contemplate what to cook for dinner. Earlier, I had a hankering for lasagna. Now I'm feeling more like a broiled rib eye with mashed potatoes.

Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a small green Prius flies through the intersection. My hands lock on the wheel as the car swerves to the right and does a half circle before it skates to the left, nearly T-boning a Jeep. Then the damn thing spins around, and heads straight for me.

What the hell? Is that guy drunk?

I don't know if I should stay where I am and take my chances or throw the damn truck in reverse and pray I don't fishtail straight into the gas pumps at Clyde's. I click the wipers on high, and decide it's probably safer to stay put.

My pulse races, my breath sawing in and out of my lungs as the Prius slides to the right, makes a sharp turn, veering to the left, and then plows right past me, burying itself in a massive snowbank.

"Damn," I exhale in a woosh. That was too close.

The light turns green, and I wait. If that crazy driver slams the car into reverse and guns the gas, there's no way it won't careen right into my truck.

But the Prius doesn't move.

After about a minute, I slowly roll forward. When the tires of the Prius don't start to spin, and the backup lights don't come on, my eyes stay locked on the car, as I search for any signs of movement. When I don't see any, I growl at my shitty conscience, put on the flashers, grab my shovel and jog over to the car.

"You alright in there?" I holler.

Exhaust is pouring out of the tailpipe. The rear window tint is too dark to make out any silhouettes. Maybe if I thump on the trunk. Bam! Bam! Bam!

"Hey! Are you alright in there?"

I wait a few seconds. When there's no response or movement, I jab the shovel into the snow to make a path to the driver's door. I clear a wide enough path and see a woman behind the wheel. She's not looking my way, which is strange. Maybe she's in shock.

I knock on the window.

She doesn't move.

She has to be in shock.

I brush off the snow wedged under the door handle, pull the door open, and a hideous, earsplitting scream cuts through the air, causing my eardrums to vibrate. Before I can get a word out, I'm greeted with a face full of aerosol spray.

"What the hell?" I cough as the spray fills my nose and mouth and burns my eyes. "Stop spraying that shit!"

"Get away from me!" The banshee shrieks.

I pick up a handful of snow to press over my eyes. "I hope you're happy. I can't see a goddamn thing now."

"Good."

I can't believe she sounds so pleased with herself.

"I've got plenty more," she chides.

"What did you hose me down with?" I know it's not pepper spray because I've been exposed to that awful shit during numerous trainings in the Army.

"Perfume."

"Perfume? Are you kidding me? You've jacked me up on perfume?" It smells good, but it sure as hell doesn't taste good. It's coating the inside of my nasal passages and tongue and scorching my throat. I keep trying to force my eyes open, but the lids won't budge.

"Who are you?" She shouts. "Who sent you?"

"Sent me?" I press another handful of snow to my eyes. "No one sent me. I watched you skate all over the road before plowing into the snowbank. I stopped to see if you needed help. Evidently, I should've just kept on going."

"Oh, my God. You really stopped to help me, didn't you?"

"That's what kind human beings do. They stop to help someone in need, even in the middle of a blizzard."

"I'm so sorry. I thought you were someone else. I mean…"

"Who did you think I was? A hitman?"

"Something like that." Her voice goes soft.

What kind of trouble has this girl gotten herself into? "Well, I'm not. Okay?"

"I see that now."

I try to open my eyes, but they're on fire. "At least one of us can see."

"What can I do?" She asks.

"I need to get home, but I can't drive in this condition, can I?"

‘‘I guess not."

"Then you're going to drive me home."

"What?" The surprise in her voice almost makes me smile.

"How else am I going to get home? I can't bloody see."

"But… we're strangers. You don't know me. I don't know you. Besides, I'm going to Canada."

"Have you looked around? We're smack dab in the middle of a blizzard, sweetheart. You're not making it to Canada until after this storm passes. And yes, we're strangers but don't get it twisted. I'm taking more of a risk than you are. I'm letting a psychopath with perfume bottles for hands drive me home."

"I am not a psychopath," she huffs.

"Whatever," I growl as my pounding temples decide to join my face party.

"I'm not going to make it to Canada today, am I?"

Curious, I have to ask. "What's in Canada?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

Something in her voice tells me she's not scared… she's terrified. "Sweetheart, like it or not, we're stuck, and there are no options. I need your help. And if I'm reading this scenario right, you need my help. We're going to have to take a leap of faith and help each other out. You drive me home, and you can stay with me till the storm is over. When it's safe to get down the mountain, I'll help you get your car out of the snowbank and safely point you on the road so you can get to Canada."

"But you're a stranger," she whimpers.

"Not this again," I groan. "Do you feel the wind slicing across your face? Feel the snow piling up in your hair? This storm is moving fast. We don't have time to talk this thing out. You've got to get me up the mountain. Now."

"Fine," she sighs. "But if you lay one hand on me…"

"Listen, sweetheart, I'm not that kind of guy. Besides, I can't see anything. My nose is running like a faucet, and my throat might be swelling and closed, thanks to you. The last thing on my mind is touching you. If you've got a bag with you, get it."

"You don't have to be so rude."

"You've got to be joking." I start moving towards my truck, using her car as a guide. "You are joking, aren't you?"

"No." I hear her step behind me.

"You've just assaulted me, and you say I'm being rude? That's rich."

"I realize I made a mistake. I said I was sorry."

"Help me get to my truck." I pause, take a deep breath, count to ten, and hold out my hand. "Please."

Her hand hits mine, and a jolt shimmies up my arm and goes straight to my chest. Great. Now I'm having a heart attack. She helps me into the cab and then buckles me in with the seatbelt.

"I'm sorry," she whispers in my ear.

Something about how close she is and how she apologizes sends shivers across my skin. "Just get me home without killing me, will you?"

"One mistake," she grumbles, then slams the door shut.

"One mistake? Tell that to my eyes and my esophagus," I call out. I pry my eyes open and catch a blur of what looks like a middle finger. The girl's definitely got spunk.

She climbs up into the truck and gets behind the wheel. "Where to?"

"Straight. Don't forget to turn the flashers off and turn the windshield wipers on."

"This isn't my first time driving, you know."

"Sweetheart, I just watched you swerve all across Route One. I know it isn't your first time. I also know driving in the snow is not in your skill set."

"Stop being so judgmental."

I bite my tongue. I want to get home in one piece. "Please, sweetheart, drive. Or we'll have to walk four miles up the mountain."

"Why do you live on a mountain?"

I hear the windshield wipers come on. "Because," I growl. "Drive. Slow."

"I am driving slow," she huffs.

"A half-mile on the right, you'll see a blue bungalow. Turn right after the house. Then it's straight up the mountain until you see my cabin." I rub my eyes, and wait for the burn to stop. I feel the truck turn right and breathe a sigh of relief, thankful I'm almost home.

We're going to be snowed in together for the next few days.

I just pray she doesn't kill me in my sleep.