by Alyse Miller
“You forgot to give me the coat,” Roxanne snapped, angling her stiff frozen fingers back into her purse to fish out her fob and pop the trunk.
“That coat is as useless as the one you’re wearing,” he said simply.
“What are you talking about?” Roxanne snapped. “It’s Eddie Bauer, from his Yukon Classic collection. It was a best-selling style for over thirty years.” She recited the line the clerk at the department store had given her when she’d bought it as a last minute decision, more impressed by the slim fit and tapered waistline than its winter qualifications. It wasn’t fashionable enough to be her first choice, or her third, but then again she hadn’t expected to spend more time in the snow than the walk from her car to the cabin so it hadn’t really mattered.
“Well, that may be so,” he shrugged. “But it still won’t do much for you in this kind of cold. You’ll be warmer in the fleece.”
Mark moved toward her, his boots crunching in the snow as he walked. Roxanne was still hunting for her keys, cursing the ranger under her breath, but her hands were so cold that her fingers didn’t seem to be working correctly and she could barely feel the items in her purse. So what if the coat wasn’t up to his standards; she was freezing and anything had to be better than the Sherpa-lined disappointment she was wearing. The cold was making her grumpy. Her head was also pounding, and the snowflakes were all beginning to blur together into one wispy white smear. She was having a hard time keeping track of how close Mark was to her—he seemed close, then farther away, then closer than before. The sound of bells was in her ears again, and she felt like she was about to faint. The bright moonlight on the snow was fading to grey and she didn’t even feel that cold anymore, but her body was still shivering anyway.
Before Roxanne realized it was happening, she was falling, but no sooner had she discovered this than she was also aware that Mark’s arms were around her, holding her upright and against the hardness of his chest. He was warm, and simultaneously hard and soft, the firmness of his body solid beneath the puffy thickness of his coat. Roxanne stared upward into his brilliant green eyes, and felt the earth move beneath her feet. He looked down at her and said something reassuring about getting her in from the cold, and then Roxanne closed her eyes and let her body go limp in the ranger’s arms.
Chapter 6
When Roxanne next opened her eyes, she was out of the cold, snowy darkness and lying on the plump, well-worn cushions of a soft, overstuffed couch, covered in layers of warm blankets. Her feet felt awkward and heavy, and she pushed them out from underneath the blanket to discover her boots had been removed and her feet were now covered in a thick pair of woolen socks and too-large men’s house slippers. Her own shoes, as well as her purse, rested across the armrest at the far end of the couch.
Without moving, Roxanne scanned her eyes around the room, taking in its creature comforts and minimalism. A fire was roaring from within the belly of a deep stone fireplace, adding to the low lamplight, and a large golden retriever was asleep on the floor between Roxanne’s couch and the hearth. The room smelled strongly of cinnamon and coffee; there was a large, undecorated fur tree in the corner, a few nicely wrapped gifts at its bottom. Beside the tree a box brimming with garland sat untouched. One stocking hung on the mantle, held in place with a heavy bottle of bourbon. A large, rawhide bone poked out of its top.
Roxanne pulled herself upright, and wound her legs underneath her as she settled more comfortably on the couch. Besides the dog, she was alone in the room, which appeared to be the den of a rustic cabin, although it looked more like a home than a vacation spot. Further, it was clearly a bachelor pad—that much was evident from the lack of aesthetic touches and the abundance of what looked like the entire contents of REI lined around the room’s edges—but it was tidy and well appointed. In addition to the various bits of outdoorsy gear—most of which Roxanne had never seen before, and all of which she had no official names for—there were several bookshelves stuffed full with various books and stacks of papers. An old-fashioned turntable sat in one corner of the room, accompanied by several wooden crates filled with 45s.
Movement behind her made Roxanne turn her head to an open doorway as Mark passed through it, gripping two steaming, mismatched mugs in either of his hands. He had rid himself of the bulky winter gear, and Roxanne took him in fully for the first time.
The photograph on his ranger ID had not done him justice. Handsome in the photo, he was gorgeous in person. The picture hadn’t shown how his thin cotton tee clung to taunt, ropey muscles as he moved, or the smooth, molten way he walked…how the rope-like veins in his hand twisted as he sat the mug on the coffee table. The earthy scent of musk and vanilla that clung to his skin. The heat that reverberated off his body and buffeted against hers as he passed by inches from her.
“Good to see you’re awake,” Mark remarked as he lowered himself into a faded blue armchair at the foot of the couch.
Roxanne tried to ignore the way his green eyes gleamed in the firelight, or the dimple that appeared in his cheek when he lifted the mug and blew away the steam before taking a sip. “Is this your place?” she asked, released quickly that it was a silly question, and then before he could answer followed with, “How did I get here? The last thing I remember…” A faint memory came to her—her car in the snow, dizzying white flooding from the sky, the sound of bells, Mark’s arms around her, darkness—and she shook her head, trying to shake it loose. “I think I must have hit my head harder than I thought.”
“You did,” Mark confirmed with a patient smile. “I ran a concussion protocol when I found you. Do you remember that?”
Thinking back, Roxanne recalled the pin light shining in her eyes. “I remember you shining a light in my eyes.”
He nodded. “Yes. I was checking your pupils. You hit your head, but other than a bad headache and a little overall wooziness, you’ll be right as rain in no time. Just need to process the shock of the whole thing, and nothing helps that more than a little rest.”
“I don’t remember the walk to your”—she looked around, searching for the correct word, as she lifted the mug to her lips—“house. How did we get here?” It was hot cider, thick and spicy, and it felt amazing on her dry throat.
It was hard to be sure, but it looked like the skin underneath his dark, coffee-brown beard was blushing. “I carried you.”
The cider slid down Roxanne’s throat too quickly and she coughed to clear her throat and buy time for feeling to return to her legs, which has randomly gone numb. She couldn’t decide if she the strange feeling she was experiencing was awe or embarrassment, or both. “You carried me?”
Mark leaned forward so that his elbows rested on the tops of his knees. He seemed to be considering his next words as he sipped from the mug. “I couldn’t very well leave you in the snow. Luckily for me, you’re an easy carry.” He winked at her over the edge of his cider, and nodded in the direction of the retriever still sleeping by the fire. “I’ve had rougher treks lugging the ole man around.”
Roxanne noticed that the dog’s golden fur was tipped in white. He rested in front of the fire like a gentle giant, contented and at peace. Aside from the dog she’d had as a child—a black and white Chihuahua named Sweetheart—Roxanne had never had a pet.
“His name is Bogart,” Mark continued, eyes on the sleeping dog. Bogart’s tail thumped lazily on the wooden floor at hearing his name, and he lazily opened big chocolate eyes and focused them on his owner.
“Oh,” the surprise slipped out Roxanne’s mouth before she could stop it. “That’s…” She left her voice trail off, realizing that the words that almost escaped might have been rude.
Mark cocked an eyebrow at her, and Bogart did, too. He pushed himself from the floor, a movement that appeared to require a considerable amount of effort, and slowly made his way to Mark, where he nuzzled against his owner’s empty hand, hoping to be petted. “That’s what?” Mark asked as he stroked the dog’s ear. He had a curious, almost playful l
ook on his face that suggested he already knew what Roxanne had been about to say.
Roxanne shrugged sheepishly. “It’s just awfully sophisticated for a…well…” The words were even more embracing out loud, and they stuck unsaid in her throat.
“For a rough old mountain man’s dog?” Mark finished for her, and laughed. “Yeah, I guess so, huh?” He laughed again, and Roxanne let out a sigh of relief that she hadn’t offended him. “Call him Bogie most of the time though. He seems to prefer that better.”
“Bogie,” Roxanne echoed, and the dog lifted his head from Mark’s lap and fixed his liquid brown eyes on her. She smiled at him. “He looks sweet.”
“Ah, he’s alright,” Mark joked, patting Bogie’s head. “Go on and lay back down, old man,” he said, nudging the dog back toward the fire. “Rest those bones, boy. It’s almost Christmastime.”
The word spurred Roxanne’s lazy thoughts to action. “Oh,” she said, nearly spilling the hot cider into her lap. “My parents—I need to update them. Can I use your radio?”
Mark set his mug on the coffee table. “Sure thing,” he agreed. “The radio is in the kitchen.” He stood and extended his hand to Roxanne, adding when she looked at it skeptically. “You might be a little shaky. Let me help you.”
Roxanne swung her legs out from underneath her and made to stand up, and found Mark’s suggestion to be on point. The wooden floor felt unsteady beneath her, and even her limited movement mad her feel woozy, like she were standing on the deck of a sailboat. She accepted Mark’s proffered hand and stood, then found herself holding onto the ranger’s thick forearms for dear life as the floor swayed beneath her. “Oh my god,” she sighed. She allowed herself to rest inside the circle of his arms as Mark adjusted her gently into a steadying embrace. “I seriously underestimated my ability to stand. I’m so sorry.” She felt her cheeks warming and refused to make eye contact.
Mark chuckled above her as he angled his body behind hers so that he could support her as they moved together toward the kitchen. “I hate to say I told you so, but I’m here to help,” he said lightly, the laughter still echoing in his voice.
Roxanne readied herself to be offended, but she wasn’t. Instead, and much to her surprise, she laughed back. She realized she was feeling small and uncertain again, but somehow she didn’t mind it so much in Mark’s arms. Actually, it felt kind of wonderful.
Like the den, the kitchen was minimal, masculine, and surprisingly modest. A large farm table took up most of the room, and a scattering of well-seasoned cast iron pans were hung on the wall above a wide kitchen window that was home to an assortment of small pots filled with herbs. The sink was empty, but there was something cooking in the oven, and the scent of roasting vegetables invaded Roxanne’s nose. Her stomach clenched. She hadn’t even realized she was hungry.
Mark guided her to the radio in the corner of the kitchen, pulling a chair from the farm table that he helped her into before turning his attention to the radio where he twisted and turned knobs on its face. Static crinkled in the air before softening into white noise. There was a small notebook lying next to the radio and Roxanne watched as he picked it up, and thumbed through several pages of names before landing on Hudson, R. A random jumble of letters that looked like a word puzzle accompanied the names on Mark’s list.
“Have you ever used a ham radio before?” Mark asked, holding the microphone out to her.
She had to laugh. She hadn’t used a landline in longer than she could remember, and she was fairly certain she hadn’t touched a radio since her grandfather had been alive. She hadn’t even mastered the one in her car. She wouldn’t have known what a ham radio was if her grandfather hadn’t kept one in her family’s cabin, but she didn't have a clue how it actually worked. “I have not,” she confirmed.
Mark rewarded her with a patient smile and then proceeded to explain the basics of how to use the antique tool. “There’s not much to it,” he said. “You’ll hold this when you talk”—he used his thumb to press and depress a small button on the side of the walkie—“and release it when you’re listening. I know your father’s call sign, so if you don’t mind I’ll get him on and then hand it over. Sound okay?”
“Yeah, sure.” Roxanne was relieved all she had to do was use the microphone—she didn’t even know what a call sign was, and felt too silly to ask since he hadn’t volunteered the info.
He nodded and fussed with another nob on the radio, then cleared his throat and said in a very formal voice, “ This is CQ TB1NRK. Tango Bravo One November Romeo Kilo. TB1NRK calling CQ FK1WTB. Foxtrot Kilo One Whiskey Tango Bravo. Standing by for a call.” Mark’s radio voice made Roxanne’s knees weak in a way that had nothing to do with the shock from her car accident. She crossed them and tried to look composed.
Static buzzed again, and within moments the familiar voice of Roxanne’s father came through the line. “CQ TB1NRK Tango Brave One November Romeo Kilo. This is CQ FK1WTB Foxtrot Kilo One Whisky Tango Bravo. Line open. Switching to private frequency. Over.”
Mark pushed a button on the radio, and started speaking in his own voice again. “Hello Robert, this is Mark Foster with the Green Mountain Patrol. I’ve got your daughter her—she’s been in a mild accident, but she’s safe. Handing over to Roxanne now.”
He released the talk button and handed Roxanne the radio, showing her again where to press it as her father’s voice came through the speaker again. “Roxy, are you alright honey? We’ve been wondering where you are. What happened?”
Roxanne pressed the switch and tried not to feel awkward speaking out loud to thin air. “Hi, Dad. I had some car trouble in the snow and am at”—she looked at Mark, who nodded encouragingly—“well, I’m at Ranger Foster’s cabin now. But don’t worry; I’ll be there soon. He’s going to bring me over in the Snow’s Catmobile.” She knew she got that last part wrong, but couldn’t remember exactly what Mark had called it. She tossed her hair back, feigning confidence. He didn’t correct her.
Robert Hudson’s voice was very fatherly when it spoke again. “Not tonight, honey. Visibility is darn near zero, don’t want you to even attempt it, not even with Ranger Foster, and he’s a damn good man—probably the best Snowcatter in these parts. Stay put tonight, kiddo, and have Foster bring you out tomorrow.”
Roxanne’s mouth gaped. Did her dad seriously just tell her to stay the night in a strange man’s cabin?
Mark gestured for the receiver, and she handed it over, not sure what to say. He leaned to glance out the kitchen window, and then resumed his radio voice. “Robert, Mark Foster here. All confirmed. Looks like a white out. I’m happy to have her here for the night; will head your way in the morning. Over.” He held out the radio for Roxanne, but she shook her head. There really wasn’t anything else to say. It sounded like she was spending the night with the ranger whether she liked it or not.
“All good,” Robert Hudson confirmed. “Take care of my little girl, Ranger. Over.”
“I’ll do my best, sir. Will leave the channel open. Over and out.”
Mark busied himself turning knobs on the radio before facing Roxanne again. “Looks like we’re in for the night,” he said, and Roxanne noticed a strain in Mark’s voice for the first time. He wiped his nose, and Roxanne thought she spied some redness on his face that hadn’t been there before.
“Looks like it,” Roxanne agreed, and there was a ripple in her own voice, too.
The ranger smiled at her, and extended his hand again. This time, Roxanne accepted it with no hesitation and let herself be lifted from the kitchen chair. She met his deep green eyes with her grey ones, and tried to not to get lost in them. They were the same lovely shade of evergreen as was the undecorated Christmas tree in the other room.
“Well, Roxy,” he said, and Roxanne didn’t bother telling him that no one besides her dad was permitted to call her that. “Want to help Santa get ready for Christmas?”
Chapter 7
After it was decided that she was staying, Roxanne ins
isted on freshening up, then realized with horror that none of her belongings—other than her purse and her dead cell phone—had made it to the cabin with her. Her luggage, including all of her clean clothes and toiletries, had been left behind, locked in the trunk of her snowbound BMW.
“All of my luggage is back in my car,” she said, trying not to sound panicked. “I don’t have any clean clothes or other…” Her words trailed of as she ran her hands along the sweater and leggings, imagining how wrinkled and filthy she must be. She didn’t even want to think about how mussed her head must have been, or how faded her expertly applied makeup. At the very least, she was stale and wouldn’t be caught dead in a photo. For the first time since she’d woken up, Roxanne felt gritty and embarrassed, simultaneously wanting to look into a mirror more than anything else, and horrified by the idea of seeing her reflection. The idea of being stuck in yesterday’s clothes—and to show up at to face her family as the fashion editor from New York wearing a two-day old road trip outfit—was enough to fill her with such dread that she became instantly nauseous.
Mark gave her an empathetic look. “I didn’t have enough arms for you and your suitcase,” he apologized with a good-natured wink and Roxanne immediately dropped her head to avoid eye contact, “but we can go back for it for thing in the morning. We’ll grab it and you can come back here and freshen up. I’ll take a look at your car while we’re there, too, and see what needs to be done to get you back on the road. Until then, I will do my best to make you comfortable.”
Roxanne was skeptical, but kept her thoughts to herself as Mark promptly led her from the kitchen to a small bathroom attached to the single master bedroom in the back of the cabin. There, left her to her own devices with a pair of fluffy towels and a fully stocked room of toiletries. All the critical items were accounted for—shampoo, conditioner, soap, toothpaste, shower gel, and so on—but as she read through the names of the products, Roxanne was pretty sure she’s never seen a single one of brands that lined the shower or the sink. With names like Tom’s of Maine and Jason they were products more suitable for the hygiene aisle of Whole Foods than the kind of salons Roxanne favored in the city, but for now she needed to be clean and so they would have to do.