Winter Woods

by ID Johnson

  He certainly did; she could tell by the smile he was trying to hide, but he didn’t comment. “There’s plenty of extra blankets and pillas in the upstairs closet, should you need ’em.”

  It took her a moment to realize he’d said pillows, but she nodded along to that as well. “That’s great.”

  “And you know the tap water’s perfectly potable.”

  “All good to know.”

  “All right then, sweetheart. I won’t keep you. I know you said you got lots of work to do. My daughter’ll be so happy to hear you wrote your book while you were stayin’ in one of our cabins,” he grinned.

  Olivia smiled, wondering why people were always so proud to tell others where she’d written her work; it didn’t seem like such a big deal to her. “Thank you so much for stopping by, Mr. Minter. It was great to see you.”

  “You, too,” he said, opening the door and stepping onto the tiny porch. “You need anything, just holler. Our place isn’t too far away—just on the other side of the trees there.” He pointed down past the other cabin, across the opposite direction of the stream.

  “I will,” she assured him. With one more wave, Olivia pushed the door shut against the blustery wind, noticing the snow did seem to be falling a bit heavier now. It was absolutely breathtaking to look at the blanket of snow clinging to the evergreens that surrounded the house on three sides, and the snow falling on top of the other cabin was also beautiful. She was much more content to watch it from inside, however, than walk through it, as Mr. Minter was doing, and before long, he disappeared back into the woods.

  With a small sigh and a smile, she turned to make her way back to the couch and her novel. Certain that this had to be the very last interruption, and she would finally have a chance to work on her book.

  Chapter Four

  It had been several years since Memphis Nix had driven through his mother’s home state of Tennessee, but as he crossed the border into Kentucky, he realized why she loved the Volunteer State so much. There was just something peaceful about driving through the mountains here, passing by old family farms with red barns and old trucks where drivers took the time to wave hello. He’d been tempted to take a detour through Nashville to visit his mom’s folks, but he was in a rush to get to his destination and hoped he’d be able to stop by on his way back to Houston.

  He’d left early the morning before and would’ve just driven the twenty hours straight through but his mother insisted that he spend the night somewhere, so he’d found a cheap hotel in Chattanooga. It wasn’t that he couldn’t afford a nicer place, but he only planned to sleep a few hours and get back on the road, so the Motel Seven had done just fine. He was hoping to make it to West Virginia before nightfall, but the voice on the radio that kept interrupting George and Reba sounded foreboding; apparently, quite a storm was brewing up ahead, just in his line of travel. Luckily, his Silverado had four-wheel drive, and he knew how to drive on ice.

  That hadn’t come from living most of his life in Hockley, Texas, a suburb of Houston. He’d gone to college in Raleigh, at Missouri University of Science and Technology, and the area had gotten more ice and snow than he would’ve imagined for being in the Midwest. He’d learned pretty quickly how to handle a vehicle in inclement weather, and now there really wasn’t much he was afraid of, though his mother’s voice in the back of his head was a constant reminder that he needed to be careful.

  Memphis checked the time on the dashboard and saw that it was just a little past noon. He took off his cowboy hat and ran his hand through his caramel blond hair before returning his black Stetson to its rightful place. He seldom went anywhere without it. Even in college, when some of the guys from nearby St. Louis had given him a hard time, he embraced his inner cowboy. Growing up, he’d spent many a summer his grandparents’ ranch outside of Nashville. His mother was a southern girl through and through, and Memphis wasn’t about to change who he was just because it might not fit in with his surroundings. Now that he was in Kentucky, headed for West Virginia, he was sure he’d fit in just fine.

  Out on the oil rigs, however, that wasn’t always the case. He’d taken a consultant job for a company that worked on several different rigs about six months ago, right after Ellen had told him she needed more space. He’d figured, “What could be better than moving out into the Gulf of Mexico and living on a rig for two to three weeks at a time?” Even when he wasn’t working, he was usually holed up in a hotel somewhere. It beat running into her somewhere in downtown Houston, and after dating for four years, there weren’t too many people in his life that weren’t mutual friends. Starting over had been a great idea, and while his mother had wanted him to spend Christmas with her, there was always a chance he’d run into Ellen or one of her acquaintances. So, when his dad had asked him to meet up with him and his gramps to go fly fishing over New Year’s—a celebration of seventy-two years of life for his father’s father as well—it hadn’t taken him long to decide he’d go, even though his relationship with his father wasn’t stellar.

  His parents had divorced when he was six, and a few months later, his father, Lyle, had remarried to a woman who lived half a country away in Virginia. It had taken Memphis a long time to get over that, but he was doing his best to make amends with his dad, and now that he was older and knew a little more about how the world worked, he wanted to give his dad a second chance. His grandfather, Cal, and his wife Nana Gene, had still come to visit Memphis and his older brother, Nash, at least once a year, so they’d always been close. Now that Nash lived in Alexandria, just a few hours from their granddad and just down the street from their father, all the loose ends seemed to be tied up, and Nash seemed much happier with his life. Memphis hoped for that sort of resolution himself and hoped this visit might just be enough to get him there, though he wasn’t certain it was possible.

  Memphis had just traced I-81 past Roanoke and was getting ready to turn onto Highway 220 North when he got a call. Glancing at the number on his hands-free screen, he clicked the button on the steering wheel to take the call. “Nash? What’s going on?” he asked, cheerfully. It wouldn’t be more than a couple hours before he was finally at his destination.

  “Hey, brother. How are you? You still awake?” Nash’s familiar voice rang out over the truck’s speakers.

  “I’m making it.”

  “Whereabouts are you?”

  “Just passed Roanoke,” Memphis replied. “Won’t be too much longer.”

  “It might,” Nash replied, his voice sounding a little cautious. “Snows starting to pick up here, and you’ll be climbing into the mountains again soon.”

  Memphis had already done a fair share of mountain climbing on this trip. “I’ve been listening to the weather reports. I think I’ll make it there before the real heavy stuff hits.”

  “I hope so,” Nash said. “These roads are pretty curvy. Just take your time though. If you feel like it’s getting too slick or you can’t see, find some place to stay the night.”

  Holding back a chuckle, Memphis asked, “Are you worried about me, brother?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Nash shot back. “You know I could care less if you spent the night upside down in a ditch, but Gramps might be a little worried.”

  He knew full well his brother was teasing, but he’d never admit it. “You tell Gramps I’ve got this. I’ve driven on worse.”

  “Ain’t no mountains in Texas, brother.”

  “True. But there are some in Missouri.” He didn’t mention those mountains were more like overgrown hills.

  “College was a few years ago. You just take it easy.”

  “Will do.” Memphis assured him, even though he really wasn’t too worried about it. He was tired, but working on an oil rig had taught him there was more than one level of exhaustion, and he wasn’t anywhere near his limit.

  “Cell service is spotty up here, so try to let us know if you pull over, but I’m not sure we’ll get the message,” Nash explained.

  “I’ll keep yo
u apprised of the situation,” Memphis assured him, knowing how comical his brother found it when he tried to talk all sophisticated with his heavy southern accent, which was a mixture of his mother’s Tennessee twang and a Texas drawl.

  Nash chuckled. “See you when you get here then.”

  “Not if I see you first.” Memphis disconnected the call with a press of a button and returned his focus to the highway ribboning out in front of him. Even though the snow wasn’t ideal for driving, it sure was beautiful, and he had to be careful not to spend too much time staring out the window at the white clinging to the trees and accumulating in the fields next to the highway illuminated by his headlights. He’d have plenty of time to admire the scenery once he reached the cabin. Then, he could focus on his family and finally take some time to figure out what he wanted to do with his life since things hadn’t quite turned out the way he’d expected. He was hoping he’d find some answers in the winter woods.

  It should’ve taken about nine hours for Memphis to drive from Chattanooga, Tennessee, to Petersburg, West Virginia, which meant even with a couple of stops along the way, he should’ve reached the cabin by 6:00 or 7:00. However, with the weather and the curvy, unfamiliar roads, it had taken him longer than he expected, and it was almost 9:00 when he finally saw a sign that said “Minter Cabins” and pulled his black Silverado onto a small winding path that seemed more like a game trail than a road to him.

  The snow was really coming down, and he wasn’t exactly sure what the cabin looked like. His father had told him it was situated near a creek and was off in the woods, but that about did it as far as a description was concerned. He did know the number was 366, though, so he decided he’d just have to check the house numbers if he didn’t see any familiar vehicles parked out front, and at this point he wasn’t even sure what his other family members might be driving.

  A half-mile or so off the road, he saw a drive leading to a little cabin up ahead on the right. With the snow coming down, it was hard to see, and he didn’t spot any other nearby houses. He decided to turn up the lane and see if this might be the elusive 366.

  Once he neared the structure, he saw that it was pretty small. He was under the impression his father was going all out for Gramps’s birthday, and he didn’t even know how four grown men would fit in this tiny dwelling, but pulling to a stop in front of the cabin, he could barely see through the ice and snow the numbers 366 on a diagonal next to the porch, illuminated by a porch light he thought his family might have left on for him. Assuming he had to be in the right place, he turned the truck off and climbed out, thinking he’d go say hello before he grabbed his gear out of the back. The snow was crisp and cool, and he took his hat off for a minute and let it collect on his face before he put the Stetson back on and rounded the truck to go knock on the door, happy to have reached his destination at last.

  ***

  Olivia had been making some real progress. Finally, after weeks of staring at her computer, willing the words to come out, she’d reached “the zone” and was easily turning out two thousand words per hour. At this rate, she’d get close to ten thousand words down on the very first day of her adventure. There would need to be some editing and re-crafting, but it was a start, and she was finally starting to feel the constrictions of writer’s block slipping off.

  She was just in a good part of the story, one where she’d drop a clue as to what was going to happen in the end—or so she thought; she might end up changing her mind—when she heard something outside. The fire was still crackling, thanks to the new log she’d thrown on an hour or so ago when she’d stopped for soup, but it sounded like an engine. A few seconds later, she thought she saw headlights.

  Olivia definitely wasn’t expecting anyone, and being out here in the woods all alone made her a little nervous. After all, she did have quite the imagination. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have been a very good writer. Once she was sure there was a vehicle parked outside her cabin, she knew she’d have to do something. Glancing around, she noticed a poker next to the fireplace, and setting her laptop on the coffee table, she cautiously made her way over to the would-be weapon, brandishing it and wondering if there was any way she could actually stab another person with a poker, even if her life depended on it.

  As she approached the door, she heard heavy footsteps on the little porch and then a knock, much louder than Mr. Minter’s had been. She was standing near the door, what with it only being a handful of steps away from the couch, and she hesitated, fear of the endless possibilities clouding her mind. Did serial killers knock on doors?

  She glanced through the peephole and almost couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Why was there a cowboy on her front porch? He looked harmless enough—tired and a bit ragged—but nonetheless, he didn’t belong at her doorstep at this time of night.

  Before she could pull the door open, he shouted, “Anybody home?” in a thick southern accent that she thought perfectly fit his persona. Having grown up in West Virginia, she knew she didn’t quite have the enunciation of a nightly news reporter, but his drawl had a bit of twang to it, and she wasn’t even sure she’d understand him at all if there’d been more than two words in the question. Still, he didn’t sound menacing, so she decided to pull the door open, just a bit, her trusty poker still grasped firmly in her hand behind the door.

  He looked almost as surprised to see her as she was to see him once the door was open just a crack. Only her nose and one eye were visible, but he stepped back like he’d seen a ghost. Mustering all of her courage, and her deepest voice, Olivia asked, “Can I help you?” as sternly as possible, so that if he did happen to be a serial killer perhaps he might think she was capable of defending herself.

  After he got over the initial shock of seeing her, he replied, “Oh, howdy, miss. I’m sorry. I… I think maybe I might have the wrong cabin.”

  “You do,” she said with a sharp nod.

  “Oh, okay,” he replied, adjusting his hat a bit. “My dad said he’d rented 366, but I guess he was mistaken.”

  Even in the dim porch light, Olivia noticed he had warm chocolate eyes, and beneath the stubble and the weary look, he was actually quite handsome, not that she would bother to notice that sort of thing. She certainly wasn’t going to assess the attractiveness of a potential murderer. “This is 369,” she said, keeping her voice harsh. “You’re looking for the cabin up the road there, the big one.”

  He looked behind him in the direction she’d nodded while explaining his mistake, and then he turned back to face her before his eyes darted to the number on the house. “But it says 366,” he assured her.

  Olivia grunted, thinking she certainly wasn’t going to come out on the porch and show him how the last number had swung down. “That’s not a six. It’s a nine,” she explained. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, you’ve likely already woken my husband—Brutus.”

  “Brutus?” he echoed his eyebrows arching beneath the wide-brimmed hat he wore. “I definitely didn’t mean to disturb you or your husband, ma’am,” he said taking another step back. “Please accept my apology.”

  “It’s fine just… leave us alone,” she said as menacingly as she could manage, and then before he could say another word, she slammed the door shut and flipped the lock back into place as loudly as possible, hoping that she’d scare him off. Even though he didn’t look like a serial killer, neither had Ted Bundy, and she wasn’t about to become a statistic, like one of those women who is just too trusting and ends up in someone’s freezer because of it.

  A few seconds later, he was back in is truck, backing down her drive toward the lane that led up the road to the larger cabin. She couldn’t help but watch; she had to be sure he was gone and wouldn’t be coming back to bother her. The snow was coming down hard, but she could see his headlights off in the distance as his truck turned into the next drive, and eventually disappeared on the other side of the cabin. Once she was certain he wouldn’t be back, she finally let go of the breath she’d been holding and carr
ied her poker back over to the fireplace.

  “So much for no distractions,” she muttered, slipping it back into place amidst the other fireplace tools. Still, as much as she didn’t want to admit it, if all of her writing disruptions happened to be handsome, mysterious cowboys, maybe she wouldn’t mind being interrupted quite so much.

  Realizing her heart was racing now from her “near death experience” she decided to go grab a snack out of the kitchen and refill her coffee mug. She had at least three more hours of writing ahead of her that night if she wanted to reach the stopping point she had in mind, and eventually the high from the encounter would come crashing down, leaving her in need of liquid motivation.

  Once she was resettled on the sofa, her feet stretched out in front of her and a pillow behind her head, she re-read her last sentence and happily picked up right where she’d left off. At least she hadn’t lost her mojo when she went to scare off the intruder. Even though her main character, Elliott, had light blue eyes all the girls swooned over, for some reason, she was having trouble picturing them now. As she wrote, the image her mind kept conjuring up was of a tall, muscular man with dark brown eyes and a five o’clock shadow. “At least he wasn’t an ugly cowboy,” she muttered and continued to type, thinking she could always go back later and make sure she didn’t accidentally have her nineteenth century hero driving a pickup truck.

  Chapter Five

  Memphis was hopeful that the strange blonde woman had pointed him in the right direction, though he wasn’t about to stand on her porch one second longer to question her accuracy or her sanity. As he pulled into the second driveway, he couldn’t help but wonder why she had seemed so angry. Perhaps he’d woken her from a deep sleep, though he could’ve sworn the lights were still on in the living room. Maybe she was just an anti-social person. Or maybe her husband—Brutus—was a louse when someone woke him in the middle of the night, and she’d have to pay for it. Whatever the reason for her attitude, he did feel bad that he had upset her so much, and he hoped he’d have the opportunity the next day to go over and apologize.