Page 1 of Posing for the Artist Wolf

CHAPTER ONE

CLAIRE

“Dammit, not again.”

The spreadsheet froze mid-calculation as my screen blinked out. Darkness swallowed the room, save for the faint glow of my phone. I swiped it open, the sudden brightness searing my retinas.

Eight percent battery. Great.

My chair creaked as I leaned back, rubbing my eyes beneath my glasses. The power had flickered a handful of time since the snow started falling hours ago. The wind howled outside, rattling windows that hadn’t been updated since they were installed while dinosaurs still walked the planet. I pulled my chunky sweater tighter, snuggling in against the draft.

“C’mon, power, don’t fail me now.”

Silence answered. No telltale hum of electricity springing to life. Just the whistling wind and my muttered curses.

Exactly the reasons why I’d held off on winter bookings. My friends had been the sacrificial lambs for the artist retreat I planned to run in small-town Colorado, and even they would have complained about freezing to death.

I fumbled for the flashlight in my desk drawer, nearly knocking over my cooling mug of tea in the process. The beam cut through the gloom, illuminating dust motes swirling in the air.

I nearly jumped out of my skin when I turned and caught a shadowy figure lurking in the corner.

Just decoration. Not a real intruder.

The chubby Santa had been Grandpa’s favorite holiday decoration. For some strange reason, I thought the double fisted bottles of beer were the winning details, not old Saint Nick’s penchant for reverse robbery.

A lump formed in my throat. This time last year, we’d been stringing up lights in his assisted living condo, his weathered hands carefully untangling the cords without breaking the bulbs. Now those same decorations sat in worn cardboard and his house—mine, now—felt empty without him grumping about something.

I shook my head, pushing the memories aside. No time for nostalgia when there was a power outage to deal with.

Navigating the creaky floorboards, I made my way to the frosty window. A blanket of snow covered the ground and weighed down the branches of evergreen trees. In the distance, the lights of Mill Creek twinkled like fallen stars.

At least they still had power.

A gust of wind sent a shiver down my spine and put my rear in gear. The staircase was a minefield of creaks and squeaks, each step groaning beneath my feet as I made my way downstairs.

Note to self: add ‘fix death-trap stairs’ to the ever-growing list of renovations. Broken necks weren’t exactly the welcome I’d promised my future guests.

The beam of light danced across the archway leading into the parlor, but I skirted around the corner into the great room. The big stone fireplace guided me like a beacon to future warmth and light.

Only, someone had forgotten to fill the log rack among the thousand other tasks that all popped into emergency existence at the very worst moments.

With a very deserved whine, I tugged on my boots and zipped up my coat. Time to brave the elements.

I opened the front door, wincing as the bitter wind slapped my face. The porch creaked under my feet as I made my way to the woodpile, now a lumpy, snow-covered mound. I brushed away the snow, and froze when I caught a flash of movement from the corner of my eye.

There, at the edge of the property, a familiar shape materialized through the flurries. The stray dog. I’d first spotted him the weekend I moved in, and every few days since. He was huge, and frankly, I wouldn’t have minded if he came with a cask of brandy around his neck at that moment.

Snow dusted his shaggy brown coat, and his ears perked in my direction.

“Hey, buddy.” I kept my voice soft. “Come here. It’s okay.”

The dog’s tail wagged once, twice, but he made no move to approach. His eyes—the brightest green I’ve seen on a dog—watched me warily. I’d asked about him in town, but no one knew if he had an owner, or admitted to seeing him at all.

“You can’t stay out here, buddy.” I took a step forward. The dog retreated. “Dammit, come inside with me. I’ll get a fire going, we can snuggle...”

He darted back into the trees, and I heaved a sigh. I hoped he had a warm spot to ride out the storm.

I gathered an armful of logs and hustled back inside, kicking the door shut behind me with more force than necessary. I piled kindling and logs in the fireplace just as Grandpa taught me, then struck a match.

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