Page 4 of A Not So Merry Rescue
Once it’s unlocked, I open the door, sliding onto the seat, pushing a bag of snacks out of the way. I close the window and remove my gloves, blowing into my hands to give them a little more heat.
“I can’t assess all the damage until I have it on the lift, so I’ll put it on the flatbed and deliver it to the garage. Can probably work it into the schedule tomorrow afternoon. Slow week with the holiday and all.”
I’m trying to set her at ease, but her expression pains more.
“Okay.” She tugs on the ends of her chestnut locks, entwining her finger and twisting the hair around it.
“Where did you say you were headed?”
She starts to answer, but her mouth clamps shut. Her head shakes and she articulates, “I’d rather not say.”
So much for polite chitchat while I brace the elements before I load up her car. Too bad for her I remember it from the earlier phone call.
“You’ll have to stay here for the night.”
“Here?” she squeaks, worry lacing the one word.
“There’s an inn in town. Happy to drop you off on the way.”
“That’s kind of you.” She tucks her top teeth into her mouth, the action adorable. “Guess I was wrong.”
“About what?” My curiosity piqued, the question pops out.
“You being a serial killer.” Her shoulders rise in a shrug, as if she didn’t just peg me as a murderer.
“Dramatic much?” My teenage niece’s voice rings in my ears.
“I don’t know where I am. I’m supposed to just trust you arewho you say you are?” She pauses, her eyes widen with whatever else she must be thinking. “Even then, it’s not like serial killers announce themselves as serial killers.”
And I’ve got a crazy one on my hands.
She angles her body away from me, putting more space in between us.
“I guess you’ll have to trust me when I say I’m not a serial killer.”
“Which is what a serial killer would say!” Exasperated, she throws her hands in the air.
“So you’d rather not take a chance on me? What will you do? Stay here until someone you know can come rescue you rather than me loading up the car onto my truck and dropping you off at the inn that’s about ten minutes up the road?” I cross my arms over my chest, not missing the way her eyes home in on the action. Her tongue peeks out the left corner of her mouth before she snaps it closed.
“Where are we exactly?”
“Winterberry Junction,” I rattle off.
“That’s . . . an interesting name for a town. Did you say Winterberry?”
“Yep. Named for the season”—I wave my hand in front of me toward the windshield—“and the berries that grow here, specifically winterberries.” I repeat words I’ve heard all my life. Don’t have much use for the berries, but the town? I love it.
Her eyes narrow. “It sounds made up. Winterberry.” Her nose scrunches when she emphasizes the word.
“I assure you, it’s a real place. Even have our own zip code.”
Outside the warmth of the car, the snow continues to fall, picking up speed as the wind gusts whip around. The longer this takes, the more time it will be before I can retire for the night. After today’s grueling workout, a steam shower is screaming my name.
“I’m googling it.” Her phone is out before I can make anothercomment. One along the lines of let’s get a move on. But sometimes there’s no arguing with crazy . . .
While she looks up the town, I send a text to the Snowy Peaks Inn to inquire about their availability. Christmas is a popular time in Winterberry, and visitors flock from near and far. As it gets closer to the holiday, tourists outnumber locals. The Snowy Peaks Inn is less popular, as many guests like the appeal and ambience of the two local bed-and-breakfasts.
“Wait. What’s your name?” I question as realization sets in. Why I didn’t get it earlier evades me.
