She donned her gloves and returned to the porch for her suitcase, groceries and purse, then, when the car had been packed again, went back one more time to snatch a snow shovel leaning against a wall.
The tracks from her car were already filling with snow. She certainly couldn’t back out of the driveway. She saw what looked like a turnaround just ahead of where she’d parked. If it was what it seemed, she could circle and head back up the driveway. But when she got in the driver’s seat and tried to inch forward, her wheels spun. She put the car in Reverse and rocked back a bit, then tried to move forward again. This time she made a little headway, but not enough.
She was about ten feet from the turnaround, which was about ten feet wide and ten feet long. Slamming her palm against the steering wheel she took a deep breath, then got out, grabbed the shovel from the backseat and went around to the front of the car. Her feet felt like they were on fire, and even with gloves, her hands felt cold enough to freeze to the shovel handle.
She worked as quickly as she could, shoveling the snow in front of both front tires. Then she started a track to the turnaround for one set of wheels. The snow was light enough, but she tired quickly. She’d had a long flight from California, a long drive from Buffalo, and now this. Rested and appropriately attired, she would have been more successful. But exhausted, with body temperature plummeting, every shovelful was a Herculean task.
At the turnaround she leaned on the shovel and bowed her head. Even if she was able to finish, would it do any good? Her tracks were almost invisible now. If she was able to move the car and turn it around, would she be able to make her way up the driveway? Then what? The road was probably piled with snow.
She hadn’t heard so much as a car passing, but as she tried to figure out the best option, she heard a distant rumble. Was it a plow? If she floundered through the snow up to the main road could she flag down the driver, explain her predicament, perhaps even get a ride into town?
The rumble deepened and grew louder. Dragging the shovel behind her, in case she needed it, she stomped up the driveway, stopping only for her purse. Ten yards later, ten grueling, numbing yards, she stopped again. Because suddenly she was no longer alone. A snowmobile was coming down the driveway with a lone, helmeted driver.
She wanted to cry from relief until she realized she was in the middle of nowhere in a blizzard with a stranger, and almost nobody knew she was here. Relief turned to apprehension.
The snowmobile pulled to a halt, and the broad-shouldered driver, clothed in appropriate gear, turned off the engine before he hopped down. For a moment he didn’t move; then he reached up and stripped off his helmet to reveal a wool stocking cap beneath it.
“Hello, Jo.”
This man was no stranger, although he was capable of causing a great deal of distress.
She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The last time she’d seen Brody Ryan, he had carefully and unemotionally explained the reasons why they couldn’t get married. Now, as then, she didn’t know what to say. She stared speechlessly for what seemed like forever, assessing the way the world seemed to be tilting on its axis. At last she settled for the obvious.
“Brody.”
“I guess ‘long time no see’ is a cliché.”
“What are you doing here?”
He smiled, a smile she remembered too well, creases that were almost dimples in his cheeks, laugh lines fanning out from green eyes.
“I guess I’m rescuing you. Looks to me like you might just need it.”
CHAPTER TWO
AS BRODY TENDED a fire in the living room fireplace, the shower on the second floor screeched to a halt. Jo must be getting out at last.
He tried to put that image out of his mind.
He was glad he had arrived when he did. By the time he’d managed the driveway Jo had been one stick short of a Popsicle, and by the time he’d unlocked the door to let her inside, she had been shivering uncontrollably. There had been no time to talk. He’d sent her right upstairs to shower and put on warm clothes, and he’d busied himself starting the fire, followed by a pot of coffee. There were few provisions in the Hollymeade pantry, but he’d scraped just enough grounds out of a canister for one pot. He knew Jo had brought next to no groceries with her, because once the fire and coffee were going, he’d retrieved her suitcase and a flimsy plastic bag from the car.
Now the suitcase was resting in the hallway outside the bathroom, and the pitiful groceries were resting on the kitchen counter.
His work was done. Jo wouldn’t freeze, and she wouldn’t starve. Yet somehow, he was still in the house, adding kindling to a fire that was already blazing merrily.
He heard footsteps on the stairs, then a voice behind him. “Thanks for bringing in my things.”
When he turned he saw she was wearing fleece from neck to ankle, something soft, warm and a pretty shade of green. He was glad she’d had the good sense to bring at least some weather-appropriate clothing in her sleek little suitcase.
“You look a little warmer,” he said.
“I think I’ve stopped shivering.”
“I made coffee. It’s in the kitchen.”
“Perfect. May I get you some?”
He heard the stiff formality in both their voices. How nice of you. Thank you. What can I do? He knew better than to sigh, because what had he expected? That the woman who had been pathetically grateful when he called off their engagement all those years ago would throw herself into his arms tonight?
“I take it black,” he said.
“You never used to.” She immediately looked chagrined, as if remembering a simple preference opened doors.
He examined a speck on the wall to avoid her eyes. “I don’t have time to pretty it up anymore.”
“I guess...well, it’s obvious you still live in the area.”
He wasn’t surprised she hadn’t known. From what he’d heard, she hadn’t been to Kanowa Lake in years. And whenever he had casually asked about her, nobody in the Miller family seemed to have news. Clearly she had never asked about him.
“In the house where I was raised,” he said.
“Your father still has vineyards?”
He took too long to answer. She didn’t know that, either, but—he guessed for a number of reasons—this time he was grateful. “He died. I care for them alone now.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.”
He thought she probably was. His father had liked Jo, and so had his mother. He was pretty sure the feeling had been mutual. Of course nobody, not his parents, not her family, especially not her mother, had ever known how serious they were about each other, how they had planned to marry after they finished school, how they had chosen universities close enough that they could spend long weekends together.
That in his senior year the whole flimsy house of cards had tumbled to the ground.
“So I stayed a local boy,” he said. “What about you?”
“After I got my master’s degree I moved back to California. I’m a systems analyst with a consulting firm in San Diego.” After clipping the words as short as a boot-camp haircut, she left for the kitchen, and he gave the fire one more poke for good measure before she returned with coffee, handing him the mug, handle turned for him to grasp.
“I couldn’t get inside,” she said. “When I arrived, I mean. That’s why I was shoveling the driveway, so I could turn around. The key wasn’t where Great-Uncle Albert said it would be. I was about to head to town.”
“The key’s been in the same place as long as I can remember. The