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The girl wrinkled her nose. “My mom says we get rid of things we don’t use.”
Her mom’s lips bobbed as if wanting to pose another argument, but the cowboy spoke first.
“Your mom is a wise lady.”
The mom’s face hardened, combatting the smile she failed to keep in place. She adjusted the dog in her arms and waved to her daughter as I heard the receptionist ending whatever call she was on.
“Come on, sweetie. We’ve taken up too much of this nice man’s time.”
“Not at all,” the cowboy said.
The girl obvious wanted to keep talking to him, but she dutifully placed her gloved hand in her mother’s and walked to the inn’s door. She gave the cowboy a final, wistful glance before the bell tinkled to announce their exit.
The cowboy bent at the waist as if engaging the radio in a stare-down—and giving me the unexpected appreciation of his back pockets. I shook my head and stood, wheeling my suitcase to stand beside him.
“You had that little girl wrapped around your finger.”
The cowboy straightened, rested a hand on his hip, and examined me with chocolate-brown eyes. A lock of dark hair swept across his forehead beneath the brim of his hat.
My breath hitched under the full force of his gaze. A sideline profile view had been enough to draw me in, but his shoulders, his tall stance, the effect his features had on my ability to take a full breath was more than I banked on.
I legitimately trembled in my boots and had to swallow.
“I did, didn’t I?” His expression wasn’t nearly as warm as it had been. No smile. Guarded eyes.
“I’m Grace, by the way,” I said.
The cowboy’s nostrils flared. His eyes bugged, and his body went instantly rigid.
Whoa. What was that about? Did he not want me talking to him or something?
Without another word, he tapped the brim of his hat and turned to leave. At the same time, my mom texted, not giving me time to wonder why me telling him my name was such a big deal.
Mom: Sorry honey. She said there’s no record. I could have sworn I made the reservation! I’ll call that little town and see if I can find something. Why don’t you hang tight?
Hang tight. Sure.
Me: It’s okay. I’ll see if I can find something.
Feeling listless and abandoned, I faced the snowy view out the front windows once more. I was stranded far from home with words to write and nowhere at which to write them. What was I going to do if I couldn’t find anywhere to stay?
GRACE
The more time passed,the worse my worries got.
I sat in the lobby as more guests came and went. I looked up other hotels, but the nearest town was Whitefish, and it was about an hour out. I even called the shuttle service that brought me up to the mountain, but they weren’t making any more trips today.
It was only four thirty in the afternoon, but the sky outside was starting to darken. Desperation began to creep behind my sternum like a prowling snake, and my heart was the unsuspecting mouse.
Maybe Harper’s Inn had a shuttle that could get me back down. Or a sled.
I read something about sleigh rides offered here. Maybe their driver could hook up Old Bessie to a sleigh and get me somewhere to sleep tonight.
Somewhere warm, preferably.
Leaving my suitcase on the floor by the Christmas tree, I went back to the reception desk.
The receptionist was hidden behind a book with a couple embracing in the snow. Its title wasOh, The Weather Outside.Hm. Looked like something I’d enjoy.
