Page 1 of Thaw My Heart

The scowl branded on my face feels permanent. Camera lights flash in rapid succession, nearly blinding me. I’m doing my best not to appear as pissed off and uncomfortable as I feel. Fern Rivers stands next to me, an older woman I’ve known since my youth. She tugs me closer, bringing our shoulders snug.

“Ryker bailed again?” She asks between bright flashes of light. Snowflakes land and melt instantly on her salt and pepper hair, flowing gracefully over her shoulders.

“Yup,” I say, flatly.

I shouldn’t even be surprised, considering last year he did the same damn thing. My best friend, Ryker Malone, and the man who should’ve been here this evening, is much more suited for PR jobs like this one. Much more photogenic and socially inclined.

Yet here I am, hating every second.

“Kit, can we get a smile?” The man holding the camera gestures to me. He’s from The Silver Lake Gazette, the local newspaper in town.

“I am smiling,” I gruff.

Fern chuckles next to me, trying to hide her laugh with her mittened hand. The faint whiff of gingerbread cookies reminds me of the summers I spent here at her little farm, escaping my responsibilities on the ranch. I frown at her laugh, and she smiles cheekily. A beaming smile that’s stark white in comparison to her golden-brown skin.

“This needs to say happy donation day, with a happy smile,” the news photographer directs, smiling with effect. “Fern, you’re doing great. Just a little more effort, Kit.”

Fuck me.

With a deep sigh, I try. Facial nerves twitching. I’m probably photographing like a serial killer, but it’s the best I can do given that I’m severely out of practice.

“That’s… okay. That’ll do.” He gives a thumbs-up to his crew. “Thank you!” He waves at Fern and me, walking off towards their news van.

I let out a rough exhale, breathing freely now that all the unwanted noise is behind us. Fern steps closer to the large trailer hitched behind my silver Ford F-250, stocked full of hay and supplies to help local farms during the winter season. A charitable donation from Lone Pine Ranch that’s been ongoing for the past five years, or so Ryker told me.

“This is going to help a lot of people. Thank you, Kit.”

“It's all Cole’s idea.” Cole Harlow is my uncle and a literal living legend on the ranch.

She turns to me with a thoughtful look in her eyes. “Your uncle must be so happy to have you back home.”

Two years ago, I returned to Aspen Hollow. A small town built around the shimmering waters of Silver Lake, tucked away in the Rocky Mountains. I didn’t come back by choice, and the only reason I did return is because I had nowhere else to go. “Can I help at all?” I ask her.

She shakes her head. “We’ll make sure it all goes where it needs to. I’ve got plenty of hands today.” A team of five exits the barn, heading toward the trailer to unload. I half expect to see her daughter with them, but for some reason, she isn’t here today.

She’s also the reason I visited this farm quite often as a boy. Nowadays, she’s busy at the local veterinary clinic. Occasionally assisting at Lone Pine Ranch. I wonder if she’s working today or avoiding me. Most likely, it’s the latter, considering how we left things between us.

“Alaska is running errands with Charlie,” Fern knowingly smiles, flashing her blue eyes, the same color as Alaska’s. She must’ve noticed I was looking for her.

“How’s he doing?” I ask, feeling a lump in my throat, knowing damn well he’s been sick for a while. Last year, Charlie Rivers was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s Disease, and since I found out, I haven’t been sure how to act or how to help. To be honest, I’m not equipped to deal with any more sadness than what’s currently taking up space in my mind.

“You know, Charlie, he’s a fighter,” she smiles, but her eyes look tired. “Some days are good and others, well…” she trails off as her face fills with sadness. “I’ll let Alaska know you said hi.”

Ever since Charlie got sick, my relationship with Alaska has been different. I used to consider her a good friend, and at one time, maybe even more. But it’s been months since we’ve had a conversation, and I know it’s my fault.

“Thanks, Fern,” I tip my faded navy ballcap to her. A hat specifically made for me, displaying a single pine tree with Lone Pine Ranch written underneath.

Despite its practicality, I refuse to wear a cowboy hat. My life hasn’t spiraled that far down yet. Though I ended up back home where I said I’d never be, that hat is a symbol. A choice that doesn’t feel like mine.

“Well, let me know if you need anything,” I gesture to my truck before awkwardly heading off towards the bar.

“The mechanical Santa is back up,” Fern warns before I get too far.

I cringe, turning around. “Already?”

I hate that fucking Santa. No matter how many beers I drink, it always seems to watch and insult me with its joyful expression, speaking words of merriment. There’s nothing merry about Christmas, least of all that creepy mechanical Santa they insist on keeping right in the entryway to the local bar.

“Beer is still cold, that’s all that matters,” Fern smiles.