Page 6 of Where I Should’ve Been

I’ve hardly had time to watch television or follow true crime podcasts on the internet for the last two decades of my life, but I’ve seen and heard enough to know this is how the worst stories start.

Eleven at night. Lone female. Stranded on a snowy back road. No witnesses. I sure hope Bennett and Norah use a nice photo on my missing person’s poster.

The passenger door squeaks on old hinges as it busts open with a bang, the shadow of a man climbing up and into the V between the door and the cab about all I can make out in the heavy snow. The sky is absolutely shitting it at this point. “Breezy Bishop, is that you?” a male voice calls out, way too jovially for the circumstances.

My panic eases slightly—happenstance, snowbank murderers don’t normally know your name—and I answer hesitantly, my voice quavering with the cold. “Um, yeah. Unfortunately, that’s me.”

When the driver’s door opens in kind and another tall figure steps out, I finally recognize the shadows as the sheep-farming Hanson brothers. Everyone in Red Bridge knows them, especially the ones who are of the single female variety.

Tad Hanson jumps down from the passenger side and stumbles a little as his boots skid across the slippery road, nearly eating it before catching himself on my bumper. His face is lit up in a sloppy grin, and his cheeks are as red as Rudolph’s nose. Behind him, his brother Randy moves steadier, and his mouth is set in a neutral line as he assesses my current stuck-in-the-snow situation.

Unsurprisingly, tonight, Tad is Chatty Cathy and Randy is Broody Betty. It’s not a change from their usual dynamic, but it is an interesting twist to my evening as a damsel in distress.

“Nice car,” Tad announces proudly, patting my Range Rover like it’s a prized cow. “But that’s a god-awful parking spot.”

“Oh, this snowbank isn’t an ideal place to park?” I toss back. “You know us city girls. We don’t drive much.”

Tad’s grin grows.

“You’ll learn. Red Bridge has plenty better spo-ots,” he says, the words moving loosely over his tongue in a way that suggests Tad Hanson is more than a little boozed up. He rubs a hand over his light brown beard as he weaves just slightly on his feet. His cheerful eyes look me up and down, but when his gaze catches sight of my shoes, that grin of his dials up again. “You’re wearing heels. In a blizzard.”

“They’re weatherproof,” I deadpan.

“Woman, those shoes are ten seconds away from calling 9-1-1 themselves,” Tad answers with a chuckle. “Please, Mr. Emergency Man, our suede is mel-ting.”

“Tad.” Randy’s voice cuts through the cold and Tad’s laugh. He throws me an apologetic glance. “Ignore him. He’s a little indisposed.”

“Definitely had enough drinks to feel good and numb. Been a real great night,” Tad chimes in. He slaps the hood of my SUV again and nearly tips over as his feet tangle on the stacked snow, catching himself on the wheel. “Whoops.”

Randy exhales through his nose. “God help me.”

Tad keeps on chattering away as he looks between me and my SUV. “Breezy, you’re bee-you-ti-ful, but your driving could use a little work.”

I should be annoyed, but Tad Hanson’s handsome grin and teasing charm have me laughing instead. “Can’t argue that tonight,” I agree on a snort.

“Would you like a hand?” Tad offers, bowing gallantly and making Randy groan.

Before he can finish his descent, and before I can answer, his boot slips on the ice and he windmills both arms, fighting to keep his face from smacking the ground. I lunge forward out of instinct, only to end up slipping too, and Randy curses behind us like he’s seen this show before.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Somehow, despite his drunken state, Tad manages to stabilize us both by wrapping me up in a bear hug. He grins down at me and winks. “I got ya, Breezy.”

“You do realize you’re the reason we almost fell, right?”

“The ice is a little icy.” He’s still holding on to me tightly. “By the way, you smell real good. Like flowers and fucking sunshine and soft breeze on a summer day. Pretty Breezy smells like a breeze.” He snorts. “It’s kinda perfect.”

“Thanks.” I gently remove myself from his embrace. “But if one of us dies out here, I want it in my obituary that I was dragged down by Tad Hanson.”

Tad beams. “I’d be honored.”

Randy shakes his head, his eyebrows drawing together as my whole body jolts with a giant shiver. “Why don’t the two of you go get in the truck while I finish assessing this situation?”

“You think you might be able to get me out?” I ask, hopeful. After being emotionally sucked dry by my baby brother, a seven-hour, white-knuckle drive, and fifteen minutes standing in the middle of a blizzard, I’d give anything for a warm bed and dry feet right now.

Still grinning, Tad fumbles toward the truck bed. “Fear not, Breezy! The sheep farmers are here to save the day!”

“Tad, why don’t you get in the truck and let me handle this?” Randy suggests again. His brother ignores him.