December 1908
When the seat of Tommy Solberg’s union suit flapped open in the howling wind, he knew his luck had officially run out. It wasn’t enough he’d already lost his horse and most of his clothing—the bare minimum required for safe passage through the Cascade Mountains in the dead of winter—now his dignity was gone as well.
“Damn you, Miss Wigglesbottom,” he shouted into the frozen, desolate forest.
He’d known the shrewd-eyed, garlic-breathed innkeeper’s daughter would land him in trouble. He’d heard tales of such young women who, aided by equally conniving mothers, sought to entrap affluent men traveling alone. Of course, had the Wigglesbottoms succeeded, they would have been sorely disappointed. Tommy was far from wealthy—he just had to look the part while he transported stolen goods. He’d learned at an early age the police were far less likely to question a man whose attire shouted I dine with the Rockefellers.
He’d been peacefully asleep when the daughter crawled into his bed. Thank Christ he slept in his union suit or she would have gotten an eye-full. But what he could not fathom was why neither the daughter nor the mother had let the innkeeper in on their plan. The graying, potbellied man surprised everyone by whipping pistols from his robe pockets and ordering Tommy to skedaddle. He fingered the bullet hole in the brim of his hat, a sobering reminder of how close he’d been to losing his noggin over a woman he would rather dropkick than tumble.
His only consolation was that he’d secured the oilskin containing the valuable first edition book before fleeing the inn. The cursed book that had been his impetus to enter the godforsaken mountains to begin with, a rumor whispered about in the bookshops of Seattle he hadn’t been able to ignore. The money obtained from its sale would provide the final payment needed to put his dream into action.
“One last job,” he grumbled as he tried in vain to cover his bare ass. The button holding the wool together was long gone, and the wind was vicious and unerring. “All I needed was oooone more.”
Six years of flawless thievery gone in a puff of snow powder. If he didn’t find shelter soon, it wouldn’t matter how many books he’d stolen or what he planned to do with the profits. He’d just be another frozen hunk of meat in an unforgiving land.
“Keep going.” His voice was growing thready and he strove to control his panic. “Think about all the hot toddies waiting for you at home. All the baths. All the—”
The ground beneath him collapsed.
He threw his weight forward, flinging both arms out as he fell. His torso collided with the edge of the pit. His legs dangled over empty space. Breath lodged in his throat, he dared not look down. Slowly, carefully, he wiggled his fingers through the snow. An exposed root scraped against his cold-stiff hand. He clutched it with relief, using it to haul himself from the pit. He rolled onto his back and drew great gasps of air.
“Fucking hell,” he whispered.
Fumbling at the buttons on the front of his union suit, he withdrew the oilskin and brought it close to his face. Somehow, it was undamaged. His gut must have taken the brunt of the fall. He staggered to his feet, teeth chattering like marbles in a tin can. Each indrawn breath of frigid air burned his nostrils. His toes were numb inside his boots. It didn’t matter that he’d avoided death by snow pit; his frosty clothes would finish the job soon.
“Now what?”
He squinted at the stark canvas of whites and grays around him. Perhaps he was delusional, but it was quite beautiful. Snow glistened on splashes of evergreen. Branches creaked and swayed in an eerie symphony. Muted sunlight cast an ethereal glow on the slope of a rooftop in the distance.
He blinked. Rubbed his eyes.
It was a rooftop.
He staggered forward, his boots sliding clumsily through the snow. The structure came into view. It was not a hunter’s shack, but a cabin of the finest timber, clever woodwork adorning the eaves and railings. Two matching windows graced the front of the cabin and a chimney ascended from the roof in a blend of rich, earth-toned stones. He must have stumbled across one of the retreats belonging to Washington’s elite.
He pounded on the door with an aching fist. “Anybody home?”
Silence.
He lurched to the window and pressed his nose to the glass. Strange shapes blocked his view of the dark interior. But it was dark. No smoke rose into the sky. He stepped backward, then flinched as an avalanche of snow and rocks fell from the rooftop and filled the space he had been occupying.
There was no doubt about it. Nature had it out for him.
He hurried to the door and shouted, “Last chance. I’m coming in.”
The handle turned easily, and the door swung open with a low squeak. He eased his way inside. Something whispered against the back of his head and he ducked with a curse. He chanced a look upward, steeling himself against finding a ceiling enveloped in cobwebs.
He straightened, mouth agape. Hand-cut paper snowflakes dangled on strings, rotating slowly in the disturbed air like a snowstorm suspended in time. He shut the door and stepped farther inside. Wreaths of twisted vines and dried flowers framed the windows, and holly decorated mounted antlers on the far wall. A small Christmas tree sat in the corner of the room, covered in delicate glass baubles and popcorn garland.
Faint traces of an aromatic stew hung in the air, cut with a harsh chemical smell that Tommy couldn’t place. A plain screen blocked a corner of the room, and its strange placement gave him pause. It reminded him of a setup he’d once seen in a photographer’s studio, but that would be unlikely out there in the wilderness.
Then he saw the bed.
Not a hunter’s cot, but a real bed. The solid oak frame was covered with an absurd amount of patchwork quilts and plaid flannel blankets, even a sheepskin fleece. Plump pillows lined the headboard while others were scattered carelessly across the bed. It beckoned to him with promises of a profound, healing sleep.
Barely believing his good fortune, he placed the oilskin on a nearby table and set to removing his clothing. He closed his eyes in bliss as he draped a warm, thick fur over his bare shoulders. Hugging it close, he squatted before the fireplace. The firewood rack was nearly depleted, unusual for the inclement weather. Whichever eccentric owned the cabin must have recently departed. Surely, they wouldn’t begrudge him a life-saving fire.
As the small flame slowly suffused the cabin with warmth, he used his remaining energy to clean up after himself. He carefully draped his union suit over a chair and moved his boots to the stone hearth. The wet marks on the floor where he’d walked around also had to go.
At last, trembling with exhaustion and relief, he crawled into the bed. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he buried his face in a pillow to stifle a groan. He’d come too close to losing everything. Too close to death.
He adjusted the blankets around him, sifting through them until he found a soft flannel that smelled of cinnamon and vanilla. The comforting scent eased the tension from his muscles, and he tucked the cloth close to his face.
“Get warm,” he ordered himself, his words slurring. “Get energy. Get back to Seattle.”
Then he fell into a deep sleep.