NELL ROSE LEANED FORWARD, gripping the steering wheel tightly as she strained to see the narrow, winding road before her. Snow fell fast and thick, obscuring what would otherwise have been a breathtaking view.
It was a conspiracy, that was it, a well-planned and widespread conspiracy to ensure that her vacation sucked in every way. The weatherman who’d predicted that the snowstorm would roll into the Smoky Mountains in the early morning hours had been off, by about twelve hours. She’d planned to be inside her rented cabin by dark, and then it could snow for the week, for all she cared. If she hadn’t gone back to the office for the directions she’d printed off the day before and left sitting on her desk, she still might’ve beaten the weather. Who would’ve thought Stu Grayson—a senior partner with the law firm where Nell Rose worked as a secretary and gopher—would be working on a holiday? Naturally, Stu’s “I need you for a few minutes” had turned into an hour and a half. Lawyers were such workaholics!
She never should’ve taken the shortcut, which according to the map she’d found online should’ve taken her around the main roads and saved her half an hour, or more. Instead, the winding road was too narrow, and she had to drive so slowly she was certain the “shortcut” was costing her precious time. Somehow she’d gotten herself on a mountain road with sharp drops to the left and uneven ditches to the right.
The muscles in her neck were tight. She strained forward and squinted, even though she knew the extra effort didn’t help her to see any clearer or farther. Since she hadn’t been able to pick up a radio station without static for the past half hour, she’d plugged in a soothing CD—before the snow had started to fall so hard. Now the occasional high notes were getting on her nerves, so she punched the eject button more fiercely than was necessary and then wallowed in the silence.
New Year’s Eve. If the past week was any clue, it was going to be a sucky year. The man she’d thought might be “the one” had turned out not to be a commitmentphobe after all. He was married and had three kids. There’s commitment for you! Three children, she couldn’t believe it. What the hell? She had friends who had kids so she knew how time-consuming little ones could be. How had Bill found the time to try to weasel his way into her bed? Thank goodness she’d found out the truth before he’d gotten his Christmas present, which in her fantasies had included the new red teddy she’d bought herself as an early gift, a bottle of champagne, her surrender to his charms and multiple simultaneous orgasms.
To make matters worse, she’d gained ten pounds. Not since Christmas, even she couldn’t manage to gain ten pounds in a week, but in the past six months the pounds had arrived, one at a time, until now her favorite pants were a bit too snug. Since the groceries she had in the backseat included chocolate in several forms—cookies, candies, hot cocoa mix, flavored coffee, which would require cream and sugar and fudge for the sundaes she planned to make once she made it to a local store and bought vanilla bean ice cream—she’d probably gain another ten before her vacation was over.
Pathetic.
Without music filling the silence, the only sounds she heard were the swish of the windshield wipers brushing away the falling snow and the whoosh of her tires rotating through the accumulating slush. They created a kind of rhythm: swish, whoosh, swish, whoosh.
Nell Rose made a commitment of her own, to the tune. No matter what a bad start she was off to, she would not allow this year to be a waste. She’d take control of her life, starting here and now. What better time to make a few resolutions?
First of all, no men. At all. For at least six months, and maybe the whole year—if she could stand it. She didn’t enjoy being alone, didn’t like to be the one who showed up at all the office parties and family gatherings solo, but obviously her radar was off where the opposite sex was concerned. Way off. She was always drawn to the wrong men. At the age of twenty-eight, you’d think she might at least have one winner in her past. But no, she let the decent ones pass her by and honed in on the overgrown children, the charmers who promised everything and delivered nothing—even a thief, once. And now, a married man. That one wasn’t entirely her fault, since she hadn’t known Bill was married until two weeks ago, and she’d immediately ended their relationship.
So, no more men. No casual relationships, no looking for the elusive Mr. Right. Nothing.
Second, no chocolate. How else was she going to lose the ten pounds she’d gained, and the ten she’d needed to lose before she’d gained them? Maybe she’d even start exercising. Yes, she would make herself run. On purpose. While not being chased by a wild animal or trying to beat the crowd to a shoe sale.
Third, she’d get serious about her job. For at least half the year, she’d devote herself to her work. She’d concentrate on climbing the corporate ladder. It was a goal.
She could take night classes, work late, volunteer for the jobs no one else wanted. Stu wanted some help on a Friday night? She’d be there. New Year’s Eve, Christmas, Fourth of July, she was his man—so to speak. She would devote her man-less, newly buff self to building a career. Nell Rose had never really had much in the way of career goals. She’d always imagined she’d meet a man, fall madly in love, have kids, stay at home and become a soccer mom. Maybe it wasn’t an exciting dream, but it was hers. Or had been.
Fourth, and last on her list of resolutions so far, she was going to stop biting her nails when she was nervous. She suspected this last detail on the list would be the easiest resolution to keep. It wouldn’t require a life change, just some of that bitter stuff to paint on her nails. Maybe it was a cheat, but—
Without warning, the car jerked to the side, as her tires lost their tenuous grip on the slushy road. She tried to get control once more, but turning the steering wheel was a waste of time. The car now had a mind of its own. It shuddered, the back tires slid wildly to the left, then to the right and back again. Though she couldn’t see what was coming she felt the jerk when the car left the road, and when it plunged she felt as if the world had been snatched out from under her.
She had time to utter one last, pithy word, “Shit,” before her head snapped forward and banged against the steering wheel.
Nell Rose lifted her head slowly, taking a deep breath. So, matters could get worse, after all. The snow continued to fall, her car sat sideways in a ditch—not the deepest she’d passed, but deep enough—and she was lost and alone.
A glow of light caught her eye. She unbuckled her seat belt and shifted to the passenger seat to glance up the steep hill. There was a house up there; her first bit of luck in the new year.
Well, her second. Things would be much worse if her car had taken a leap to the left.
JULIAN SAT BACK IN HIS favorite chair, a cup of steaming coffee on the table beside him, the television on with the audio muted. The picture on the screen was weather radar. The storm that was moving in, earlier than predicted, didn’t concern him. He could easily get by for a month with what he had on hand. Propane for heat if the power went out. Canned goods and dried fruit, though if the power went he’d cook the fresh food first on his propane stove. He even had a camp coffeepot to use on that stove if there was no electricity, and hence no coffeemaker, because the one thing he couldn’t live without was his coffee. Everything else was gravy.
For two days he’d been ignoring the stack of mail he’d picked up at his P.O. box in town, but the letters weren’t going away until he dealt with them. Bills were separated and set to one side. Junk mail went straight into the garbage can that was conveniently placed behind the table where his coffee cup sat. What remained were three letters, with varying postmarks. He set the one with the Knoxville postmark and familiar handwriting aside, delaying the inevitable.
Most of his fan correspondence came via email, which suited him just fine, but a few diehards continued to send him actual letters. He’d been intending to have his web-master remove the P.O. box address from the website and then change out his box, where he got all his mail, not just fan letters. He just hadn’t done it, yet.
Dear Mr. Maddox, the first letter began formally. I loved your latest book, The Demon’s Promise. The hero was so real, I couldn’t put the book down! I was up until three in the morning… The letter continued, filled with praise, and ended with the inevitable. I’m writing a horror novel myself. Would you be willing to give me your agent’s name and phone number?
The second letter had no salutation, just began with a bitter You hack, you must’ve sold your soul to the devil to make the New York Times list with this last disgusting attempt at a novel. What drivel… Julian read no further; the letter was dropped on top of the junk mail.
He knew what he’d find in the third letter, more or less, but he opened it anyway. A glutton for punishment, or just curious?
Dear Julian, Last night I stood outside your house and peered inside. A chill ran up his spine. I wanted so badly to ring the doorbell and introduce myself. I’m sure we’d hit it off right away, but my shyness kept me on the porch. Was it a lucky guess that he had a front porch, or had this nut-job actually been to the house? Most houses had some sort of front porch, so Julian was going to go with “lucky,” for now. We are connected soul-deep, I feel it when I read your books, when I dream about you. It seems you plucked this last book directly from my brain. He’d been accused of having a disturbing brain, but that was his job. He scared people for a living; he didn’t want to connect on any level with anyone whose brain worked like his did.
The letter continued, filled with lavish praise, and ended, as always, with a See you soon. Your Number One Fan forever.
There was never any clue in the letters as to whether the writer was a man or a woman, though the “connected soul-deep” had a definite feminine ring to it. The penmanship was neat, but not particularly swirly or austere. While the “fan”—if you could assign such a designation to the author of these particular letters—had never actually threatened harm, the letters were creepy. See you soon.
He was going to have to get a gun. While Julian enjoyed his privacy here in the mountains of Tennessee, he was often reminded of how isolated he was. Actually, every time he got a letter from the Knoxville fruitcake, he was reminded. Knoxville was much too close for comfort. It pissed him off that these damn letters had him thinking about buying a gun. He’d sworn years ago he would never own another one.
While he was tempted to toss the letter after the junk mail and the critique, he didn’t. He slipped it into the drawer of the table at his side, on top of the last two letters from the same writer. Both his agent and the sheriff had suggested that he file them away. Just in case. Maybe they thought it would give them something to go on if he ended up dead, or missing. Maybe they were just humoring him. Neither of them took the letters seriously.
They apparently thought his imagination was running away with him. It had happened before.
When the doorbell rang, Julian nearly shot out of his chair. The radar showed an increasingly heavy snowstorm moving into the area. Who would be on his doorstep now? Wishing he’d already bought that damned gun, he settled for the next best thing, a poker sitting in a brass stand near the fireplace. An unused poker, since propane fireplaces didn’t require the tools; they were just for looks, bought and placed by a decorator. He gripped the poker as the doorbell rang again, and walked to the door, peering through the narrow window beside it. Could be a neighbor, though they were few and literally far between out this way. Could be a delivery, though it was a little late in the day for UPS and FedEx always ran in the morning.
The woman standing on the front porch—bundled in a heavy coat that hid whatever shape she might have, with a colorful knitted scarf hiding her hair and framing a pretty face—was not a neighbor or a delivery person. She caught his eye, and heaven above, the look she gave him was pathetic.
“Hello,” she called, loud enough to be heard through the closed door. “My car went into the ditch at the bottom of your hill.” At that, she laid an easy hand over her forehead and winced.
She didn’t look dangerous and he still held the poker, so he didn’t hesitate to open the door.
“My cell doesn’t get a signal here,” she continued, looking him in the eye. Her eyes—brilliant blue, even in the unnatural front-porch light—were teary. “And I sprained my ankle walking up the hill, and I hit my head on the steering wheel when the car landed in your ditch.” She moved her scarf up a bit, revealing a red spot on her forehead. She’d be bruised there by morning, he imagined. Her lower lip trembled, but she fought for control. “Can I borrow your phone to call a tow truck?”
“Sure.” Julian opened the door wide and she stepped in, as cautious to be entering a stranger’s house as he was to be letting a stranger in on the heels of another weird letter.
“Sorry to be a bother,” she said as she limped inside, favoring her right ankle. Her eyes took in the main room of his cabin—which was in reality much too elaborate to be called a cabin. His mountain home had two stories plus an unfinished half-basement, three large bedrooms, three and a half bathrooms and a kitchen any woman would die for. If he’d built the house himself, he wouldn’t have bothered with such a large, fancy kitchen, but the house had been almost finished when he’d bought it. The Herringtons, an older couple who’d lived in the area for years, had built the house, but Fred Herrington had been laid off and they’d run out of money before it was done. They’d been forced to sell and had remained in their smaller house half a mile down the road. On the few occasions he’d run into them in town, they hadn’t seemed happy to see him. Especially Mary, who’d likely designed the kitchen for herself.
Not that Julian didn’t cook. After the divorce he’d learned, refusing to be dependent on anyone for anything ever again. Maybe he’d learned to cook out of spite, but he had done it. At the moment homemade chili was simmering in a Crock-Pot in the kitchen.
The living room, where he spent most of his time, was where he—and infrequent visitors—could see his touch. Two entire walls were ceiling-to-floor bookcases, and they were filled with books of all kinds. Research, reference, fiction, history, philosophy, even cookbooks. The furnishings were dark leather and walnut, with a touch of brass and rusty-red here and there.
“Wow,” she said as she hobbled into the room. “You must like to read.”
“Yeah,” he responded. “You?”
“Not really,” she said. “I mean, I like to read but I don’t have much time for it. Maybe I should make that another resolution,” she said softly, as if to herself. “Number five, read more. Goodness knows I’ll have the time.”
If this woman was the one who’d been writing the disturbing letters, she hid her obsession well.
“My name’s Nell Rose,” she said, belatedly introducing herself. “I’m so sorry to intrude upon you this way. Blame the weathermen who said the snow would come in overnight,” she added, a touch of bitterness in her voice. “And the online map that sent me way off the path. Though maybe I took a wrong turn… Anyway, sorry.” She had a pleasant Southern accent, not too pronounced, but not without that telling lilt, either.
“I’m Julian,” he said. “No need to apologize. The phone’s over here.” He directed her to a waist-high bookcase near the hallway that led to the kitchen and dining area. A phone sat on the top shelf; the phonebook was just below. He knew the name of the closest gas station that had a tow truck, but did not have the number memorized. He looked it up and called off the number while Nell Rose dialed.
“My car is in a ditch,” she said, calmly and without preamble, and then she looked at Julian. “What’s your last name?” she asked in a lowered voice.
“Maddox.”
“In front of Julian Maddox’s house. Do you know where that is?” Her face fell. “What do you mean you’re not running? You have to be running! I’m in a freakin’ ditch in the middle of nowhere!” Her composure crumbled, and for the first time, he saw real concern on her face.
“Let me,” Julian said, reaching for the phone, taking it from her and holding it to his ear. “I’d be willing to pay a generous bonus—”
Before he could finish the offer, the man on the other end of the line spoke. “Mr. Maddox, I’m sorry, but there’s not a thing I can do.” Sam Fulton had a Southern accent, like Nell Rose, but without the pleasant lilt. He was a good ol’ country boy and a bit of a grump. “There’s no way we can make it up to your place.”
“But—”
“Call the sheriff,” Sam suggested. “He’s closing roads left and right, but maybe he can get someone up there to pick up your girl before it gets too bad. I’ve got to get home myself,” he said briskly, “before I get stuck right here. Y’all take care, now.”
Julian hung up the phone, punching the off button, and then thumbed the on button to get a dial tone. The sheriff’s number he did know by heart. He and Paul had become friends, so he didn’t waste time with calling the station. He dialed the sheriff’s cell number.
He explained the situation quickly, but Paul wasn’t much help. The curving, hilly road that ran in front of Julian’s house was being closed as they spoke. Julian did everything but beg, but there was nothing Paul could—or would—do. After a moment, Paul asked to speak to the stranded woman and Julian handed over the receiver.
“Hello?” Nell Rose said, her voice tentative. She listened for a moment, and then responded. “Nell Rose Collins, 12134 Garden Place Drive, Birmingham, Alabama.” She recited a home phone number and a cell number, then gave the name of a law firm. She held the phone between her ear and her shoulder while she fumbled with her purse and answered a question while she was doing so. “I’ve never been to Knoxville. Why do you ask?” She looked rightfully puzzled. “No, I have no relatives in the Knoxville area, either.” Eventually she pulled out her driver’s license. She recited the number to Paul, and then she handed the phone back to Julian. “The sheriff wants to speak to you.”
“I’ve got her on the computer in front of me,” Paul said as Julian put the phone to his ear. “She’s legit.”
It wasn’t enough. “You can’t send a car…”
“What part of the road is closed don’t you get? You can let her sleep in her car and deal with the bad publicity that having a woman freeze to death in your front yard brings, or you can put her up for a day or two until the roads are clear.”
A day or two? Was he kidding? “But…”
“If you show up murdered, I’ll arrest her myself. Promise.” He could hear the smile in Paul’s voice.
“Thanks for the help.”
“Seriously, she checks out. And I swear, I’ll get out there as soon as I can.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“In the driver’s license photo I pulled up on the screen she looks hot, even though it’s a driver’s license photo and they’re never flattering.” Paul’s voice was much too lighthearted, given the situation. “So, am I right? Is she hot?”
Julian ignored the question. “I’ll see you when I see you.” He ended the call before Paul could make matters worse than they already were.
Nell Rose walked toward the fire, hands out toward the warmth. “What did he say?” she asked.
“I’m afraid you’re stuck here for a day or two.”
She spun around. “I can’t stay here. I don’t even know you. No offense,” she added with slightly less heat.
Would the nut-job who’d been writing for the past five months look so devastated to be forced to spend the night in his home, right down the hall from his own bedroom? He thought not.
Best to be blunt. “You can stay here or you can sleep in your car.”
She looked at the fire, then to the front window. It was an easy enough decision. “I won’t be any trouble. I swear, you won’t even know I’m here.”
He very much doubted that.
“Is your car completely off the road?” he asked. Even if the road was closed, it wouldn’t be a good thing for her vehicle to be jutting into the way of traffic, such as it was, when it opened again.
“Yeah. I checked before I headed up this way. Man, I don’t look forward to walking down the hill again to get my stuff out of the car.” She looked down and rotated her ankle, the one she’d been limping on.
“I’ll take care of that.”
Her head snapped up. “I didn’t mean… I really wasn’t trying to guilt you into fetching my bags, honestly.”
“It’s not a problem.”
Resigned to staying with a total stranger, Nell Rose Collins removed the scarf from her head. Dark, coffee-brown hair tumbled down. She unzipped and slipped off the heavy coat, revealing a fine figure in blue jeans and a snug blue sweater. She was curvy, soft and her face, surrounded by a fall of dark hair, was classically pretty.
He supposed if he had to be stranded with someone on New Year’s Eve…it could be worse.
“I have chili simmering in the Crock-Pot,” he said, resigning himself to playing host, at least for the evening. “Are you hungry?”
She sighed. “Starving. Is it spicy?”
“Very.”
“Good.”
“Beer?”
“Oh, God, yes,” she said, and then she laughed. It was a nice laugh, spontaneous and pleasant.
Julian still had good instincts when it came to people, even after a couple of years of virtual isolation. Nell Rose Collins was exactly what she appeared to be: a stranded traveler, a woman in distress.
It was her bad luck that she’d landed on his doorstep. He hadn’t been a knight in shining armor for a very long time.