A small pinpoint of light filled Roxanne’s vision as she opened her eyes. She had the odd sensation of feeling warm and weightless, like she was floating in a pool of bathwater or relaxing in the sauna at her favorite spa in the city, but as her senses returned she discovered she was bundled in a thick woolen blanket and settled against a bank of soft snow. As she blinked her eyes awake she could make out flakes still coming down above her, billowing in huge flurries that wafted down purposefully under the moonlight. The red glow of her car’s taillights blinked in her peripheral vision, casting brief punctuations of an odd pinkish tint on the white. With the driver’s door of her car hanging wide open a few yards away, Roxanne could still hear the announcer’s voice warning on the radio about bad weather and poor road conditions, chastising anyone—like Roxanne—who was silly enough to be traveling on a night like tonight. It was hard to really make out anything beyond that, and her head was pounding too hard to bother trying.

She wished she could remember the verbal command to turn off the radio. Maybe she could yell loud enough for it to hear her.

As Roxanne got her bearings, she became aware that a man wearing a full wardrobe of heavy winter gear was leaning over her, trying to get her attention as he tested her pupils with his pin light. His features were largely obscured beneath the concealing wrap of a knit cap, neck gaiter, scarf, and the high collar of a down ski coat, but she could see a pair of deep set eyes that looked kind and concerned even in the dark, and the high bridge of a Grecian nose that was left exposed in the space between all of his winter gear. Roxanne had the distinct impression that he was speaking to her although she couldn’t understand what he was saying. His voice sounded far away and muffled, like he was shouting to her across an underground tunnel, and the deep sound boomed around in Roxanne’s head in its own echo. He removed the pin light from her vision and held it pointed down so that it cast a bright halo off the snow. Roxanne blinked away the circle of shadow left in her vision, and as it faded the world seemed to finally settle back into place. She furrowed her brows and shook her head, meeting the worried gaze of the man above her. Without the glare in her eyes Roxanne could see that his eyes were a dark green, the color of pine and ivy, and that they were framed by a pair of dark eyebrows that were arched in the same concerned expression as his eyes. Again she heard the rumble of a deep voice from far away. It sounded like it was asking her name.

“Roxanne,” she mumbled in answer. Her voice sounded and hollow, too. It felt weird to say her whole name—her lips struggled to shape the words—and her throat was scratchy. She tried to sit up, but the snow swirled faster and she lay back against the bank, feeling lightheaded and nauseous. Clearly she’d been in a car accident, she just couldn’t recall what happened. The last thing she could remember was a dark blur streaking across her windshield and the strange sound of sleigh bells, although she figured the last was her imagination. “Roxanne Hudson,” she tried again, and this time the words felt more normal. “Did I hit something? I think I hit a deer. Or something bigger than a deer.” She pulled her arms loose of the blanket bundle and pressed her fingers against her temple. There was no way she was going to mention the bells; he’d think she’d hit her head worse than she did.

“Don’t see anything hit, other than your car. You must have gotten spooked, hit the brakes, and spun out into the snow. Good thing you were driving slowly; those tires aren’t made for driving in conditions like this, you know—aren’t even chains on ‘em. Lucky for you the snow is still soft, hasn’t had time to pack up and harden yet. Otherwise you would have spun into a solid wall of ice, and I doubt we’d be having this conversation right now.”

Roxanne didn’t know what to say, so she grunted softly and kept pressing her hand to her head. “Right.”

She heard a clicking sound as the man turned the pin light off and lowered to a squat next to her. A rush of scents came with him—pepper, earthy vetiver, and vanilla with a creamy finish of notes of cardamom and cinnamon that made him smell…like Christmas. He reached a gloved hand to his face and tugged the neck gaiter down under his chin, revealing a strong nose and angular jaw. A swatch of dark brown beard framed a wide mouth, and when he spoke his teeth were the same color as the snow. “Hudson?” he repeated, saying that name familiarly. “Any relation to Robert Hudson, keeps an old cabin up his land up on Cranberry Hill? Used to belong to old Jimmy Hudson to he passed a few years back.”

Roxanne nodded, or tried to. She felt even stiffer than she had when she’d left New York City—so much for the second of relaxation she’d had on the drive. “That’s my father, Robert. I was on my way to the cabin.” It wasn’t surprising that someone local to this area would know Robert Hudson, or his cabin. It had been in the family for generations; her Grandpa Jimmy, Grandma Myrtle’s late husband, had built it himself. More noteworthy than the cabin itself was the land it sat on, Cranberry Hill. Slightly over one hundred acres, the parcel of land right at the edge of the Green Mountain National Forest was in high demand as many investors had made offers to buy it over the years, most wanting to turn it into prime hunting real estate. One had wanted to build a summer camp, and another had hoped to fashion some rustic resort for seasonal hikers. When the land had passed over into her father’s ownership, he’d hired several locals to take care of the property—minding the fences, watching for wear after a storm, that kind of thing. Her father firmly believed that Jimmy had loved the place so much he might have let his spirit linger there. There was no way they’d make him a squatter on his own land.

“That’s my father,” Roxanne confirmed. “I was on my way to the cabin actually. We’re spending Christmas there.” She felt like she was rambling, but the shock of her accident had worn off and the reality of her current situation was settling in. Panic overtook the thumping in her head and she propelled herself upward, her eyes darting from the hood of her BMW buried halfway in a bank of snow several feet away to the hulking man squatting within arms length of her, his face almost completely obscured and unidentifiable. How he’d found her, she had no idea, and so far he’d done nothing but make sure she was unharmed…but being alone and stranded in the middle of nowhere in a snowstorm with a big strange man was not her idea of a good time. That was the kind of thing that would get you killed in New York, and she didn’t want to play the odds out in the mountain backwoods either. Nothing good ever came out of a situation like that, even if it was basically Christmas. She thought again of crazy, frozen Jack Torrance.

Adrenaline rushed through Roxanne and she scrambled to her feet, throwing the blanket to the ground and holding her hands out in front of her as she inched backward toward the car. There was a can of mace in her purse, and maybe she had cell signal and could call her father…let them know where she was so they could send help, or come pick her up. Maybe this helpful Samaritan would be less likely to try any funny business if he knew her father and brother-in-law were on their way to claim her. If he knew the Hudsons like he claimed, he’d know not to mess with her dad.

“They’re waiting on me, you know,” she warned, still backing away. She inched backward until the backs of her boots stopped against the edge of her car. Her eyes darted to the clock on the dashboard, and Roxanne discovered that she’d missed an hour. “I should have been there already, actually. They’re probably already looking for me.” She felt around behind her for her purse, and finding it she slipped her hand into its interior pocket, her hand curling reassuringly around the small mace can. Roxanne loosed a sigh of relief and hoped it wasn’t audible. She briefly wondered what kind of reaction Spencer might have to her wrecking her car on the drive to Vermont and finding herself going head-to-head with some random mountain man, but then decided maybe she wouldn’t tell him.

The stranger pulled his neck gaiter farther down his neck until it bundled with his scarf. With everything below his eyebrows exposed Roxanne had a full view of his face, but they were separated by several feet of night and so she didn’t much now than she had before. His green eyes seemed to sparkle in the darkness and his scent clung to the air, and the combined effect made Roxanne a little less suspicious than she should be of a stranger in the dark and a little too curious about her rescuer. He took a step forward, pushing one of his gloved hands slowly into his pocket while the other was splayed palm-first toward Roxanne like she were a frightened animal.

"Don’t worry, I don’t mean you any harm,” he said, as if reading her thoughts. “I'm a ranger," he continued carefully, and as he said this he withdrew his arm from his coat and extended his hand to her, slowly, so that he didn’t scare her away. Clutched in his glove was a bi-fold wallet, held open in the center with his gloved thumb to reveal two official looking documents. A shiny, legitimate looking badge was on one side—probably something normally worn pinned on his uniform in warmer weather—that had the words Green Mountain Patrol engraved neatly on the top. On the opposite side of the wallet was a laminate ID card with his name and photograph, and other details of his position that were hard to read in the dim light. "My name is Mark. Mark Foster."

Roxanne snatched the wallet from the ranger's hand and, angling her body between the man and the car, studied the photograph under the light of her open door. It was hard to match the faces due to the dark, but the man in the photograph had a face Roxanne was pretty sure she'd never forget now that she’d seen it. He had dark, coal-black hair, and wore it combed over neatly to the side in one of those men’s hairstyles that was as handsome and fashionable in 2018 as it might have been in 1918. His eyes were large and green and kind as they peered down above a long, narrow nose. Wide red lips curved into an easy, friendly sort of smile that made him immediately disarming, and the beard that swept under his jawline was trim enough not to mask the strong angle of his checkboxes, or to disguise the sharp curve of his jaw. Even in the small photo Roxanne could see that his skin was rusty and tan from a life spent outdoors. Everything about him screamed strong and self-efficient, from the way he wore his uniform with the sleeves rolled up loosely over his elbows, to the taunt, ropey veins of his muscular forearms that hung at his sides. The man in the photograph looked the sort that would call you ma'am with no hint of condescension while he fixed your car or built a house or something else equally as masculine, but there was also something tender about him that suggested he was the sort that called his mom every week and knew how to run a proper bath for his lady.

He had a photographic quality that was too warm to be caught on camera, and too rare to be found in most men Roxanne had ever encountered. Roxanne cleared her throat, forcing down the lump that had risen. Grateful that it was too dark for Mark the Ranger to see the blush that had bloomed on her cheeks she extended her arm, returning his wallet.

“Seems official,” she offered, attempting to sound like she’d never been concerned he wasn’t. Mark took the proffered wallet and tucked it back into his coat with a small smile, but he didn’t say anything.

“Glad you think so,” he said, still smiling. “Now, Roxanne Hudson, let’s see about getting you out of the snow and home in time for Christmas.”