What the hell was that ruckus?

I wake up to the sound of floorboards creaking. I think they’re floorboards, but now, with a bit of adrenaline flowing through me, I soon realize the noise is coming from the roof.

It’s the only night in all this time that I hear these strange noises. On most evenings, the only sounds to be heard are the crackling of wood in the fireplace, or the soft melodies spilling from the Bluetooth speaker hooked up to my phone while I hum along and tap away on my keyboard.

The storm has been beating down against the exterior for hours, so I should expect some noise to go along with the heavy snow and bitingly cold winds out there. Except whatever woke me up is just too loud to ignore.

My sixty-seven-year-old property manager, Joe Green, crosses my mind. I want to call him so he can set me at ease. He and his wife live about eight miles up the road, and have lived in Mount Charleston all year round for more than half their lives. I need to hear him say that I have no reason to worry, that this vicious mix of gale force wind and snow is no big deal for this four room, one story wooden structure.

I reach my hand across the bed to the nightstand for my phone and only then do I remember leaving my phone and laptop outside. Right. Shit. They’re in my work bag, still safely tucked into the cab behind the driver seat of my pickup truck. I should’ve gone back outside to get it. I mean, I made it through fifteen miles of driving from the ski resort library and tuck shop. I could’ve taken an extra minute to grab it.

Crawling out from under the cozy down comforter of my bed, I tell myself I need to order one of those nifty Keurig single serve coffee brewers as I slide my feet into fluffy bedroom slippers. I can use a little coffee to wake me up. And maybe a Keurig will save me a daily trip down to the resort for the rest of my stay, and probably pay for itself in a week, considering the price of gas and specialty coffee.

Wishing I’d thought of that three months ago, I slip on my bathrobe and walk through the darkness to the front door.

Outside looks worse than it sounds. The wind has been whipping up every leaf, light twig, and debris, and is now using them as projectiles against my body as I make a run for my Chevy Silverado. It’s only when I get to the driver side that I discover the doors are locked.

Shit. Force of habit. I remind myself that I really don’t need to lock up out here in God’s country, where I’m one of maybe thirty people residing within a ten-mile radius. I turn to make another dash for the house, and as my slipper lands on the first snow-covered step of the porch, I hear it.

A deafening crash of wood, the crunch of metal, and the splintering of God knows what.

Then more disaster happens.

The sound causes me to blindly take several steps backward. I look up toward where it came from just in time to catch the last shadow of a large section of the roof caving in on itself. The hundred-year-old structure made of whole logs is no match for Mother Nature. At least the roof isn’t.

When the noise dies down, the house is still standing. My keys are inside. My truck is locked. I’m miles from civilization. The nearest cabins are at least three miles away, and there’s no chance I’ll get there on foot. Not with these slippers and wearing this useless nightgown. I’ll freeze my ass off.

No.

No fucking way.

This can’t be happening.

I stand shivering in the freezing rainstorm, in denial for a few moments. Ice cold snow mixed in with tiny ice pellets pound against me, sending the frosty night air bone deep as it invades my clothes. I wrap my arms around me for extra warmth, but it does nothing. It’s a pertinent reminder that although I’m lucky to be alive, I’m literally out in the cold now.

For a brief moment, a sudden jolt of courage hits me. Or maybe it’s my survival instincts. I decide to go inside. My keys are hanging on a hook only a few feet from the front door. If I can get them, I’ll have the truck as a temporary shelter at the very least, and better yet, I can drive to the property manager’s cabin for help. I’ll also have my phone.

Tiptoeing up the porch, I step around the outdoor Adirondack chair that overturned at some point after I got outside, and make it to the front door. My hand gingerly turns the doorknob, but when I push on it, the door barely moves a couple of inches and rebounds back to its closed position. I try again. Nothing happens. Logic tells me that roof debris must be blocking the entrance.

Crap.

I look over to the front windows. Both are locked tight because well, it’s fucking storming outside. I didn’t want to freeze indoors. Not with just the log fireplace and three small radiators as my heat source. Deep down, I know I have to get those keys. Turning to the front yard, I look around. My eyes adjust to the slivers of dim moonlight, and I catch sight of the outline of a rock large enough to do some damage. I don’t hesitate to pick it up, dusting off the thick blanket of snow on it as I straighten up. I take aim at the glass pane of the window and remember that I’m no Babe Ruth. My aim is crap and my upper body strength is even worse than my aim. This rock probably won’t make it to the first step from this distance.

Taking a breath, my lungs fill with cold, damp air and I approach the cabin and go up the steps again, pull my elbow back at shoulder height, and throw the rock toward the window with everything I’ve got.

Yes!

One pane of glass shatters, giving me just enough space for my hand and forearm. I clear away some of the sharp edges and push my hand inside, angling it down until my fingers reach the metal window latch. Once unlocked, I grip the windowsill from the outside and push upward. My hands are freezing, soaked from being out here for way too long. Everywhere on me is wet. My hope soars when the window final opens a crack, but it’s too good to last.

The familiar creaking sound that woke me earlier starts up again. It’s louder this time. I start to back away from the window, and that’s when I feel a warm, callused hand wrap around my forearm. Another reaches around my waist and I recognize that familiar red flannel. He tugs me hard off the porch into the muddy grass and gravel.

“Oh my God,” I screech as the entire section of roof collapses right where I was just standing. That could’ve been bye bye Elle if it weren’t for this guy.

This guy.

I land halfway on top of the warm, firm, masculine chest of my rescuer, except the back of my head crashes onto the rough pebbles of the gravel driveway.

A prickle of pain expands out from the spot where my head landed, and my rain covered lashes get in the way of my now blurry vision. What’s weird is the man who broke my fall is still underneath me, but the figure of another man bends over me, and brilliant ice-blue eyes look down at my face.

I have two rescuers?

He says something I can’t understand while my mind tries to grasp how his eyes can sparkle so much in such dim light. I try to speak, but only a groan leaves my lips.

The sharp metallic smell of blood wafts into my nose.

My blood.

Then everything goes black.