Snowy Mountain Christmas, page 1
Also by Sharon Sala
Don’t Back Down
Last Rites
Heartbeat
Left Behind
The Next Best Day
Blessings, Georgia
Count Your Blessings (novella)
You and Only You
I’ll Stand by You
Saving Jake
A Piece of My Heart
The Color of Love
Come Back to Me
Forever My Hero
A Rainbow Above Us
The Way Back to You
Once in a Blue Moon
Somebody to Love
The Christmas Wish
The Best of Me
Copyright © 2024 by Sharon Sala
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
Excerpt from The Christmas Wish
Chapter 1
About the Author
Chapter 1
Ozark Mountains: Late November
Mystery author Trey Austin had just spent two weeks prowling through the Ozark Mountains in Arkansas. He was looking for a place to stop for the night when he saw a sign on the side of the road that read FOOD AND EATS AHEAD.
As he passed the city limit sign, the name of the town was right below it, but half of the sign was broken off, and all there was left to read was ETTA. He drove past a diner that had long since closed and then checked into the only motel. He barely got the bed turned back before he fell into it half-dressed and passed out.
It was midmorning before he woke up, and it was too late for breakfast. In the light of day, the motel looked even worse, so he checked out and went across the street to the diner he’d seen last night. It wasn’t until he sat down, opened the menu, and saw the daily special that he realized today was Thanksgiving.
A few minutes later, a waitress appeared with water and a notepad.
“You want the Thanksgiving special? It’s real good. Phoebe makes corn-bread dressing just like my mama.”
“Sure, why not?” he said, and then stared out the window.
A stray dog walked by, so skinny Trey could count his ribs, and he watched as it jumped into the bed of an old blue Ford truck. A few minutes later, a man came out of the store and headed for the truck, saw the dog in the truck bed, leaned over, and petted him. But when he opened the door to the cab and motioned for the dog to get in with him, the dog chose not to budge, so the man drove away with the skinny dog happily riding in the back.
Trey’s eyes narrowed at the sight, thinking, At least that dog knows what it wants, then he looked away.
Minutes later, the waitress came back with a plate full of sliced turkey, corn-bread dressing, and mashed potatoes with a good slathering of gravy on all three and a little ramekin of cranberry sauce.
He didn’t think about the fact that he was spending a holiday alone. He’d spent nearly every holiday of his life alone, surrounded by people hired to take care of him or to educate him, or by choice.
He ate without thought. The food was good. The diner was noisy. The waitress kept coming by to refill his glass of sweet tea, and on her last trip by, she left his ticket. When he finished, he laid down a handful of bills on the table, including a good tip, and headed out the door.
Today, he was going home to Phoenix.
He refueled before he left town and, as he went, began admiring the landscape and the vivid colors of autumn Mother Nature had painted on the leaves. He looked his fill as he drove, knowing he wouldn’t be seeing the likes of this in Phoenix.
One hour passed, and then another, and he was beginning to think he’d missed the turn he’d meant to take, because he had spent the better part of an hour on a graveled county road, trying to find a connecting road to get him back to a main highway.
His GPS was set, but he feared being this deep in the Ozark Mountains was messing it up. The dead tree he just passed looked like the one he’d seen fifteen minutes earlier. And to add to the frustration and drama of the day, the sky was getting dark. A thunderstorm was imminent, and there wasn’t a house in sight to stop and ask for directions.
Trey was approaching a fork in the road and was almost certain he should go right, but the GPS was telling him to go left, so he did, and drove into the oncoming thunderstorm.
Within seconds, the blowing rain shifted his visibility to only a few yards ahead. The windshield wipers were ineffectual against the downpour, and the graveled road was quickly becoming a quagmire. He kept looking for a place to stop and wait it out without blocking the road, but the road was too narrow, and there was nowhere to turn around without getting stuck. With loud claps of thunder overhead, followed by intermittent cracks of lightning, it was all he could do to stay focused.
Then all of a sudden, it was as if the world blew up in his face. Lightning struck a tree just to his left with such explosive force that he instinctively turned his head away from the flash and flying debris.
But as he did, he swerved, then overcorrected, and before he could regain control, the car began to roll.
He was still conscious when the windshield popped out, but he never knew when the driver’s side door broke off, or when he landed upside down in a flooding ditch. The last thing he remembered was driving rain in his face and then everything going black.
***
For the past seven days, Marley Corbett had been on what she called a “gathering mission,” traveling through little hidden-away places in the Ozark Mountains, talking with the locals in the hills, cooking with them, baking with them, and when she could, coaxing ancestral recipes from them to add to her menu at the lodge. She was only twenty-seven, but she was the fourth-generation owner of Corbett Lodge, located on Pikes Peak, just above Colorado Springs.
The older women she’d been visiting had been intrigued by the grit and determination of the petite young woman with blond hair and blue eyes, but it was her love for food and cooking that won them over.
She’d spent the better part of two weeks on the road, sometimes sleeping in the spare rooms of the women she’d gone to visit, and other times in whatever motel she could find. Some places had been downright dismal. Some had a measure of charm that even age had not been able to displace.
But this morning, the visits had all come to an end. She was finally on her way home. She’d just left Dollie Porter’s home, laden down with jars of pickled beets and pear honey jam, and a stack of Dollie’s recipes to go with the others she’d been accumulating.
She had a long drive back to Colorado but was under no time constraints. The lodge had been closed for renovations since the day she left, but she’d received a phone call last night, telling her the renovations had been finished, and now she was anxious to get home. Christmas was coming, and she couldn’t wait to get the tree up in the lobby of the lodge and start shopping for gifts.
As she drove, the little hand-carved Santa Claus she had hanging on her rearview mirror was swaying back and forth. She’d bought it at an Ozark craft show last week and was taking it home to hang on the Christmas tree.
She thought back to the people she’d met on this trip, and the wonderful food she’d had, and the generosity of the elders in sharing their recipes. She was excited about incorporating them into her new menu, and daydreaming as she drove, when she began to see storm clouds gathering. And the farther she drove, the darker it became. There was no way around it. She was about to drive into a thunderstorm. And when she did, it was a full-force deluge.
Ditches on both sides of the graveled road were filling up from the rain and rushing in sudsy torrents. Her windshield wipers were on high, and she was praying that roads here didn’t flood. She’d slowed down drastically just to be able to still see the road and was anxious to get back to the main highway when she drove up to a fork in the road.
She knew the right fork was the one she needed, but even through the downpou r, she could see the angel, bright and shining, blocking her path. The hair crawled on the back of her neck. She was no longer alone.
All of her life, Marley Corbett had seen and talked to angels, and she knew there was one with her at this moment, and the message to her was clear. She was meant to take the left fork instead, and so she did.
Rain was blinding, and the wind was blowing it sideways. She thought about stopping to wait for the storm to pass, but she knew she was on this road for a reason, and so she kept driving.
Then, through the curtain of rain, she began to see something up ahead. As she got closer, she realized it was a wrecked car. But when she drove up on it and saw the driver still inside, she realized why she’d been sent this way. Someone was in danger!
A dark Land Rover was resting upside down in a ditch, lying lengthwise like a hot dog in a bun. The front of it was angled slightly downward, leaving the back end up out of the rushing water. The windshield and the driver’s side door were completely missing, which exacerbated the danger to the man in the front seat.
She could see him inside, motionless and hanging upside down, still strapped into the seat. But the rising water rushing through the front half of the car was far too close to the top of his head. If she didn’t do something fast, he was going to drown!
She quickly pulled her red Jeep over to the side of the road and jumped out on the run. Despite the all-weather jacket she was wearing, she was soaked to the skin within seconds. She leaned into the car and put her hand on the man’s neck to feel for a pulse. The steady thump beneath her fingertips told her he was alive, but not for long if she couldn’t get him out. His head was only inches from being submerged.
It was disorienting to step into rushing water, knowing she was standing on the inside of a roof, but she wasn’t very tall, and there was no other way to get to him. She tried to unfasten the seat belt, but it wouldn’t give. It appeared to have been jammed from the pressure of his weight.
“My knife,” she muttered, then climbed out of the wreck and ran back to her car to get her Swiss Army knife, then ran back and climbed inside.
The rushing water made it hard to keep her balance as she began cutting the straps on the seat belt, but it was tricky. She knew the moment he was released he was either going to fall into her arms and trap both of them in the water or go headfirst into the water anyway. Timing was everything.
Okay, guys. You got me here. Now, you’re going to have to help me, Marley thought, and began sawing through the heavy straps until she felt them beginning to give way.
In a panic, she threw the knife out into the road and slipped her hands beneath his armpits and locked them around his shoulders. As his head fell forward against her neck, she leaned backward, and using her body as a lever and his weight as the fulcrum, she pulled him toward her so hard that they fell out of the open doorway together, trapping her beneath him.
The rain in her face was like being shot with ice pellets. She couldn’t tell if it was actually beginning to freeze into sleet, or if it was just so cold it felt that way, but she had to move and began using her upper body strength in an effort to roll him off.
It didn’t work. He didn’t budge.
Then she heard the voices.
Try again.
“Then help me!” she cried, and gathered all her strength and shoved. When he rolled off of her onto his back, she immediately crawled onto her hands and knees, gasping for breath. The rain stung. The wind was brutal. But he still wasn’t safe.
She was finally free, but the man’s feet were still in the water, and if she didn’t do something fast, he was still in danger of drowning face up in the storm.
“God give me strength,” Marley whispered, then grabbed him by both arms and began dragging him the rest of the way out of the ditch and up onto the road, struggling and slipping over and over, until she had finally pulled him clear. Then she grabbed her knife out of the mud and ran back to the car for her umbrella and cell phone.
He hadn’t moved when she returned and once again felt for a pulse as she knelt behind his head. To her relief, it was there, steady and strong. She immediately shifted her position, putting her back to the wind to use her body as a windbreak, then began the struggle to open the umbrella without it blowing away.
Finally it popped open, and before the wind could catch it, she pulled it all the way down to the top of her head and leaned over so that his face was completely protected. Once she was settled, she made a call to 911, offering up another prayer for it to go through.
After only a couple of rings, she heard a voice.
“911. What is your emergency?” the dispatcher asked.
Marley began rattling off info and, as she did, heard the panic in her own voice.
“I just drove up on a wreck in the middle of a severe thunderstorm. The car was upside down in the ditch and the ditch was flooding. The driver was hanging upside down by his seat belt, about to drown. I got him out of the car, but he’s unconscious, and I don’t know where I am. I know I was on a rural road about fifteen miles southwest of a home where an old woman named Dollie Porter lives, driving northwest. I came to a fork in the road, took the left fork, and that’s where I found him. Can you get a GPS location from my phone?”
“Yes, ma’am. Don’t hang up. I’m locating now and dispatching police and ambulance. Does the victim have any open wounds? Can you tell if he has any broken bones?” the dispatcher asked.
“There was blood in his hair and on his face before I got him out of the car, but it’s all washed away. I see a bleeding cut on his forehead, but I can’t tell if there are broken bones. His breathing is steady. He has a strong pulse. But it’s storming so hard now that it’s all I can do to shelter him.” Just as she said that, a strong gust of wind almost yanked the umbrella out of her hands, and she began to panic. “I can’t talk anymore. I need both hands to keep this umbrella over his face.”
“Yes, all right, but don’t hang up. Leave this line open so we’ll still have a direct connection to your GPS,” the dispatcher said.
“Okay. I’m putting it in my pocket now,” Marley said, and then grabbed onto the umbrella with both hands and held it steady, protecting his body as best she could.
But the cold was as brutal as the rain, and it wasn’t long before she began shaking. To keep herself from an all-out meltdown about her own misery, she began to study his face.
Even though she was looking at him upside down, it was obvious beneath the mud, blood, and soaking wet that he was striking. A strong jaw. Black eyebrows that arched like wings in flight, high cheekbones, and a Roman nose that might have been broken once. She could see the sensual curve of his mouth, but wondered what his voice would sound like, and while she could see his black, rain-soaked lashes, she wondered what color his eyes were, and if there was someone somewhere who loved him, who was frantic for his safety. In an effort to take her mind off her own misery, she began to talk to him.
“Hey, stranger. This is a terrible way to meet, but stay with me, okay? You’re not alone. I’m right here with you, and I’m not going anywhere. Help is on the way. I’m not going to give up on you, so don’t give up on me. My name is Marley, but everybody calls me Bug. I grew up in the mountains in Colorado. Are you from Arkansas? Is someone worrying about you? Wondering where you are?”
The wind popped the back of the umbrella so hard she almost lost her grip. “Whoa, that was close,” she said, and pulled it down farther. “So, since you’re not the talking kind, I’ll tell you about me. I’m not married. Never have been. Dan and Lisa Corbett were my parents. I lost them four years ago in a car crash. Worst day of my life. I don’t have any siblings. Just friends…good friends. Dear friends…but no family anymore. What about you? Brothers and sisters? Great parents? You’ll have to tell me about them someday.” Then she stopped to take a breath and realized she was crying.
“I just want you to know, I’ve got you. You’re not alone, and since the angels made sure I found you, then I know you’re going to be okay.”
Rain kept blowing under the umbrella, and she paused to wipe it away from his face. Her hands were colder than his skin, which had to be a positive thing.
“I like to read. Do you? I read everything. My absolute favorite mystery writer writes under the name Chapel Hill, but nobody knows who he or she is. Isn’t that the best? A mystery writer whose identity is a mystery?”
