by Jillian Hart
She hit a patch of ice, slid to the right and came to a stop in a mound of snow on the side of the highway. She pressed her foot on the accelerator, spinning her wheels but going nowhere.
She scanned the never-ending white landscape, and came to the conclusion she was stuck in a snowstorm—one getting increasingly heavy.
Prying her hands from the steering wheel, Ellie sat in the rented car, trying to calm the trembling that had set in. Her heart pulsated against her rib cage at an alarming rate. What had she been thinking? She should have turned around when the snow started getting heavier at the halfway mark, but her stubbornness had reared its ugly head. It wasn’t as if people didn’t drive in snow—okay, probably not someone from the Deep South who saw only a few inches at best every few years.
Now that she was here, she wondered how she was going to get back down the mountain, even with four-wheel drive and snow tires. Drawing in calming breaths, she laid her head back on the cushioned headrest and tried to compose her taut nerves.
A glimpse of a house off to the right through the tall pines and aspens caught her attention. She blew out her held breath. Maybe it was Brody’s place. Even if it wasn’t, she couldn’t stay in her stalled car waiting for the snow to melt. She glanced around. That might not be until spring.
She stuffed her hands into her thick gloves, zipped up her coat and pulled a wool hat on her head. She tried to open her door but couldn’t. The snow blocked it. Crawling over the console, she prayed she could get out the other door. She shoved at it, and it swung open. Ellie climbed out of her car right into freezing-cold snow coming up over her short boots and down into them.
With the snow blinding her vision, Ellie trudged toward the house, keeping herself focused on her destination and, she hoped, a warm refuge and preferably Brody Kincaid’s place.
The nearer she got to the stone house the more exhausted she became. The bottoms of her jeans were soaked.
Splat!
A snowball struck her in the chest. Another whizzed by her head. She froze.
Off to her right a little girl popped up from behind a wall of snow and started to hurl a third snowball. Ellie ducked, throwing herself off balance. She fell into a snowbank next to her, face forward. Stunned by the turn of events, she lay there for a moment, numb to the bitter cold.
She heard the sound of giggles then a door opening and slamming closed. Ellie rolled over, snow caked to her face. As she swiped her hands across her cheeks, a blurry vision of boots and jean-clad legs came into view. Rubbing her eyes, she trekked her gaze slowly upward, taking in a thick brown coat, relatively dry and probably toasty warm. Her eyes came to rest on a man’s face.
A face she’d seen in photos of Brody Kincaid. A face with intense dark eyes fixed on her. A face with a mouth pinched into a scowl.
“What are you doing here? In a snowstorm. This is December 30. We aren’t supposed to meet for three days,” Brody said in a deep, baritone voice she’d come to recognize over the phone.
So he knew what she looked like. Did he look her up on the internet or did John give him a photo? “It wasn’t snowing like this when I started out.” Ellie struggled to sit up. “And even when it started, the weatherman said it would move out of the area quickly.” There wasn’t one place on her that wasn’t wet and cold.
He looked around. “Yeah, I think the weatherman got this snowfall wrong.” Brody offered her his hand. “This is not going to pass quickly. I have a feeling it’s stalled over us.” When his fingers closed around hers, he hauled her to her feet. “But then I might be wrong.”
“Are you often?” she couldn’t help but ask.
His expression darkening, he lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “I win some. I lose some. C’mon. Let’s get you inside.”
She followed him toward his house, looking around for the little girl she’d seen—the one who had hit her with a snowball. “I understand you have two daughters.” John had told her, but Brody never had said anything about his children. When they talked, it was all business.
“Yes, I knew something was wrong when they ran into the house, leaving the front door wide open, and headed straight upstairs, giggling. Mischief written all over them. That’s when I looked outside and saw you in the snow.” He stomped up the steps to his wooden deck that ran the length of the front of his cabin and around to the left side. When he opened the door, he said, “After you.”
She hurried inside, planting herself on a gorgeous Indian rug in the entrance, which was better than dripping on his beautiful wooden floor. Through a doorway she glimpsed a living area with a large roaring fire in a stone fireplace. The warmth beckoned her, but she stayed where she was.
He came up behind her and said close to her ear, “May I take your coat? I’ll get you some towels.”
His soft words shivered down her body. She pulled off her gloves and hat then shrugged out of her coat. His nearness robbed her of a decent breath—or it was his disheveled dark brown curls from having removed his hat. She itched to comb her fingers through his hair to bring some kind of order to it. She balled her hands at her sides. The photo hadn’t done him justice. He had a powerful presence that commanded a person’s attention.
“I’ll be right back.” He crossed to a hallway that led to the back of the house.
A sound like snickering came from the upper level. She glanced toward the stairs and saw a little girl duck back out of sight. She smiled. Which of his daughters had nailed her?
“Here.” He gave her a thick fluffy towel. “You might be more comfortable in front of the fire.” He started for his living room.
Ellie looked down at her wet boots knowing her socks were equally drenched. When he paused at the entrance, she bent down, removed both the shoes and socks and carried them with her into the living room. She slowed as she took in the walls of glass. The view of the mountain and the valley below must be stunning. Not that she could see it right now. White was all that greeted her.
“I imagine when the snow stops you have a fantastic view,” she said, setting her shoes and socks to dry in front of the blaze.
“No use being on top of a mountain if you can’t see the view.”
“I didn’t see very many homes the last part of the trip. Doesn’t it get lonely at times?”
“With two young daughters?”
“True. But how about them?” When she’d grown up, her childhood home had been in the middle of so many people coming and going. Even now, living near her family, it was never quiet. Except for a few giggles and snickers, his home was downright calm and peaceful.
“They can go to a friend’s or their friends can come here.” When she didn’t say anything, he added, “I used to live in New York City. When my wife died, I came back home.”
“I’m sorry about your wife.”
There was an awkward silence as he stared into the fire.
“So, uh, you grew up here.”
“Yes,” he finally said, “part of the year. This land has belonged to my father’s family for a long time. When I first moved back, I built this house.”
“That’s right—I knew you’d lived in New York. My agent and publisher are based there. You must miss it. It’s one city I love to visit, and no matter how many times I go, it never loses its magic. How long were you there?”
“Eight years. Getting my career started.”
He went from living in a crowded city with his wife to living practically by himself. Why? Because he didn’t want to raise his girls in New York? Or was it something else? Life grief, maybe. Painful memories of his marriage? There were so many holes in the research she’d done into Brody Kincaid. Her curiosity aroused, she prodded, “Visiting is one thing—living there must be totally different.” She hoped he would elaborate on why he chose to be a recluse. It might help her understand the man and work with him.
&nb
sp; Yeah, right. Who am I kidding? I’m a writer. I love delving into a person’s motivations.
“If I didn’t know who you were, I would think you’re a reporter.” Beneath his soft tone there was a steel wire running through his words.
“And what do you do with reporters?”
“Avoid them at all costs.”
“Good thing I’m not or I might still be out in the snowstorm.”
He grinned, but it seemed reluctant.
“Daddy, who is she?” One of his daughters appeared in the entrance to the living room. The sound of footsteps pounding down stairs echoed through the house and then another girl almost crashed into her sister—an exact copy of the other. Twins. Why hadn’t John mentioned that? Or for that matter, why hadn’t Brody? But then everything she knew about the man was from her research—not from the man himself. That only spiked her curiosity more.
“I’m Ellie Summers. What are your names?”
Their wide eyes dominated their faces. They didn’t say a word.
Brody motioned them into the room. “I think they’re awestruck. They’re huge fans of the Barnyard Town series.”
They nodded, patches of red on their cheeks.
“And which one of you nailed me with that snowball?”
Brody’s jaw dropped and he narrowed his eyes at his kids.
The one with a ponytail squeaked, “She did. Alexa. I’m Abbey and I would never throw a snowball at you.”
Alexa, her hair in a wild mess, dropped her gaze to an interesting spot at her feet. “I didn’t mean to. I meant to hit Abbey.”
“Well, Alexa, you have a mean throwing arm. I’m impressed.”
The child raised her head. “You aren’t mad?”
“No. I could easily see Calvin or Henry doing that. I’ll have to do that in my next book that takes place in winter.”
Brody nodded his gratitude as Alexa broke into a huge smile. “Because of what I did? I loved Winter’s Folly. I got it for Christmas.”
Abbey stepped slightly in front of her twin. “I did, too. It was my idea to go outside and play war.”
Ellie glanced from one to the other, amazed at how similar they were. Only their hair set them apart. “Y’all look so much alike. In school I had two friends who were twins. They used to try to stump me and often did.”
Giggling, Abbey put her hand over her mouth. “We’ve fooled Daddy before.”
“You wouldn’t be a twin if you didn’t attempt that at least once.” Ellie slanted a glance at Brody.
Amusement lit his face. “I was just playing along. I know the difference between you two.”
“Sure, Daddy,” Abbey said, as if she didn’t believe him. “We’re gonna have a tea party upstairs. Will you come?”
“Of course. I love a good tea party. It reminds me of Alice in Wonderland, one of my favorite books,” Ellie said before she realized she still hadn’t told Brody why she’d driven all the way up the mountain three days early in a snowstorm. He stood looking awfully confused and a little irritated by her intrusion.
“We don’t have a Mad Hatter or a Rabbit, but I do let Cindy join us sometimes. My doll is much better behaved than those two,” Alexa said in such a serious voice as though she was describing tea with the queen of England.
Abbey took Ellie’s hand. “And there really isn’t any tea. It’s all pretend, but there are real cookies.”
“Sugar cookies with icing.” Alexa peered at her father. “You can come, too.”
“I’ll be up in a little while. Don’t drink all the pretend tea. Save me some.” Brody’s gaze was riveted to Ellie’s, a quizzical look in those dark depths.
She and Brody were on the brink of ending their partnership before it even began, and she was heading for a play date with his kids? When the snow wasn’t letting up and she needed to get back to the resort? Oh, dear. She tried to reassure the man with a smile. “After I have some tea and cookies, I’d like to talk about the illustrations you left for me.”
“I don’t think you’ll be going anywhere for a while.” He didn’t sound pleased. “I’ll let my housekeeper know you’ll be staying for lunch. We can talk after that.”
Mounting the stairs, Ellie decided to use this time to pump the girls about their daddy. Other than his professional credits and the fact that his mother had been a famous actress, she knew next to nothing about Brody Kincaid. And she wanted to know a lot more. Even John had been evasive, telling her to make up her own mind. She’d known what her friend had been doing. If he’d turned Brody into enough of a mystery, she’d be intrigued and work with him just to solve the conundrum of Brody Kincaid, an exceptional illustrator, who was coming into his own as a painter. Well, she had teamed up with Brody, but the real mystery had become why he couldn’t deliver the kind of exceptional illustrations he was known for. Something was clearly wrong. And she wanted to find out what that was.
CHAPTER TWO
BRODY WATCHED ELLIE LEAVE, their eyes meeting for a few seconds before she disappeared with his daughters. For that brief moment, he felt bound to her, unable to look away. The sensation left him unsettled and even more leery of illustrating this children’s author’s books.
John McCoy, what were you up to suggesting we collaborate?
His old friend used to be her illustrator but had retired a few months ago after surviving a heart attack, right before he was going to illustrate Ellie’s latest book. Brody’s name had been on a shortlist of potential illustrators for her wildly popular children’s series. He illustrated to make money, but his passion was his acrylics, which were finally selling. He’d agreed to fill in for John because they needed someone right away and he needed the money, but he just couldn’t seem to give the woman what she wanted.
No doubt his third attempt hadn’t been what she was looking for, either. He was trying very hard to emulate John’s style. He was quickly discovering it had been a mistake to agree to work with her, especially when she started talking about having him accompany her on her next book tour. Too bad John didn’t live in Snow Falls. If he did, he would insist his longtime friend be here to mediate between them. He had a feeling he and Ellie Summers would need a mediator.
He much preferred being left alone on his mountain with his daughters and drawing. Being the center of attention wasn’t for him and even made him reconsider this kickoff to a gallery tour in the spring for his paintings. Certainly he had no intentions of touring with Ellie.
As a child of a famous film star, he’d had more than his share of the media. If he illustrated the Barnyard Town series, he would be in the public eye again. John had usually traveled with Ellie to draw the characters for the children. Brody wasn’t ready to jump into that frenzy. And yet he needed the money. His painting had only just begun to sell.
But if he couldn’t produce what she wanted, then the touring would be a moot point. He headed toward the kitchen in frustration to talk to Marta.
“Who was that I heard in the living room?” his fifty-year-old housekeeper asked. “Didn’t they realize we’re in the middle of a snowstorm?” Marta waved her cooking spoon at the bay window.
“It’s Ellie Summers.”
“The children’s author? Why is she here?”
Marta was a little gruff around the edges, but his daughters adored her. “She came to see me.”
“Her timing is lousy.”
“She’ll be staying for lunch.”
Marta frowned and stared outside at the swirling snow. “I suspect she’ll be staying for dinner and maybe even breakfast.”
“You might be right.” And that bothered him. She seemed decent enough. Alexa had knocked her over with a snowball and yet she hadn’t been upset about it. Why did her being kind make him want to get rid of her all the more?
“Lunch won’t be for another hour.
”
As he mounted the stairs, he stopped in his room to get her a pair of his sweatpants. They’d swamp her, but at least they had a drawstring. She had to be uncomfortable in wet jeans.
He paused outside the girls’ door and listened to Alexa declare in a tone full of authority, “But Petunia needs to be Henry’s girlfriend.”
“Farmer Brown and his wife rescue Petunia and bring her home to help with the mice problem in the barn,” Ellie replied patiently. Ah, Petunia. He just couldn’t seem to draw that character the way Ellie needed. He had no idea what he was doing anymore if she didn’t like his third attempt. “I’m not sure what I’m going to do with Petunia in the series.”
“But Henry needs someone.” Alexa’s voice rose. “He’s all alone.”
“Like Daddy. He shouldn’t be alone.”
Henry or him? Abbey’s plea struck him in the chest. He wasn’t alone. Unless Abbey meant... Brody charged into the room before his daughters said something he didn’t want them to say.
He forced a smile to his face. “You two don’t need to monopolize our guest.”
“What does monopolize mean?” Alexa ate the last bite of her cookie.
“Want a person’s attention all for yourself. Miss Summers and I have some business to talk about.” After Irene’s death, he didn’t want to become involved with a woman seriously. It took all he had to raise his two daughters who both shared the same middle name—Trouble.
“What business? Uncle John’s business?” Abbey asked, looking from him to Ellie to him again, her ponytail swishing.
“None of your business.”
“Aw, Daddy, that’s not fair. We don’t like secrets.” Alexa pouted. “Ellie said she came to see you about some drawings.”
“Ellie?” He frowned.
“Yeah, I told them to call me by my first name. I hope that’s all right with you.”
