Maren Cole came to North Branch Pass for the leaves, not the man who delivered the wood.

The listing promised a stove and a cord. What it did not mention was Holt Grady, year-round on the same road, big enough to make the doorway look like a suggestion. Then the radio named an early frost, the spur turned to glass, and the only way down the mountain closed.

One cabin. One bed. Stacked flannel on a peg. Heat off iron and cold off the pane.

She can wait out the weather in silence. She does not.

What do you do when the road is ice and the only honest piece of furniture left is the mattress?

Standalone explicit romance.