Holding Out for Christmas (The Christmas Tree Ranch #3)(3)

“Conner, this is Sam Perkins.”

Conner recognized the booming voice and name of a neighbor who lived down the highway, past the turnoff to the ranch.

“Hey, Sam, is everything all right?”

“Well, not exactly,” Sam said. “I just made it home in this blizzard. When I drove by the turnoff to your place, I noticed your sign was loose, just hangin’ by one corner from the post. If the wind catches it, it could be in the next county by morning.”

“Oh, blast it. Thanks, Sam. I guess somebody here had better make sure that doesn’t happen.”

Conner cursed the storm as he ended the call. Two months ago, the partners had invested five hundred dollars in a professionally made sign to mark the turnoff to Christmas Tree Ranch. They’d mounted it on heavy metal posts, but evidently the job hadn’t been secure enough to hold up to a storm like this one.

The sign was too valuable to lose. Somebody would need to go out and recover it.

“Somebody?” Travis raised an eyebrow.

Conner sighed. “I guess it doesn’t make sense that we should both go out there and freeze our butts off. How about rock-paper-scissors? Winner stays here.”

The two men faced each other for the old childhood game. One . . . two . . . Conner groaned. His fist had made a rock. Travis’s flat hand had made paper. Paper covered rock. No need for words.

“Take my truck,” Travis said. “It’s heavier than your Jeep, and it has a spotlight. There’s a box of tools under the seat. And don’t forget your phone. If you get into trouble, call me. Otherwise, I’ll be right here with Bucket, keeping toasty.”

“Don’t rub it in.” Conner pulled on his heavy parka, his wool seaman’s cap, and his gloves. Taking the keys Travis handed him, he managed to slip outside without losing control of the door.

The newer-model used truck Travis had bought last summer started with a roar. The snow wasn’t deep on the ground yet; however, as Conner pulled out of the driveway, onto the lane, it swirled around him in thick clouds. Even with the wipers going full speed and the defroster blasting heat, he was driving almost blind. Only his sense of direction, and the crunch of tires on the lane’s gravel surface, told him he was headed toward the highway.

Dim lights on his left told him he was passing the house of their nearest neighbors, the McFarlands. The intersection, where the sign was posted, would be a few hundred yards beyond it.

Guessing more than seeing, he pulled the truck to the right, into the dry weeds that edged the lane, and trained the powerful spotlight on the far side. Through the snowy darkness, he could make out a barbed wire fence. Between the fence and the road was the sign. It had torn loose on three corners. Now it hung by a single lower bolt, flapping crazily in the wind. Even if the bolt held, the valuable sign could twist or bend and be badly damaged.

In this weather, there was no way he could bolt it back into place. He would have to take it down, haul it home in the truck bed, and come back tomorrow with a ladder and the right hardware and tools.

Grabbing a wrench from the toolbox, Conner climbed out of the truck. Bent forward against the wind, he staggered through the driving snow as he followed the beam of the spotlight to the sign. Unable to work the wrench with his thick gloves on, he stripped them off and stuffed them into his pockets. By the time he got the nut loose from the bolt, his fingers were stiff with cold. But at least the sign was free.

With his gloves on again, he dragged the sign across the road and laid it flat in the truck bed. Mission accomplished.

Conner exhaled in relief as he climbed into the truck, started the engine, and turned the heater up all the way. Now all he had to do was turn around, go back to the house, and park the truck under the shed.

The lane was too narrow for a U-turn. He would have to drive onto the highway and make the turn there. Switching off the spotlight and turning the headlights on bright, he pulled the truck out far enough to check both ways for oncoming traffic. The road was clear—no surprise. Only a fool like him would be out on a night like this.

The road’s asphalt surface was already slick with snow, but the big vehicle had good tires. Conner pulled all the way out, swung the wheel hard left, and came around with no problem. He was about to head back down the lane when something caught his attention. About fifty yards up the highway, seen through the blur of snow and distance, was what looked like a blinking red hazard light.

He took a quick moment to phone Travis. “I’ve got the sign, but I may have spotted somebody in trouble,” he said. “I’m going to check it out, so if I don’t come right back . . .”

“Unless I hear, I’ll assume you’re okay. Call if you need help, and stay safe, especially since you’re driving my truck.” Travis ended the call with a chuckle.

Conner turned and headed back in the direction of town. The safety reminder had been typical of Travis. A former highway patrolman, Travis had lost his job and served prison time after a tragic accident had left a young man dead. Conner owed Travis more than he could repay for offering him a home and a partnership in Christmas Tree Ranch.

Now, as he drove up the highway, he could see a small car off the road, its front end angled into the bar ditch. A single red taillight blinked through the snow-swirled darkness. The other taillight appeared to be broken.

He pulled onto the shoulder of the road, a few yards behind the car. Leaving his headlights on, he climbed out. The car’s rear windshield was covered with snow; as he came closer, he caught a movement through the side window. The driver would be a woman, he surmised. An able-bodied man would have tried to push the car back onto the road, maybe tried to flag down help, or even walked back to town. If there was a woman in the car, she would likely be cold and scared—even scared of him, Conner reminded himself. He would need to let her know he was here to help.