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 defrost
er 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.
The car was idling, a curl of exhaust rising from the tailpipe. Approaching with caution, he tapped on the window. He could see movement through the glass. Then the window came down, barely an inch.
“I’ve got pepper spray pointed right at your face.” The young, feminine voice shook slightly, but Conner sensed that the lady meant business.
“Whoa there.” He took a couple of steps backward, showing her his empty hands. “I live down the road back there. I saw your light and came to help you. Are you all right?”
The window opened another inch. He saw frightened eyes in a pale face, framed by tendrils of dark hair peeking from beneath a knitted cap. And, yes, she really did have pepper spray. “I’m fine, just cold,” she said. “But the car seems to be stuck, and my phone is dead. Maybe you could call somebody for me.”
“Anybody special?” Conner took out his phone.
“My family lives in Branding Iron. I was coming to visit them, but then the storm hit, and before I knew it, I’d driven right past the town. When I tried to turn around, I slid off the road into this blasted ditch.”
“I’ll tell you what.” Conner passed his phone through the window to her. “If you’ll put that pepper spray down, you can call your family on this. Tell them Conner Branch is here, offering to help you. They’re bound to know me. Most people around here do.”
Conner was taking a risk, saying that. A few rodeo fans remembered him from the PBR, and he’d driven the sleigh in the last two Christmas parades. But there was always a chance that the woman’s family had never heard of him.
If that was the case, what would he do? She had his phone now, and she still had that canister of pepper spray. Maybe she would call 911. At least the sheriff knew him.
While she was on the phone, Conner took a look at the car. The bank of the bar ditch was so steep here that the compact Toyota was almost resting on its chassis. There was no way to push it from behind without causing serious damage. It would need to be towed with a chain, which he didn’t have with him in the truck.
She had turned away to make the call. Now she turned back, lowered the window a few more inches, and handed him the phone.