Red flag number two came when the desert scrub gave way to towering pines, and the roadside was covered in snow. I chalked it up to a fluke storm, but as I neared Pine Haven, my supposed destination, permanent road signs warned of ice patches andsnowdrifts. I guess I should have paid more attention and assumed the name wasn’t a quaint marketing ploy.
When I finally rolled into town, the GPS chirped that I was still fifteen miles from my rental, and that’s when it dawned on me that I’d seriously botched things by not checking if parts of Arizona get snow. I never imagined I’d stumble into a snowy wonderland straight out of a Christmas movie, when everything I’d ever seen of the state was cactus and desert.
By the time I hit the mountain switchbacks, sweat beads on my forehead. It’s been ages since I last drove, and I’m second-guessing my decision to rent a car as I navigate the winding road. Snow falls in thick sheets as I head further into a frozen landscape I’m woefully unprepared for. As if tackling unpredictable weather in a convertible isn’t bad enough, my suitcase is stuffed with shorts, sundresses, and sandals. Not a single long-sleeved shirt or jacket made the trip.
I should’ve turned back when I had the chance, but there hasn’t been a pullout in ages.
Good thing I stopped for groceries outside of Phoenix. Otherwise, I’d be going hungry tonight because there’s no way I’m venturing out in this storm once I reach the cabin.
Christmas music plays through the speakers as snow pelts the windshield. Each turn is tighter than the last, and I’m left wishing I had agreed when the car rental attendant suggested I swap out the convertible for an SUV with four-wheel drive after I mentioned I was going to Pine Haven. I’d assumed he recommended it because it cost more, not because he was concerned about my safety.
My spiraling thoughts are interrupted when my phone buzzes from its spot on the console, the screen lighting up with an alert.
Winter Weather Advisory: Snow and gusty winds expected. Reduced visibility. Drive with caution.
“You couldn’t have warned me an hour ago?” I grumble.
My pity party is short-lived when the car fishtails, and I grip the wheel with both hands, doing my best not to overcorrect as the car slides on the icy road.
I let out a shaky breath, nerves stretched thin when the tires finally catch traction and the car straightens out. I’m ready to stop despite the lack of a shoulder when the GPS chimes for me to turn right. Through the flurries, I catch sight of the hidden turnoff, lost behind a snowdrift piled high against the road’s edge. There are no signs or markers, but I take the chance, hoping I can turn around if it’s a dead end.
I ease onto the narrow lane, the headlights slicing through the swaths of swirling snow. With every bend through dense woods, the road tightens, and I scold myself for the hundredth time for not checking the location before I booked it. Half a mile down the road, the GPS announces my arrival, but there aren’t any structures in sight. I worry I missed another turnoff until I spot my destination in the distance.
The cabin is nestled among a cluster of evergreens, its shutters and front door painted cherry red. The porch juts out from the house, supported by rough-cut beams, and the uneven, hand-hewn logs give the place a rustic, storybook charm.
Smoke curls from the chimney, and warm light spills from the windows onto the porch. It’s a welcome surprise since the last time I heard from the owners was a week ago, when they confirmed my booking. I’ve sent multiple messages leading up to my trip, most recently when my plane landed, but they’ve all gone unanswered. So I’m relieved to find the cabin ready for my arrival.
I text Gemma Gemma to say I’ve made it to the cabin safely and promise to check in within a couple of days. The service is spotty here, and I don’t want her to worry if I don’t respond right away. Plus, I’m looking forward to decompressing after along day of travel and to have some much-needed time to myself. Fingers crossed the cabin has a big bathtub.
The listing only showed exterior shots of the cabin and must have been cropped to hide the forest surrounding the place. There was minimal information about what amenities were included, but I assumed that if the outside was this enchanting, the inside had to be just as lovely.
As soon as I get out of the car, a sharp gust of wind hits me, sending my dress whipping around my legs, and making me wish I’d worn a comfy lounge set instead.
Desperate to escape the cold, I wrestle my carry-on from the back seat. It’s heavier than I remember. Teeth chattering, I drag it across the snow-covered gravel, the handle biting into my palms. My wedges slide with every step, but at least I didn’t wear my favorite four-inch heels, or I’d already have face-planted by now.
I breathe a sigh of relief when I reach the porch without incident. The respite fades quickly when I notice there’s no padlock on the door like the check-in instructions said there would be. I push down the unease rising in my chest and try the knob, only to find it locked. My eyes dart around, searching for a hidden key or lockbox, but there’s nothing in sight.
My fingers tremble as I pull my phone from my purse, frowning when I see there’s still no response from the owner. I send another message, explaining I’ve arrived but can’t get inside. The apprehension returns, coiling around me in a suffocating grip. It’s possible they live nearby and went home to get out of the storm until I got here. I might believe it if I hadn’t just driven the last eight miles without seeing another house. The only other structure I passed was a large barn tucked among the trees around a half mile before the turnoff to the cabin.
“What the hell are you doing?” I jump, startled by a gruff voice.
I spin around to find a man approaching the cabin on horseback. With his worn jeans, flannel jacket, and boots planted firmly in the stirrups, I assume he’s a cowboy.
“You’re trespassing on private property,” he grunts, dismounting with practiced movements.
I watch cautiously as he loops the reins around the porch railing. The man is tall and broad-shouldered, and his mustache is flecked with gray. Faint crow’s feet frame his chocolate eyes as he aims his scowl at me.
I’m all too aware that I’m alone with this stranger, and he could very well be a serial killer or a sociopath with a fondness for stalking women in the woods. Still, I can’t look away as he takes out several pieces of firewood from his saddlebag. Someone this good-looking couldn’t possibly be dangerous, right? Then again, serial killers rarely come with warning labels. Just look at Ted Bundy.
“I asked you a question,” he demands when I stay silent. “What are you doing peeping through my window? You’re trespassing.”
His accusation makes me focus, and this time, I answer immediately. “No, I’m not. I booked this cabin for the next week, and even triple-checked the address to make sure I was in the right place,” I state proudly.
As someone who’s lived in the city since she was ten and relied mainly on public transportation, I’ve earned a PhD in wrong turns and accidental scenic routes when I drive. So it’s a miracle I made it here before dark and only got lost once, given the treacherous weather conditions.
The man shakes his head, letting out a humorless laugh. “Not possible. I’m the owner, and I’d never put the place up for short-term rentals. I live here.”
I blink rapidly as I pull up the listing on the rental app and march down the porch steps to where the man’s standing with his arms folded across his chest.
