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“Hannah’s a grown woman,” he said. “She’s been making decisions on her own for a long time. I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

“Probably,” Holly agreed. “But she really hates driving in the snow, especially after the accident she had a few years ago. She hit a patch of black ice on the pass and broke her arm.”

His grip on the gas nozzle tightened. The thought of Hannah in a crumpled car on the side of an icy road, hurt and scared, sent all his protective instincts into overdrive.

What was wrong with him? He was supposed to be putting more distance between them, not looking for fresh excuses to step closer.

He finished pumping, replaced the nozzle, muttered a goodbye that was more of a grunt than words and climbed back into his truck, a frown furrowing his forehead.

What was Holly doing? She had to know Hannah would rather walk barefoot to Utah than be trapped in a pickup with him for an entire weekend.

And what was Hannah thinking, even considering packing two young kids into a car and driving solo over mountain passes with a storm coming in?

He knew the answer to that. She was thinking about Riley and Carter. About Morgan, alone hundreds of miles away, fighting cancer without her children’s arms around her. Of course Hannah would do whatever it took to bridge that gap, even if it meant a long, hard drive.

It was exactly the sort of generous, selfless thing she’d always done. Taking the kids in. Organizing a fundraiser concert. Driving fourteen hours round trip in the middle of a December storm for a quick visit.

He sighed, wishing he’d never pulled into the gas station in the first place.

What was he supposed to do? Pretend he hadn’t heard anything and let her make the trip alone? Or show up and at least offer a safer option . . . and give her the chance to turn him down flat?

He was still wrestling with the ridiculousness of the whole idea when he turned onto their street. He usually came in from the other direction and skipped Hannah’s house entirely, a coward’s detour he’d justified as the short route.

This time, he turned a block early and let the truck roll slowly past her cottage.

The Christmas lights he had helped her hang glowed brightly in the gathering dusk. Through the big picture window, he could see the faint outline of her bushy Christmas tree, branches thick with ornaments and paper snowflakes.

The house looked warm. Lived in. Exactly like the kind of place a person would be glad to come home to at the end of a long day.

“What do you think, Kodi?” he asked, glancing into the rearview where the dog lay curled on the back seat. “Should we see if Hannah and the kids want to carpool to Utah?”

Kodiak lifted his head. His tail gave a single, soft thump against the seat. Not the wild enthusiasm of old, but not indifference either.

“It might be a tight fit,” Wes murmured. “But I could fold the seat down for your crate.”

He shook his head at himself. He should keep driving, head home, mind his own business.

Then he saw them.

Hannah and the kids were out front, rolling balls of snow in her yard, building a snowman in the fresh snow that had fallen the night before. Where Holly’s beanie at the gas station had been blue, Hannah’s was a bright, cheerful purple, a pom-pom bobbing as she bent and laughed with the children.

A multicolored knit scarf wound around her neck, with mittens to match.

They were all three rosy cheeked and breathless, and she was stunning. Ridiculously so. Not in a polished, fashion-model kind of way. In a real, solid, natural way that punched the breath out of him.

Before he could think better of it, he pulled to the curb and put the truck in Park.

The kids stopped what they were doing to watch him climb out and walk up the shoveled path, their expressions bright with excitement.

“Hi!” Carter exclaimed with a grin. “Do you want to help us build a snowman?”

In perfect unison, as if they’d rehearsed it, Hannah and Riley broke into song. “‘Do you want to build a snowman . . .’” they sang in the familiar Disney tune, then both dissolved into laughter halfway through the line.

He once more had a wild, aching image of what might have been. Coming home from a long shift to this scene. Hannah in a purple hat, their children in too-big mittens, a dog or two racing circles in the snow. A warm, cheerful house and someone glad to see him walk through the door.

It was such a clear, beautiful picture that his throat almost closed.

“It’s a great snowman,” he said, forcing his voice to sound light. “Looks like you’re doing just fine without my help.”