Chapter 5 - Snowed In with the Enemy
The panic that followed my ultimatum was chaotic and humiliating. Guests scrambled to grab their coats, designer bags, and half-empty bottles of wine. The illusion of a high-society weekend in the Rockies shattered like cheap glass. Greg Vance was the first out the door, offering me a tight, respectful nod on his way out. "Smart girl," he muttered under his breath. "Keep the deed close."
Within forty-five minutes, nearly half the cars had filed out of the driveway, their headlights cutting through the darkening mountain shadows. Aunt Carol had hugged me with trembling arms, whispering apologies before scurrying out to her Subaru.
Then, nature intervened.
A harsh, howling wind swept down the canyon, rattling the triple-paned windows. Heavy, wet mountain snow began to fall, not in gentle flurries, but in a blinding, horizontal whiteout. By seven-thirty, the driveway was already buried under six inches of fresh powder.
The front door swung open, and Cousin Michael stumbled back inside, shivering, covered in snow from head to toe.
"The pass is closed," Michael gasped, slamming the door shut against the blizzard. "State patrol just put up the barricades at Highway 550. An eighteen-wheeler jackknifed two miles down the road. Nobody’s getting down the mountain tonight."
A heavy, suffocating dread settled over the house.
Only eight people remained trapped inside: Michael, my mother, Olivia, Jason, Olivia’s two bewildered children who had just woken up from a nap in the bunk room, and Olivia’s friend Chloe from Boulder, who was currently hyperventilating into a paper bag by the pantry.
And me. The rightful owner of the fortress.
"Well," Olivia said, her voice dripping with venom as she took off her coat again and threw it over the back of my leather sofa. "Looks like you can't kick us out after all, Little Miss Landlord. It’s illegal to force people into a blizzard. If we freeze, it’s manslaughter."
"You won't freeze," I replied coldly, walking over to the thermostat and dialing it down to sixty-two degrees. "You can stay in the basement rec room. There’s a sectional and a half-bath. The upstairs bedrooms, the master suite, and the gourmet kitchen are off-limits."
"Becca, they are your niece and nephew!" my mother wailed, pointing to nine-year-old Emma and seven-year-old Leo, who were clutching their iPads, looking terrified. "You’re going to treat family like stray dogs?"
"I bought groceries for myself for the month," I said, ignoring my mother and looking straight at Olivia. "There are blankets in the downstairs storage closet. I suggest you get your kids settled before the power lines go down."
The dividing lines were drawn. Michael, who felt deeply guilty for his role in the charade, volunteered to stay in the basement with them to keep the peace. Within an hour, the main floor was quiet, though the tension vibrated through the floorboards like an electric current.
I sat alone by the stone hearth, watching the snow bury the world outside. The fire cast long, dancing shadows across the high walls. For four years, I had dreamed of this night—my first evening in my mountain home, surrounded by silence, peace, and the fruits of my labor. Instead, I was a warden guarding a prison against my own flesh and blood.
Around midnight, unable to sleep, I pulled on a pair of thick wool socks and crept silently toward the kitchen to make a cup of chamomile tea. The house was pitch-black except for the moonlight reflecting off the snow outside the expansive floor-to-ceiling windows.
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As I neared the basement door, a muffled sound caught my attention. A heated, frantic argument was leaking through the thin gap beneath the doorframe.
***
