Author's Note: The characters were renamed in this story and the plot was given a contemporary twist for original copyright purposes (I'm hoping to publish this story). First chapters aren't my strong suit, so if you really want to quit reading after Chapter 1, I'd appreciate any feedback saying why.

My Milori/Clarion trilogy hit 1,000 positive reviews, although some readers said they weren't sold in the first chapter but were glad they gave it a couple more chapters before they were irrevocably hooked. I hope you'll give this one a few chapters too. :)

Rocky Mountains, Colorado
December 15

Another long, boring drive from Colorado to Chicago for the holidays, only to be badgered about turning thirty and being husbandless and babyless. She sighed and turned the wiperblades on. Where did this snow come from? Glancing at the clock of her car, she groaned. Two more hours until getting out of the mountains. The weather hadn't predicted a snowstorm. Maybe it was too small to have shown up on weather radar and it would pass as fast as it'd come. With these winding roads and cliffs, it might be better to pull over and wait it out. Her eyes scanned the road. Wait it out where? A cliff greeted the right side and the side of the mountain on the left. She tapped the breaks and dropped speed just in case it got slippery. Her thoughts wandered back to the holiday gathering this weekend at Nana's.

Nana's warbly, eighty-year-old voice rang in her head, "In my day, girls were married and had five babies by age 30. The only ones who didn't were the nuns."

She gripped the steeringwheel tighter. Then would come the drills from the younger cousins, who had all started families of their own, asking how long she'd been dating Mr. Right. She snorted. Mr. Right still didn't exist. Who knew, though? She could make him up and lie that he was on a business trip in France. She laughed to herself. Her female cousins would drool. Mr. Right would be sexy, a huge businessman, and...maybe have a mansion in LA and a villa in Italy. Perhaps the Christmas gathering would be fun this year.

Flipping the wipers on high, she frowned and looked up at the sky. The snow was coming hard now. Great. She couldn't turn around, and it probably wasn't safe to keep going. Tapping the brakes, she slowed to five miles an hour and prayed no one came barrelling up behind. Within seconds, a full blizzard unleashed, making visibility impossible.

Her heart raced with fear. This wasn't good. Dread bubbled up in her gut. Her knuckles turned white clutching the steeringwheel. The road disappeared within seconds. Everything disappeared except for a wall of white enveloping the car. She hit the brakes. The car slid to the right. Oh god, not the cliff! The car tilted at an angle and then went into a tailspin. "Noooo!" she screamed in terror. Just as suddenly, the seatbelt locked as her body was thrown against it. Pain shot up her shoulder from the impact. As if in slow motion, she saw the nose of the car wrap itself around a tree. The steering wheel seemed to come closer and closer as the car crumpled on itself like a candy wrapper. Her ankle caught in the collapsing metal. Pain exploded through her head as it smashed into the steering wheel. Then everything went black.

A male voice spoke low and quiet. Her head throbbed with each heartbeat, as if her pulse found it funny to drum on her brain. Memories of the car accident swam up. She laid in something soft and cool. A hospital bed? Her body felt heavy, and it took intense concentration to form a coherent thought, like they had to climb through molasses to take shape. Even opening her eyes proved to be too much effort. Slowly shifting her stiff leg a fraction, her ankle vehemently protested, drawing a whimper from her dry throat.

A large, warm hand came to rest on her bare shoulder. "Rest. You were in a car accident and have a concussion and a badly sprained ankle. Your collarbone may be fractured too." The deep voice was quiet and gentle—probably the attending physician. "Can you tell me your name?"

It took a moment to process his words. Then she opened her mouth and had to concentrate through the haze to speak. "Emma."

"Emma, is there anyone I should call?"

Her mouth felt full of cotton, and she tried to run her tongue over parched lips.

A strong arm slipped under her shoulders and very slowly eased her upright a bit. A cold glass pressed to her lips.

"Water."

She took a sip. The glass left her mouth. With a slight frown, she forced her eyes open to see who spoke. Looking up, everything was a blur. The room was dark. Shadows danced on the ceiling in an orange haze, as if on fire. The physician loomed as a dark silhouettte. Then everything dimmed and she felt her body relax as unconsciousness reclaimed her. But she wasn't afraid this time. It felt warm and safe here.

A clock struck in the distance. She blinked and slowly opened her eyes. The blurriness morphed into clear shapes. Sunlight poured into the room. She lay in a large bed covered in red satin sheets and an impossibly fluffy down comforter. The opposite wall held a magnificent mahogany fireplace. Beautiful relics that easily dated back a century adorned the mantle. A fire roared behind the grate, flooding the room with its warmth. The walls were decorated with dark wood paneling that matched the intricately carved wood nightstand to her left. On the far wall, massive windows caressed the belly of the majestic ceiling. The wall to her right cradled two doors.

A short woman puttered around the room. Her obviously dyed brown hair was in a topknot, and she wore an apron over her blue jeans and blouse. She bustled over to the mantle and brushed at one of the knicknacks with a rag. When she turned, her face lit up in a motherly way. "Oh! You're awake!" She flitted over, waving the dusty rag as she spoke with such animation. "How are you feeling? You took a nasty hit with a tree, dont'cha know. Are you hungry? I can whip up something. You'll love my tapioca."

She blinked at the woman, who appeared to be in her fifties. "Where am I?"

"Oh, don'tcha know? You're in D, I mean, Mr. Port's home." She set down the rag and scurried into the bathroom, not missing a beat in conversation as she washed her hands. "He said to try waking you every hour after he left, but it woulda been easier to wake the dead, ya know. I told him and told him. He's been on the phone for the last hour trying to figure out how to airlift you to a hospital." She came puttering back out and poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the nightstand. "He said you might have brain swelling. Here, you take this glass of water, and I'm going to let him know he can call off the Calvary." She set the glass down on the nightstand and then left.

She rubbed her head. That conversation was far too hard to keep up with in a healthy state, much less with a concussion. She eased up onto her right elbow, favoring the sore left collarbone, and looked around. Where was she?

The woman came bustling back in like the conversation hadn't ceased. "I don't think I said, I'm Trudy Van Hoodie, the housekeeper. Now, don't go makin' fun of my name. I'm from Minnesota, and it was popular to have your name rhyme, don'tcha know. My parents thought they were doin' me a favor, but I could wring their necks now, bless their souls." Trudy slipped another pillow under to prop her up in bed. "It's nearly noon, but I told Mr. Port my tapioca is good any time of day. It'll sit real nice even if you have a queasy stomach."

She cut in before Trudy bustled off again. Or didn't pause again in her monologue. "I don't know who Mr. Port is or where I am."

Trudy blinked and then smiled, ready to launch off again. "You are in the Rockies. No one lives up here besides Mr. Port, bless his soul. You'll meet him in time. Oh! Goodness me, I almost forgot." She pulled a pill bottle out of her pocket. "He said to ask if you have allergies. Don'tcha know, he's worried you'll be achin', so he sent me up with this."

Taking the offered bottle, she read the label. "Do I ask how Mr. Port has a manufacturer bottle of codeine?" She looked at Trudy with disapproval.

Trudy smiled. "Mr. Port does nothing dishonorable or illegal, or I'd turn in my resignation and go work on the sheep farm back in Minnesota, don'tcha know. We often get snowed in here in the mountains, so he keeps a small medical supply on hand. He said to give you one every six hours if you need it. Actually, he said to do it even if you argue because you'll regret it later. The meds he gave earlier will probably wear off soon, and ya don't want to be whimpering like a sheep dog in July." She took the bottle back and opened it.

"A what?" What on earth did a sheep dog have to do with anything?

Trudy pressed the pill into her palm and held out the glass of water. "Drink up. You'll be feelin' better in a bit, dont'cha know. I'll go make my tapioca." She pocketed the pill bottle and disappeared again.

She was exhausted by the time she ate the surprisingly tasty tapioca and Trudy helped her clean up as best as possible in bed. Her entire body felt like it'd been run over. Trudy towel dried her hair being her left shoulder hurt to lift her arm. The woman didn't pause in her chatter singing praises about Mr. Port, yet being frustratingly vague.

"How old is Mr. Port?" Clearly Trudy had a crush on him. The man may as well be a saint with how highly Trudy spoke of him.

With a giggle, Trudy simply shook her head.

She napped, with Trudy waking her every hour per Mr. Port's instructions due to the concussion. In between, she dreamed of this kind old Mr. Port, who seemed to live comfortably, if this room indicated his financial status.