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“I can see his face,” Ruby said, looking through her own pair of binoculars from the back seat. “His smiling face. I just knew there was something happening between those two.”

“You’re sure about him?” Claudia asked, sounding worried. “Sophie and Isabelle are my favorite nieces. I’d never forgive myself if I let something happen to either one of them.”

“Ha,” Rosie scoffed. “You couldn’t stop that freight train even if you wanted to. Our girl is hooked.”

“It’s not Sophie being hooked that I’m worried about,” Claudia clarified. “What I need to know is, what’s in his eyes when he looks at her?”

“Snow,” Maybelle said drily. “Because she just pelted him with another snowball.”

“I just love winter romances,” Rosie sighed, rubbing her gloved hands over her white faux-fur jacket.

Maybelle snorted. “You love romances in any season. It’s the follow-through you have problems with.”

“Oh, don’t you go harping on me about setting a wedding date again tonight,” Rosie scowled. “It’s not as if I didn’t hear it enough while we were borrowing this fun little gas-powered buggy from Sheriff Roscoe. I can’t believe he insisted you drive, though. Doesn’t he realize that you can barely see a thing even with your glasses on?”

“Just because I squint when I look at you doesn’t mean I can’t see. More that I’m looking at something I don’t want to see.”

Ruby and Claudia giggled from the backseat.

“Yes, it must be difficult to see all this and then have to look in the mirror,” Rosie retorted, puckering up her bright pink lips and air-kissing Maybelle.

“Speaking of difficult to see, I don’t think our all-white camouflage worked,” Maybelle warned. “We’ve been spotted.”

“I told you we should have wrapped the Mule in white butcher paper,” Rosie reminded. “What was the point in us wearing all white if we’re in a black vehicle?”

“As if butcher paper wouldn’t have blown off by the time we drove here.”

“Or gotten wet and made a mess,” Ruby added.

“Well, with the way you three work, your pieces probably would have blown off or made a mess,” Rosie agreed. “Still, it would have been just like decorating a float for the Christmas parade. We could have even cut out paper snowflakes to hang from these bars.”

“It would have been festive,” Claudia agreed.

All four women watched Andrew’s four-wheeler get closer to where they were parked.

“Grandma? What are you doing up here?”

“Hello, Andrew,” Ruby waved at her grandson. “We brought warm blankets and hot chocolate! Aren’t you glad to see us?”

Snuggled beneath one of the quilts the Butterflies had delivered to the sledders, Sophie took a sip of cocoa and stole a look at Cole over the rim of her mug. They’d stripped out of their wet outer snow gear prior to coming into a fully-decorated Hamilton House. A dozen or so people had come in with them, and Bodie had gotten a fire roaring in the living room fireplace.

Now, the fire was blazing, and the majority of guests were in Sarah’s kitchen, with its large built-in dining nook, waiting while she threw a batch of cookies into the oven. But a handful had brought their drinks to the living room to warm by the fire, Sophie among them.

She huddled on the hearth, quilt draped around her shoulders, drinking her cocoa and letting all of it warm her insides.

Truth was, her insides were feeling pretty toasty already. All thanks to the man sitting in a chair near her, drinking his cocoa. Unlike her, he was blanketless as he’d denied needing one.

Of course he’d say that when the Butterflies had claimed they were fresh out and suggested he could share with Sophie.

Could they have been any more obvious?

She’d seen the extra blankets—had known there were plenty for Cole to have one to himself—but he hadn’t been shivering at all, so she hadn’t insisted. The cold probably had been no big deal to someone who’d been in the military and seen and done the things he had.

It was so difficult to imagine this handsome, relaxed-looking man sitting in jeans, a long-sleeved T-shirt, and socked feet being the same one who’d written the anguished journal. Her brain struggled to connect the person who’d played in the snow with her with the journal writer who’d been tormented by the images in his head, and likely still was.

Yet, they were the same.

“Warm?”