The Millionaire's Winter Kiss

Ghosts of Montana

The winter Sheila turned 17 was colder than any she could remember. The snow seemed to fall endlessly, burying the landscape under a thick, suffocating blanket. The mountains that had once been her sanctuary now loomed ominously, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch into her heart.

"Your dad's a fighter," the doctor had said, trying to sound optimistic. But Sheila could see the truth in his eyes, hidden behind a forced smile.

Sheila sat by her father's bedside in the small, dimly lit hospital room. The scent of antiseptic hung heavy in the air, a sharp contrast to the crisp, fresh smell of the mountains she loved. Jack lay there, pale and thin, a shadow of the man who had once seemed invincible.

"Dad," Sheila whispered, reaching out to take his hand. His skin was cold, his grip weak. "You're going to get through this. We'll be back on the slopes before you know it."

Jack opened his eyes, a tired smile tugging at his lips. "I wish I could believe that, kiddo," he murmured, his voice raspy. "But this time... it's different."

Sheila swallowed hard, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill. "Don't say that. You've always told me to keep fighting, no matter what."

"And you should," Jack said, squeezing her hand as much as he could. "But sometimes, fighting isn't enough. Sometimes, you have to let go."

Sheila shook her head, her throat tightening. "I'm not ready to let go, Dad. I need you."

"You're stronger than you think, Sheila," Jack said, his gaze locking onto hers with a fierce intensity. "You've got the mountains in your blood. They'll always be there for you, even when I'm not."

Sheila blinked back tears, the weight of his words settling in her chest like a stone. "But they're not you."

Jack's smile faded, replaced by a look of deep sorrow. "No, they're not. But they're part of me. And they're part of you, too. That's something no one can take away."

Those were the last words they shared before Jack slipped into a deep sleep from which he never awoke. The mountains, which had always been a source of joy and comfort, now felt like a cruel reminder of what she had lost. She had always felt alive on the slopes, but now, every run felt like a ghostly echo of the past, haunted by memories of her father.

After the funeral, Sheila couldn't bear to stay in Montana. The small town that had once felt like home now felt like a prison, its familiarity suffocating. She packed up her snowboard, her father's old gear, and the memories that clung to her like a second skin, and she left for college in Colorado, hoping that a change of scenery would help her escape the pain.

But grief is a stubborn thing. It doesn't fade with distance or time. It clings to you, hiding in the corners of your mind, waiting to ambush you when you least expect it. Sheila found herself withdrawing from her friends, from the world, building walls around her heart that no one could penetrate.

"Are you okay?" her roommate, Jess, asked one evening as they sat in their tiny dorm room, the soft hum of the heater the only sound breaking the silence.

Sheila looked up from her book, forcing a smile. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just tired."

Jess frowned, not convinced. "You're always tired, Sheila. You never talk about your dad anymore. I know it's hard, but you don't have to go through this alone."

Sheila's chest tightened. She didn't want to talk about it. Talking made it real, made the pain sharper. "I just... I can't," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jess sighed, reaching out to touch her arm. "You don't have to be strong all the time, you know."

But that was the problem, wasn't it? Sheila had always been strong because her father had taught her to be. But now, without him, she felt like a house built on sand, one strong wind away from collapsing.

In the months that followed, Sheila threw herself into her studies and her snowboarding, trying to fill the void her father's death had left behind. But no matter how fast she went down the mountain, no matter how hard she pushed herself, she couldn't outrun the grief.

The mountains were still there, waiting for her, as her father had promised. But they no longer felt like a refuge. They were a reminder of what she had lost, a connection to a past that was both beautiful and painful. And though she kept riding, there was a part of her that stayed buried beneath the snow, alongside the man who had taught her everything she knew about life, love, and the mountains.

Montana had given her roots, but those roots were now tangled in ghosts, pulling at her, reminding her of the pain she couldn't escape. Yet, even in her darkest moments, there was a flicker of hope, a small voice that whispered, "Keep riding, Sheila. Keep riding." And so, she did, not knowing where the mountain would lead her, but trusting that, somehow, she would find her way. 

Sheila never imagined that grief could be so loud. It wasn't the kind of noise you could escape from—more like a constant hum that settled deep in your bones, vibrating with every breath. At home, that hum became a discordant symphony whenever she was around her mother.

"Mom, I'm heading out," Sheila called, grabbing her jacket from the worn hook by the door. The cabin still smelled like her father—pinewood, coffee, and the faint scent of snow wax. It was comforting and suffocating all at once.

"Where to this time?" her mother, Claire, asked from the kitchen, her voice carrying an edge that hadn't been there before Jack's death.

Sheila hesitated, already sensing the tension in the air. "Just up to the ridge. I need some fresh air."

Claire appeared in the doorway, a dish towel in her hands, her eyes tired and hollow. "You're always out there, Sheila. It's like you're trying to outrun something."

Sheila felt the familiar sting of frustration prickling at her. "And you're always in here, like you're hiding from something."

Claire's face tightened. "I'm not hiding. I'm trying to keep things together. This house... your father built this place with his hands, and it's falling apart. I can't do it all alone."

"You don't have to do it alone, Mom," Sheila said, her voice softening. "But I can't breathe in here. Every time I walk into a room, I see him. I hear his voice. It's like he's everywhere and nowhere at the same time."

Claire looked down, her hands twisting the towel. "I know it's hard, Sheila. But running up those mountains won't bring him back."

Sheila felt a lump form in her throat. "I'm not trying to bring him back. I'm trying to feel close to him, to remember him the way he was... not like this."

Claire sighed, her shoulders slumping as she leaned against the doorframe. "We're both trying to remember him. But we're doing it in different ways. You escape to the mountains, and I stay here... because this is where he was happiest, where we were a family."

The word "family" hung in the air like an accusation. Sheila looked away, guilt creeping in. She knew her mother was struggling, too—trying to keep the pieces of their life from crumbling. But the more Claire clung to the memories inside the cabin, the more Sheila felt the need to break free.

"It's like... we're stuck, Mom," Sheila said quietly. "You hold on to every little thing, and I—"

"You run," Claire finished for her, her voice tight with pain. "You run up those mountains like you can leave it all behind."

Sheila winced. "It's the only place that feels right anymore. I don't know how to be here without him."

Claire's eyes softened, and for a moment, the distance between them seemed to shrink. "I don't know how to be anywhere without him," she admitted, her voice breaking. "But, Sheila, we can't lose each other, too. Not after everything."

Sheila felt the tears she had been holding back start to slip down her cheeks. "I don't want to lose you, Mom. But I don't know how to stay."

Claire reached out and pulled Sheila into a hug, the first real embrace they'd shared since the funeral. Sheila clung to her mother, the familiar scent of lavender and cinnamon wrapping around her like a warm blanket. It was a reminder of the safety she once felt in her mother's arms, before everything changed.

"We'll figure it out," Claire whispered, her voice trembling. "We have to. For him... and for us."

Sheila nodded against her mother's shoulder, but she couldn't shake the feeling that the mountains were still calling to her, offering a refuge from the pain that seemed inescapable within the walls of their home. It was as if the peaks themselves were whispering her father's name, reminding her that she was a part of them, just as much as she was a part of the family he had left behind.

When they finally pulled apart, Sheila wiped her eyes and forced a small smile. "I'll help with the house when I get back. I promise."

Claire gave her a weary smile in return. "Just... don't stay out too long, okay?"

"I won't," Sheila said, though she wasn't sure if she meant it.

She left the cabin, stepping into the biting cold, the snow crunching beneath her boots. As she made her way up the ridge, she could feel the tension in her chest ease, just a little. The mountains were her escape, but they were also her connection—to her father, to her memories, and maybe even to herself.

But as she looked back at the cabin, she knew the real challenge wasn't the climb up the mountain. It was finding a way to come back down and face what was waiting for her at home.