CHAPTER ONE

      SNOW DRAPED THE Sawtooth mountain range, carpeted the Colter Valley and frosted the Salmon River like a blue-tinged Christmas card.

      And more snow was coming.

      Second Chance residents, like Dr. Noah Bishop, knew it. This was the calm before the next storm. It was there in the biting, building wind at dawn, and at midday, when the sky was heavy with gray clouds that descended below the mountaintops.

      Trudging through the drifts from his home office to the Bent Nickel diner, the taste of snow punched the air and clung to Noah’s lungs like icicles to a metal roof. This time last year, he’d been operating on the shoulder of a football league’s MVP. His one patient today had complained of an ingrown toenail.

       Oh, how the mighty has tumbled from his pedestal.

      Noah’s inner voice hadn’t adjusted to life in the mountains as a country doctor.

      He slogged his way around the side of the inn to the cleared sidewalk. Farther down, the parking stalls in front of the grocery store and gas station were empty. The old, white steepled church, the boxy schoolhouse, the brick mercantile and log-cabin fur-trading post stood above the road, windows dark and empty. The buildings and a dozen or so smaller cabins made up the heart of the roadside town located where two narrow highways met in the Idaho high country. The rest of the residents were spread out around the bends of the Salmon River.

      A snowplow rumbled by from the south and turned at the fork to the west, a last-ditch effort by the state to keep the roads open as long as possible.

      Heads whipped around when Noah entered the Bent Nickel, all faces of citizens of Second Chance who hadn’t gone south for the winter. Town residents were jumpy. There was more than a storm coming.

      The Monroes were coming.

      Folks had seen the announcements in the media about Harlan Monroe’s death. He’d owned the town, lock, stock and barrel. According to those in the know, it was only a matter of time before some of his heirs showed up. The locals had made a pool as to what was going to go down.

      The Clark sisters from the Bucking Bull Ranch sunk twenty dollars on the Monroes sending a real-estate agent to evaluate the place. Mitch Kincaid, mayor and innkeeper, put in ten dollars toward at least two Monroes showing up expecting a five-star hotel. Eli Garland, the homeschooling coordinator for the county, put his money on the Monroes not showing up until summer. Mackenzie and Ivy, who ran the grocery and diner respectively, plunked ten apiece on the Monroes arriving in a stretch limo. Their bet inspired Roy Stout, the town handyman, to wager they’d pull up in a Hummer, because how else was anyone supposed to get up to Second Chance in January without four-wheel drive?

      Noah was among the residents who hadn’t bet. Luck hadn’t been kind to him lately.

      “I’m making French fries and milk shakes for the kids,” Ivy called to Noah from the diner’s kitchen. She pampered the town’s handful of children and encouraged Eli to hold home-study sessions in the diner. “Can I get you anything, Doc?”

      “No, thanks.”

      Ivy served food that could only be classified as fuel. Unlike the fancy meals Noah had enjoyed in New York, there were no culinary delights to be had on any of her plates. But the coffee was strong and cheap, and the price of hanging out for a few hours was a mere armload of firewood for the fireplace, which meant it was the warmest building in Second Chance.

      Noah set his logs on the woodpile and then began to shed layers—parka, knit cap, muffler. The black leather gloves he kept on, a fact several children noticed. He had no idea why the kids were still here. If he’d known they’d be lingering, he would’ve stayed in his cabin. He shoved a couple dollars in the coffee jar and poured himself a cup.

      Mitch pulled out a chair at his table for Noah. They’d met at DePaul University when Mitch was prelaw and Noah was premed. They’d kept in touch on social media and through a fantasy football league. Mitch had hired Noah after his accident.

      “I was just saying we need to be united when the Monroes get here,” Mitch said. “I know I don’t have to remind anyone about our nondisclosure agreement with Harlan.”

      Noah nodded, because Mitch was looking at him. He’d signed a nondisclosure agreement about the old man, but he’d only been here six months and had never met Harlan Monroe in person. He couldn’t have picked his benefactor out of a police lineup. Unlike other residents who’d sold their property to the millionaire and might have been privy to something important about the old man, Noah had no secrets to divulge.

      “Moving forward,” Mitch went on, “it’ll help if we negotiate as one entity. Ideally, we keep our low leases. Worst case, we buy back our places for less than we sold them to Harlan. In either case, don’t make this easy on them. We don’t want Harlan’s heirs thinking this is the next Idaho town to be developed for Hollywood vacation homes.”

      There were worried head nods of approval and agreement. Nobody wanted Second Chance real estate to skyrocket or for it to become a soulless haven for celebrities.

      Noah didn’t nod. He sat. Unlike the other residents, the small home Noah lived in was rent-free. It was a stipulation of his contract as the town doctor. Granted, it wasn’t where he thought he’d be, but if he couldn’t be an orthopedic surgeon to sports superstars, it was better to be a nobody from nowhere.

      Aptly put, his snarky inner voice whispered.

      “You ready for a blizzard, Doc?” Roy sat at the next table over, facing the highway. He wore stained blue coveralls over a pair of yellowed long johns. His wiry, knubby elbows rested on the white Formica tabletop. A fringe