The crick in her neck provided the answer.

She adjusted her seat back to an upright position, rotating her neck as she surveyed her surroundings. It was impossible to see much in the dark, but it was clear the fog was thicker than ever. And it felt as if the temperature had dropped another ten degrees.

Staying in the car was no longer viable. Not unless she wanted her head cold to turn into pneumonia.

Like it or not, she’d have to knock on the door of the house—if it was a house—and hope the occupants were trusting and compassionate souls who would take pity on her and provide a warm haven to wait out the weather.

She shoved her fingers through the tangles in her hair, pulled a flashlight out of the glove compartment, and pushed the door open.

The dampness burrowed into her at once, and she hunkered deeper into her inadequate jacket as she hurried toward the fuzzy twin beacons, keeping the beam of the flashlight aimed at the ground in front of her.

After a few yards, the outlines of a cottage emerged from the mist.

Yes! The lights were from a house.

Only faint illumination shone from behind the drawn shade in the window on the right, but the matching electric lanterns that flanked the front door radiated welcome—and warmth.

She ascended the single step at the entry, took cover under the peaked roof above the small porch, and searched for a doorbell.

Nada.

But the brass knocker on the front door would do the job.

Christi lifted it and gave a light tap as she rehearsed a brief explanation for her presence.

Thirty seconds passed without a response.

Well, shoot. Maybe no one was home after all.

Or was it possible they hadn’t heard her timid summons?

A harder knock was in order before she gave up and resigned herself to hours of shivering discomfort in her car.

She lifted the knocker again and gave three loud raps.

The door creaked open on the last thump.

Whoops.

She released the knocker and scuttled back. Didn’t people in Oregon believe in locks? What if the owners thought she was breaking in? How was she going to explain her—

A gust of wind whipped past, and the door creaked open several more inches.

Uh-oh.

Christi braced. Surely someone would hear the door and come to investigate. She’d just have to explain as best she could and hope they believed she wasn’t a thief—or worse.

Another half minute ticked by.

No sound emerged from within.

She took a deep breath. There were two options. She could close the door, retreat to her car, and spend the next few hours shivering—or she could suck it up, try to rouse the owner, and explain her predicament.

Another cold whorl of fog spiraled around her.

Decision made.