He held her close and turned back toward the station. “I’m not God. But I heard you. And I’m not letting anything happen to you tonight.”
“I prayed… I wanted Mommy,” she sobbed.
“Maybe He sent me,” Ridge answered quietly.
Her fingers clutched his vest. “My name’s Ava… Ava Reynolds.”
Then she went limp.
Ridge’s emergency training took over. Her body temperature was dangerously low. Hypothermia could kill quickly—and warming her the wrong way could be just as deadly. He shattered the locked glass door of the gas station, ignoring the crash as wind and snow followed him inside. The building was frigid, but it blocked the storm.
He removed her soaked shoes and jeans, wrapped her in foil emergency blankets from his saddlebag, and held her against his chest, using his own body heat to warm her slowly. He kept talking—about safe places, about sunshine, about her mother—anything to keep her tethered.
Ava drifted in and out, murmuring about “Mommy in the stars” and “the cold house.” Ridge’s jaw tightened. He understood enough. This child hadn’t just wandered into trouble—she’d been left in it.
“Stay with me, kid,” he whispered. “Your daddy might not have woken up… but I did.”