“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.”
Hours crawled by. Close to midnight, color slowly returned to her cheeks. Her shivering eased. The wind outside began to lose its fury. Ridge’s hands were numb, his back aching, but he refused to loosen his hold.
At dawn, snowplows cleared a path. Sheriff’s deputies and paramedics finally reached the station. They found a broad-shouldered man in black leather slumped against the counter, cradling a small girl wrapped in silver blankets.
“She’s stable,” Ridge told them as they approached. “Core temp’s rising. Just keep her warm. She’s fragile.”
Ava gripped his arm. “Don’t leave me.”
“I’m coming with you,” he said, meeting the sheriff’s eyes.
At the hospital, the truth surfaced. Ava’s father had died three days earlier from an overdose in their unheated house. The furnace had failed. With no one checking on them, the little girl had endured freezing nights alone before wandering into the storm. There were no relatives able to take her.
Ridge stayed at her bedside for three days, sleeping in a chair, bringing stuffed animals and soft reassurances. When social services arrived to move her into foster care, he stood firm.
“I’ll foster her,” he said. “Run every background check you need. Talk to my wife. Inspect my home. But she’s not going back into the system alone.”
After careful review, they agreed.