Daddy of the Mountain

Chapter 1

I arrived in Snowview just as dusk thickened the shadows between the trees. The cold hit me first—sharp, clean, and more honest than anything I’d felt in months. It clawed through my coat like it wanted to strip away every piece of the city still clinging to me. Good, I thought, let it.

The cottage was small, almost too quaint, but I barely dropped my bags inside before stepping back out. Sitting still wasn’t an option, not with this kind of energy crackling under my skin. Eighty-hour weeks and constant phone pings had left me hollowed out and buzzing all at once. My therapist said something about grounding exercises—"reconnect with nature" or whatever—but all I knew was I needed to move.

It wasn’t like she’d prescribed this trip for me, not exactly. She just strongly suggested Snowview as a place that I might like to visit.

“Sometimes,” she’d said, rolling her pen between fingertips, “we just need a reset. Something to shock our brain out of the usual patterns of anxiety and panic. A little time to remind you that you don’t need to be on the edge all the time.”

I’d scoffed, but when I’d googled the place, something about it called to me. A chance to explore. A chance to be completely out of my comfort zone. A chance to just be.

I took it.

At the edge of the property, a trail snaked up into the woods, disappearing between the firs like a dare. I decided I’d have a quick look. I’d walk the trail for half an hour, then head back down, grab some dinner from a diner, and hit the hay. I was here to explore, and there was no time like the present.

I didn't bother taking my pack off. I'd packed lightly – a few changes of clothes, and my toiletries. I figured it would be good exercise to take it up the mountain with me. Burn some calories with the extra weight.

My boots crunched over old snow as I started climbing. The air burned my lungs, sharp and alive, and for once, I didn’t hate the feeling. No emails here. No honking cars or fluorescent lights. Just me, the mountains, and the sound of my own breathing.

I tried that stupid breathing exercise she suggested: five counts in, hold, exhale slow. I could still hear my heartbeat pounding too fast, but at least it wasn’t panic. Not this time. This was different. It felt . . . good, almost. Like my body remembered how to function without a dozen fires to put out.

The path narrowed as I went higher, pine needles brushing my sleeves. The scent hit me—crisp and green, with that faint bite of sap. I hadn’t smelled anything like it in years. Maybe ever.

"Yeah," I muttered under my breath, "this is good."

The trail was barely a trail now, just a thin line of packed snow snaking between trees that seemed to crowd closer the farther I went. Fir branches hung low, heavy with frost, brushing my arms like they were trying to hold me back. The silence wrapped around me—no cars, no voices, no hum of streetlights. Just me. My boots crunching. My breath puffing out in little clouds.

I stopped and tugged at my scarf, fingers stiff with cold. Had it been this freezing when I started? I didn’t think so. The kind of cold that settled into your bones had crept in while I wasn’t paying attention. I glanced behind me, half expecting the cottage lights to be there as a reassurance, but there was nothing. Just shadows swallowing the trail.

"Okay, Ally," I muttered under my breath, trying to sound casual, steady. "You’ve done hikes before. This is nothing."

But then the sky shifted. Clouds rolled in fast, thick and gray, blotting out what little light was left. One second, I could see the outline of the peaks above me; the next, they were gone. It was like someone had flipped a switch. I stared up, heart kicking against my ribs.

"Don’t freak out," I whispered. My voice sounded stupid against the quiet. Weak.

Still, something about the way those clouds swallowed the sky made my stomach twist. Like I’d overstayed my welcome. Like the mountain wanted me gone.

I turned back toward the way I came—but paused. The air pressed down on me, heavy. Loaded. Maybe it was the sudden dark or the bite of the wind slicing through my jacket, but unease clawed its way up my spine. I couldn’t shake it.

"Come on, it’s just weather," I told myself. "Nothing’s gonna—"

Snowflakes. Big, lazy ones drifting down at first, soft and harmless. Then more. Thicker. Faster. Within seconds, the trail blurred beneath the fresh layer. I pulled my jacket tighter and picked up my pace.

"Alright," I said, louder this time, as if hearing my own voice might help. It didn’t. “I just need to head back.”

The snow coated my sleeves, clung to my hair. My boots slipped on the hidden ice beneath the drifts, and I stumbled, catching myself on a tree trunk. The bark was rough against my glove, grounding me for just a moment. Long enough to glance up and realize I couldn’t tell where the hell I was anymore.

"Shit," I hissed, spinning in place. Which way had I come from? Every tree looked the same now—tall, straight, and endless. The narrow path I’d followed was buried under fresh snow.

I sucked in a breath, counting to five like the therapist taught me. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. But my lungs felt too small, my chest too tight. My heartbeat drowned out everything else, thudding in time with the panic rising in my throat.

The wind picked up, sharp and biting. Snow whipped sideways, obscuring everything in stinging white. Ice crystals pricked my face, slipping past the edges of my scarf. My feet trudged forward, aimless now. No landmarks, no direction—just the desperate hope that putting one foot in front of the other would lead me somewhere safe. Somewhere familiar.

"Get a grip," I rasped, but it came out as a wheeze. My breathing was shallow, each inhale catching like a hiccup. I tried again—five counts in, hold, exhale slow—but the rhythm slipped away, lost in the howl of the wind.

"Not now," I begged, clutching at my chest as the pressure built. My legs shook, exhaustion and panic teaming up to drag me down. My throat constricted, a vice squeezing tighter with every step.

This was so desperately, achingly unfair.

Ahead, the world dissolved into a swirling void of white. I stumbled again, knees buckling, and landed hard on one hand. Pain shot up my wrist, sharp and angry, but I barely noticed. I couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t catch my breath.

"Focus," I choked out, but my voice was barely audible over the storm.

The snow kept falling.

Then, things got a lot worse.

It was subtle at first—a low vibration, like the earth clearing its throat. Then it turned violent, a deep, guttural roar ripping through the forest. I froze, my breath catching mid-gasp as the sound grew louder, closer. The trees quivered and groaned all around me, snow slipping from their branches in thick sheets. For one wild second, I thought it might be an earthquake.

Then I saw it.

A wall of white thundered down the mountain, massive and unrelenting. It devoured everything in its path—trees, rocks, the very trail I’d been following moments ago. My legs moved before my brain caught up, scrambling aside, away from the crushing wave of snow. My boots slipped on the icy ground, panic clawing at my throat.

"Move! God, move!" The words ripped out of me, but the roar drowned them out.

I made it three frantic steps before my foot snagged on something buried beneath the drifts. A jagged rock. Pain shot up my leg, sharp and blinding, and I crumpled forward with a yelp. My hands dug into the snow, fingers clawing for purchase, but it was no use. The avalanche hit like a freight train.

The force slammed me sideways, stealing the air from my lungs. Snow poured over me, around me, a freezing, suffocating weight. My body tumbled like a rag doll, flipping and twisting until I didn’t know which way was up. My ankle screamed in protest as I collided with something hard—a tree, maybe—but there was no time to process the pain. The cold was everywhere, pressing in, crushing, relentless.

"Help!" I tried to scream, but snow filled my mouth, choking me. My arms flailed uselessly, searching for anything solid to grab onto, but everything was soft and shifting and endless. White consumed me—blinding, smothering, numbing.

The world slowed. The roar dulled to a distant hum. My chest burned, begging for air that wouldn’t come. Pressure built behind my eyes, and then… nothing.

*

I woke gasping, but no air came. My lashes stuck together, frozen stiff. I could barely blink. Snow packed tight against my body, pinning me in place. My chest heaved, trying to expand against the crushing weight. Panic surged, hot and electric, making my heart jackhammer in my ears.

"Stay calm," I whispered, though the words were just a thread of thought. My lips wouldn’t move. My tongue felt swollen, useless. I couldn’t tell if I was speaking or dreaming.

My right foot throbbed, sharp and insistent. I tried to shift it, just a little, but the motion sent another jolt of pain screaming up my leg. Tears stung my eyes, but they felt wrong—too cold, freezing before they could fall. My head swam, the edges of my vision blurring.

This is it, I thought. This is how it ends. Buried alive in some godforsaken snowbank within two hours of arriving for a vacation that was meant to fix my brain.

Something shifted above me.

A shadow fell across my face, dimming the faint light filtering through the snow. My heart lurched, hope flaring weak and desperate. Was it real? Or just my oxygen-starved brain conjuring miracles?

A bear?

The shadow moved again, clearer now. Closer. A hand—rough, dirt-caked, strong—broke through the barrier of snow above me. I blinked, trying to focus, but my eyelashes were clumped with frost. The hand dug purposefully, pulling chunks of snow away with a quiet efficiency that felt almost surreal.

"Hold on," a voice grunted, low and gravelly, barely audible over the blood pounding in my ears.

Wait, bears don’t talk.

The man’s face came into view next—bearded, rugged, harsh lines softened only by the intensity in his eyes. They locked onto mine, sharp and unwavering. For a moment, I forgot the cold, the pain, everything. He looked like he belonged here, like he’d stepped straight out of the mountain itself. Real or imagined, he was my only chance.

"Please," I croaked, though I wasn’t sure if the word made it past my lips.

He didn’t respond, didn’t hesitate. His hands started to work, digging me free with a strength and determination that left no room for doubt. Snow gave way under his grip, and suddenly, my chest could expand. I sucked in a lungful of air so sharp and icy it hurt, but it was the sweetest pain I’d ever felt.

"Stay still," he ordered, his tone rough but steady. Not unkind. Just firm.

I wanted to ask him who he was, how he’d found me, but the effort was too much. My eyelids drooped, heavy and uncooperative. I couldn’t stop shivering now, trembling so violently it felt like my bones might rattle apart.

"Don’t pass out." His voice cut through the haze. "You hear me? Stay awake."

Easier said than done. The darkness tugged at me, promising warmth, oblivion. But his hands were there, grounding me, pulling me back. Strong hands. Sure hands. Hands that promised safety, even here, buried in chaos.

"Almost got you," he muttered, more to himself than to me.

And then, just as quickly as he’d appeared, the weight of the snow disappeared. My body sagged, limp and useless, as he hoisted me out of the icy tomb. Warmth radiated from him, even through layers of snow-dampened wool. Against the biting cold, it felt like salvation.

The world swayed as he lifted me, my body limp and useless in his arms. I felt the jolt of movement, the shift from cold, unyielding snow to something solid—him. Coarse wool scratched against my cheek, carrying a faint scent of pine and smoke. My head lolled against his chest, and through the thick layers, I could hear it: the steady thump of his heartbeat. Alive. Warm. Real.

I tried to speak, to ask him who he was or how he’d found me, but my throat was raw, my lips frozen shut. A weak rasp was all I managed. He didn’t answer—not a word or even a glance down at me. Instead, he adjusted his grip, one arm bracing under my knees, the other around my back. He carried me like I weighed nothing, like it wasn’t a struggle at all.

The panic still gnawed at the edges of my mind, but relief started to seep in, slow and tentative. Someone had found me. I wasn’t alone anymore.

The wind howled around us, angry and relentless. Snow lashed at my face, sharp and stinging. Branches scraped across his shoulders as we moved, the sound rough and hollow, like brittle bones snapping. I squinted against the storm, trying to make sense of where we were going, but everything blurred together—white, gray, black. His steps were sure, deliberate, even as the ground tilted beneath us. I couldn’t understand how he seemed so unaffected by the chaos raging around us.

My foot throbbed in time with my heartbeat, every pulse sharp and searing. The pain dragged me back into my body, made the cold feel sharper, the air thinner. I opened my mouth again, desperate to say something. Thank you. My name is Alana. Where are we going? But no words came out. Just a low, pitiful moan that made me cringe inwardly.

His arm tightened slightly, pulling me closer to his chest. It wasn’t much, just a small gesture, but it silenced the panic clawing at my ribs. He knew. Somehow, in his silence, he knew. Whether it was fear or gratitude twisting inside me, he didn’t let go. He kept walking, step after step, pushing through the storm like it was nothing more than an inconvenience.

"Stay awake," I thought I heard him mutter, his voice low and gruff, barely audible over the wind. Or maybe I imagined it. All I could do was press my face into his chest, breathing in the scent of damp wool and sweat, and hope he wouldn’t let me slip away.

*

The door banged shut behind us, cutting off the storm like a slammed book. The sudden quiet rang in my ears. I blinked, disoriented by the dim light from a single lantern swinging on a hook near the wall. The air inside was warmer—barely—but it carried the sharp, earthy scent of woodsmoke and something faintly metallic. My head swam.

He didn’t pause. He ducked low, his broad shoulders brushing the edges of the doorway, then crossed to the fire in long, deliberate strides. I caught flashes of the room: a roughly made table, a row of wooden hooks holding coats and gear, a stack of firewood that looked like it had been chopped by someone who didn’t shy away from hard work. Everything felt raw, utilitarian. No wasted space. No frills.

"Down," he said, his voice gruff but steady.

Before I could process the word, he shifted me in his arms, crouching to lay me down on a bundle of blankets near the fire. The movement sent a fresh jolt of pain shooting through my ankle. I sucked in a sharp breath and bit down on a cry, but it forced its way out anyway—a hiss, shaky and involuntary. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes.

"Easy," he muttered, not looking at me. His hands were already moving, pulling another blanket over my legs like it was second nature. Like this wasn’t the first time he’d hauled someone half-dead into this cabin.

"Wait—" I croaked, my voice barely above a whisper. "What—"

"Quiet." It wasn’t harsh, exactly, but there was no wiggle room in that tone. His focus had already shifted. He crouched beside me, one knee planted on the floorboards, and reached for my injured foot.

"Hey—" My protest died as soon as his hands touched me. Gentle. Firm. Too warm against the freezing ache of my skin. He worked quickly, fingers untying the laces of my boot with practiced precision. I flinched when the boot slid free, the motion sending another spark of agony up my leg.

"Broken?" he asked, mostly to himself, his brow furrowed as he studied the swelling. His hands hovered for a moment, then pressed lightly along the bone. I gasped before I could stop myself.

"Sorry," he grunted. Not much sympathy in the word. Just acknowledgment. But his touch softened, thumb trailing just above the worst of the swelling like he could assess the damage without making it worse. His fingers were rough, calloused, but steady. No hesitation. Like he did this all the time. Like he knew exactly how much pressure I could take before it pushed me past the breaking point.

"Who—" I tried again, my voice cracking. "Who are you?"

"Don’t move," he said instead. Again, no wiggle room. He stripped off his gloves, tucking them into his belt, and tore a strip of cloth from somewhere—I couldn’t see where, my vision blurring from the pain.

"Hey," I managed, forcing the word out between shallow breaths. "You could—you could explain what’s going on."

"Later." That one came with a glance. Brief but sharp. His eyes locked on mine, and for a second, the air shifted. Dark. Intense. Like he was sizing me up, deciding if I was worth answering or just another problem to fix. Then his focus snapped back to my foot.

"Unbelievable," I muttered, mostly to myself. But he heard. One corner of his mouth twitched—maybe amusement, maybe irritation. Hard to tell. He wrapped the cloth around my ankle, tight enough to make me wince but not so tight I couldn’t breathe through it.

"Too swollen to splint for now," he said under his breath. His words were clipped, efficient, like narrating the situation helped him stay grounded. Or maybe it was for my benefit. Hard to say.

"Are you a doctor or . . . ?" The question trailed off, half-swallowed by the crackling fire and the tension knotting my chest.

"Not even close." This time, there was a trace of humor in his voice. Dry. Barely there. His hands lingered for half a second longer than necessary, cradling my foot like it might shatter under too much weight. Then he pulled back, sitting back on his heels, eyes still on me. Still assessing.

"That’ll hold for now," he said. And just like that, he stood, towering over me again, his shadow flickering against the walls.

I wanted to sit up, to demand answers, to push back against the quiet control radiating off him like heat from the fire. But my body wouldn’t cooperate. My ankle throbbed in time with my heartbeat, and my chest felt tight—like the panic from earlier was still lurking, waiting for its chance to pounce.

"Thank you," I said finally, the words barely audible.

He didn’t respond. Didn’t nod, didn’t grunt. Just moved toward the fire, his back to me now, shoulders stiff and hulking in the lantern light.

He crouched in front of the stove, the scrape of metal on metal sharp as he swung open the iron door. The firelight spilled over his hands—big, rough, calloused—and up those forearms corded with muscle. He tossed in a log, and sparks leapt like startled fireflies. The cabin brightened instantly, shadows dancing across the walls.

I could see him better now. Really see him. Broad shoulders that stretched the seams of his flannel shirt. Hair that looked like it hadn’t met a comb in years, tangled and wild, just like the scruff covering his face. Not a beard, exactly. More like a whole forest growing there, untamed. His profile was hard angles, his nose straight but a little too sharp, his jaw set like he’d never once smiled in his life.

He stoked the fire, and the heat pushed against my skin, almost too much but not quite. Outside, the snow hissed softly against the cabin walls. It sounded lonely. Trapped. I shivered, the chill clinging to me from before. Or maybe it wasn’t just the cold.

"Thanks again," I said, my voice small, unsure. It hung there in the room, unanswered. He didn’t even glance back. Just closed the stove door with a solid thunk and stood, wiping his hands on his jeans.

"Right," I muttered under my breath. Still no reaction. Okay then.

Testing my weight, I shifted, trying to sit up straighter. Pain shot through my ankle, sharp enough to make me suck in a breath. But I couldn’t stay here. Couldn’t just… let him take care of everything like I was some helpless lump.

"I should go." The words stumbled out before I could catch them. "Back down the mountain. To my place."

His head turned, slow and deliberate, and those eyes—dark, unreadable—landed on me. They pinned me right where I sat, like he could see through every excuse I was about to throw at him.

"Storm’s still going," he said, his voice low and rough, like gravel, wood-chip, the slow burn of coal .

"Yeah, I mean, I figured," I said quickly, feeling the heat crawl into my cheeks. "But it’s not that far, right? My cottage’s just . . ." I waved vaguely, though I had no clue which direction anything was anymore.

He shook his head. One firm motion. Final.

"No."

That was it. Just one word, clipped and absolute, like he was laying down some kind of law. My mouth opened, then shut again. What was I supposed to say to that?

"Look," I tried, softer this time, trying to keep the wobble out of my voice. "I just—I don’t want to be a burden or anything. I can—"

"You're not movin'," he cut in, arms crossing over his chest. The movement made him seem even bigger somehow, like the whole cabin might shrink around him.

"Okay, but—"

"Don’t argue."

The words weren’t loud, but they didn’t need to be. They landed heavy, final, punching all the air out of my lungs.

My cheeks burned hotter. Not just from embarrassment, though that was definitely part of it. There was something about the way he said it, the way he looked at me, that tangled me up inside. Like he wasn’t just refusing—he was protecting . And dammit if that didn’t do something to me.

"Fine," I snapped, because what else was I supposed to say?

"Good. Snow makes the trail impassable. Trees mean rescue choppers can’t land. Your phone still working?"

I nodded.

“Tell your friends and family where you are. Afraid your stuck with me till things improve.”

And just like that, he turned away, moving toward the cabinet like the conversation was already done. I glared at his back, my hands curling into fists in the blanket pooled around me. Part of me wanted to yell, to demand answers, to push back against that quiet authority rolling off him in waves.

But another part—the part still aching, shivering, and alive only because of him—stayed silent.

He moved before I could say anything else, pulling a thick woolen blanket from the back of an armchair near the fire. It was coarse and scratchy where it brushed my chin, but the weight of it settled over me like a promise. My body gave in immediately, muscles loosening without my permission.

"Stay put," he muttered. “Don’t make your leg worse.” He didn’t even glance at me as he strode toward the cabinet by the far wall.

I thought about arguing, maybe throwing out some sarcastic quip to break the tension that seemed carved into this cabin like the grooves in the floorboards. But my throat felt tight, words stuck somewhere behind the lump of panic lingering there. Instead, I watched him move. His shoulders shifted under worn flannel as he rummaged through shelves, pulling out a tin and something metal. The clink of a pot on the stove followed.

The scent hit me first—sharp and herbal, earthy in a way that felt foreign and familiar all at once. Tea, maybe? My stomach growled faintly in response, though I wasn’t sure if it wanted food or just the warmth of whatever he was making.

When he turned back, his hands were steady, one holding a steaming mug. He didn’t hesitate, crossing the room in a few long strides and crouching to press it into my hands. His fingers brushed mine briefly—rough, calloused. I flinched, not because it hurt, but because I hadn’t expected it.

"Drink," he said simply. That single word left no room for argument.

The heat seeped into my palms through the ceramic, chasing away the chill that refused to leave my bones. I brought it to my lips cautiously, the steam warming my face. The first sip burned a little, but the taste was surprisingly smooth, with hints of pine and something floral I couldn’t name.

"Thanks," I mumbled, my voice barely audible even to myself. “What is this, herbal?”

He nodded. “Flowers. Herbs from near the cabin. Foraged in spring.”

Spring was a while ago. So did he live here all the time? Alone?

I stared at him over the rim of the mug, trying to piece him together in my head. This man who had pulled me out of the snow like it was nothing. Who now hovered in his silent, gruff way, making sure I didn’t keel over or freeze to death.

"Who are you?" The question formed in my throat but never made it out. My tongue betrayed me, tied up in knots of fear and exhaustion.

Instead, I kept staring. Watching the way his hands worked—efficient, deliberate. The way he didn’t fidget or hesitate, every movement purposeful. There was something calming about it, even if he still scared the hell out of me. Not in a danger kind of way, though. More like . . . like standing too close to the edge of a cliff and knowing the drop might be breathtaking if you weren’t so afraid of falling.

"How’s your foot?" he asked suddenly, breaking the silence without turning around.

"Still attached," I said, hoping humor might mask how unsteady I sounded. It didn’t.

"Good." He glanced over his shoulder then, just briefly, his gaze sharp and assessing. It pinned me in place more effectively than any avalanche could have. "Keep it that way."

"Wasn’t planning on losing it," I muttered, but he’d already turned back, busying himself with another log for the fire.

“My name’s Silas,” he said, all of a sudden, as though he hadn’t really meant to say it.

“Silas. I’m Alana.”

He didn’t reply.

The flames roared to life as he fed them, their glow painting his features in sharper relief.

I took another sip of the tea, the warmth spreading deeper now, dulling the ache in my chest. For the first time since the snow swallowed me whole, the panic coiled inside started to loosen. Just a little. Enough to let my shoulders sink into the blankets, enough to let my breath even out.

"Rest," he said, his voice softer this time, almost gentle.

"Bossy," I murmured, but the fight in me was gone. The mug slipped from my hands, and I barely registered him catching it before it fell.

My eyes drifted shut, the edges of the room blurring. I thought I saw him stand there for a moment, watching me, but maybe I imagined it. Maybe it was the firelight or the exhaustion playing tricks on me.

Either way, I felt it—the quiet, steady presence of him. Like a wall between me and everything I feared.