Chapter 2 #2
"I don't know you," she says finally. "But I know you saved my life when you could have let me freeze.
I know your dog trusts you, and dogs usually have good instincts about people.
And I know you care enough about brewing beer to risk getting cited for truffle harvesting.
" She pauses. "So no, I'm not sitting here thinking you're dangerous.
I'm sitting here thinking you're…unusually multifaceted. "
"I'm forty years old and I live alone in the woods." I drain my coffee, stand up. "Nothing multifaceted about that. I just gave up."
I move to the kitchen before she can respond, because I've said too much already.
The storm howls outside, rattling the windows. I glance out—can't see more than a few feet through the rain and wind.
She's definitely stuck here. We both are.
"Storm's settling in," I say, pulling out ingredients for dinner. "You'll be here overnight at least. Longer if this keeps up."
"I have feeling again in my extremities. I’ll radio in and let them know I’m okay." She stands, setting down her mug.
"Go ahead."
I wait for her to ask for my identification, but she doesn’t.
She retrieves her radio from the bathroom, and I listen to her make contact with her dispatcher while I start cooking. She sounds professional, calm, giving her general location in careful terms. Just says she's "sheltering with a local" until the storm passes.
I'm not sure if I'm grateful or insulted that she's not mentioning me specifically.
Probably a little of both.
I cook while she deals with dispatch. Deer sausage from last winter's hunt, wild rice, root vegetables I grew and stored. Simple food, but good. The kind of meal that sticks to your ribs on a cold night. A meal I haven't cooked for anyone but myself in over a decade.
“Smells good,” she says, coming back to the fire. “Can I help?”
“No.” I don't look at her. “You're a guest.”
“I’m not really a guest. I'm more of a…” she trails off.
“Hostage to the weather?” I suggest.
“I was going to say 'unexpected visitor.’”
“Same thing.”
I hear her huff out a breath that might be a laugh. “I’m not sure what I expected. But you’re not it.”
“Maybe you expected an axe murderer?” I finally look at her. “Or a mountain man who eats trespassers?”
“Maybe the second one.” She's definitely smiling now. “You did run away from me pretty fast. Made me think you had something to hide. Any body parts in the refrigerator?”
“Human body parts?”
She nods with a half-smile.
“Nope. Only animal.” I turn back to the stove. “But I do have something to hide. My peace and quiet. And you were threatening both.”
"By trying to talk to you about permits?"
"By being here at all."
It comes out more honest than I wanted.
"I'm sorry," she says quietly. "For intruding, at least."
I dish up two plates, forcing myself to turn around and meet her eyes.
"Not your fault," I reply. "You were just doing your job. And well, the storm doesn't care about property lines or permits. Just happened."
I hand her a plate, and our fingers brush. It's barely contact, but I feel it like a spark of static.
We eat at the small table I built, Bear settling on the floor between us. The silence is awkward at first, loaded with something I’m not used to.
“How long did it take you to build this cabin?” she asks, stabbing a carrot with her fork.
“A year, give or take, working alone. Another six to eight months to get the systems right—solar panels, water collection, the root cellar. And then fill it with furniture.”
I follow her gaze around the room.
“Been improving it ever since. There’s always something to fix or upgrade.”
“It’s impressive,” she says. “This isn’t some survivalist bunker or rough bachelor pad. It’s a home, thoughtfully designed and carefully maintained. I’m amazed you did it all by yourself.”
“Didn’t have much choice.” I take a drink of coffee. “Taught myself from books and trial and error. Learning as I went. The first winter was brutal, but I survived. Made a lot of mistakes.”
She shrugs. “I can’t tell.”
My eyes flick to hers. “You’re not looking close enough.”
She bites her lip and takes a deep breath. “If you say so. But I think it’s gorgeous, Ledger.”
I like hearing her say my name. I just don't know what to do with the pride creeping in at her words.
We finish eating, and the silence settles in again. The storm continues to rage outside. The fire crackles and Bear snores softly.
"You'll take the bed," I say abruptly. "I'll sleep on the couch."
"I can't take your bed—"
"You can and you will." I stand, and start clearing plates. "It's non-negotiable. You nearly died today. You get the bed."
"You won’t even fit on the couch."
"It’s fine. I've slept in worse places." Prison cots. Cement floors when I pissed off the wrong guard. "Bed's through there. I just put on clean sheets, and it should be warm enough with the fire going. There are extra blankets in the chest by the door."
She stands too, and we're suddenly close. I can smell the honey and chamomile tea on her breath, see the way the firelight catches in her damp hair.
And she’s looking up at me with those blue eyes that see too much.
"Thank you," she says softly.
"Maybe don't cite me in the morning," I manage to say. "That would be rude after I fed you."
She laughs—actually laughs—and the sound does something hazardous to my composure.
"No promises," she says, but she's still smiling.
She heads to the bedroom, Bear trailing after her like her new best friend.
I hear her moving around in there, settling in, and I force myself to stay in the main room. I make up the couch with blankets, bank the fire for the night.
Do anything except think about her.
In my bed.
But when I finally stretch out on the couch, staring at the ceiling while the storm continues outside, she’s all I can think about. How she looked in my clothes. The sound of her laugh. The warmth in her eyes when she said I was multifaceted instead of dangerous.
She's dangerous all right. Not to my life—but to my carefully constructed walls I've spent years building.
And I have no idea what to do about it.
Except survive the night and hope the storm clears by morning.
Before I do something stupid like start hoping she'll stay.