CHAPTER 2
Clark
Monday morning came cold and clear.
I'd been up since dawn, splitting wood I didn't really need, just to have something to do with my hands. Five years of the same routine—wake up, coffee, chores, avoid thinking about how quiet the house was. The rhythmic thunk of the axe was better than the silence.
Bear's bark cut through the steady sound and I paused mid-swing.
Company. Out here. In the middle of an incoming storm.
I lowered the axe and turned toward the driveway, already knowing this wasn't going to be a customer. Anyone with sense would've called ahead and nobody with half a brain would be out on these roads with the weather turning.
The figure that emerged from between the pines looked like he'd walked straight out of a thrift store catalog—layers of mismatched clothes, a backpack slung over one shoulder, and shoes that were absolutely not made for snow hiking.
He was younger than most of my customers, maybe mid-twenties, with light brown hair that needed a cut and the kind of bright, expressive face that probably got him into trouble on a regular basis.
He stopped when he saw me and even from across the clearing, I could see the moment he realized what he'd walked into. His eyes went wide and his mouth opened slightly before he caught himself.
I didn't move. Just watched him, taking in the details my brain automatically catalogued: too-thin jacket, no gloves, shivering despite trying to hide it, cheeks red from cold and exertion.
The backpack looked well-traveled, covered in pins and patches from different places.
A wanderer, then. Someone passing through.
Someone who was about to ask me for help, judging by the way he was standing there trying to figure out what to say.
My hands tightened on the axe handle. No gloves. No proper winter coat. I had the immediate, irrational urge to strip off my own jacket and wrap it around him, which was ridiculous. He was an adult. He could take care of himself.
Except clearly, he couldn't. Or wouldn't. And that bothered me more than it should have.
Bear pushed himself up from where he'd been lying and lumbered over to me, pressing his massive head against my leg. I rested one hand on his neck, the familiar weight grounding me.
Five years. Five years I'd been running this place alone, keeping to myself, and going through the motions.
The town had stopped trying to draw me out after the first year.
They still bought their trees from me, still waved when they saw me in town, but they'd learned I preferred my solitude.
Learned that Clark Gibson wasn't the same man he'd been when Mitch was alive.
And now here was this kid—because that's what he looked like, despite probably being an adult—about to disrupt my carefully maintained peace.
"Hi," he called out, raising one hand in a wave that was trying way too hard to look casual. His voice wavered slightly. "Sorry to bother you. My car died down the road and I'm completely stranded."
I let the silence stretch. Not to be cruel, but because I needed a minute to think and because the way he responded to the quiet told me things.
He shifted his weight, then stopped himself.
Tried to look relaxed and failed. His eyes kept darting between me and Bear, like he was trying to figure out if we were friendly or if he should start backing away slowly.
Smart kid. Cautious.
But not cautious enough to have checked his car before driving through the mountains in December.
"How far?" My voice came out rougher than I intended. I didn't use it much these days except to talk to Bear and the trees, and neither of them cared about tone.
"Um—" He blinked, like he hadn't expected me to respond. "Two miles? Maybe. She just... died. Completely. Smoke and everything."
She. He called his car 'she.'
"You try to restart it?"
"Yeah, nothing. Just clicking." He took a few steps closer, and I noticed the way he moved—quick, restless energy even when he was clearly exhausted.
"I know this is terrible timing and I'm so sorry to just show up like this, but my phone barely has service and I couldn't get a signal to call anyone, and the storm's getting worse, and—"
He cut himself off, seeming to realize he was rambling.
I looked past him at the sky. He was right about the storm.
The snow was already picking up and the light was fading fast. The temperature would drop hard once the sun set fully.
Even if I called the mechanic in town—which I could, unlike this kid with his one bar of service—Gary wouldn't come out tonight.
Not in this weather. The roads would be bad within the hour and impassable by morning.
Which meant this stranger would be stuck here. On my property. Disrupting my routine.
The smart thing would be to let him use my phone, call someone from town to come get him, and put him up at the inn or with someone who actually liked having people around.
But even as I thought it, I knew I wouldn't do that. Couldn't. Not with the storm coming and the kid already half-frozen and looking at me with those wide hazel eyes like I was his last hope.
Damn it.
"Nearest mechanic's in town," I said, keeping my voice level. "Gary won't come out until the roads are clear. Probably Wednesday at the earliest, with this storm. He's the best mechanic in three counties, but parts are hard to get this time of year, especially with the holidays coming."
The kid's face fell. "Oh. Right. Yeah, that makes sense." He looked around, like he was trying to figure out his options, then back at me. "Is there, um... is there maybe somewhere in town I could—"
"Roads'll be bad soon." I cut him off, not unkindly. "You won't make it walking. Not dressed like that. Storm's supposed to last through tomorrow. Could be stuck here four, five days minimum."
He looked down at himself, then back up at me, and I could see the exact moment he realized how screwed he actually was. To his credit, he didn't panic. Just took a breath and nodded.
"Okay. So... what do I do?"
What he did was stand there in my driveway, waiting for me to make the decision. The way he just... waited, trusting that I'd figure it out, settled the restlessness I'd been carrying in my chest for longer than I wanted to admit.
An urge I hadn't felt in years stirred beneath my ribs. The urge to take charge, to fix the problem, to make sure this kid was safe and warm and taken care of. It hit me square in the gut, unexpected and unwelcome. I hadn't felt that pull in years—that need to step in and handle things.
I was going to regret this.
"Guest cabin," I heard myself say. "Around back. You can stay there until the roads clear. We'll deal with your car when Gary can get out there."
Relief washed over his face so completely I almost looked away. Like I'd offered him a five-star resort instead of a drafty cabin and basic hospitality.
"Seriously? Oh my god, thank you so much. I promise I won't be any trouble, I'll stay out of your way, I just need somewhere warm to—"
"Follow me." I picked up the axe, more to give my hands something to do than because I needed it, and started walking toward the cabin.
Bear fell into step beside me and after a moment, I heard the crunch of the kid's footsteps following behind.
I was definitely going to regret this.
But as I led him across the property, so aware of his presence behind me—the quick pace of his breathing, the rustle of his jacket, the way he made a small sound of appreciation when he saw the main house up close—I couldn't shake the feeling that maybe, just maybe, regret wasn't the only thing I was going to feel.
The kid was shivering harder now. I could hear his teeth chattering even though he was trying to hide it, trying to seem fine when he clearly wasn't. My jaw tightened. How long had he been walking in those inadequate clothes? How cold had he let himself get before admitting he needed help?
And that scared me more than I wanted to admit.
***
The guest cabin was small but well-maintained.
I'd built it myself ten years ago, back when Mitch was alive and we'd have friends visit, hosting people for the holidays.
We'd used it exactly four times before he died, and since then it had sat empty except for the occasional out-of-town customer who needed a place to crash.
I kept it clean, though. Kept the heat on low so the pipes wouldn't freeze. Kept it ready, even though I never expected to use it.
The kid—I should probably ask his name—stood in the doorway, taking it all in.
One main room with a queen bed, a small sitting area with a fireplace, a bathroom with a shower that actually had decent water pressure.
Simple furniture, handmade by me over the years.
A few of Mitch's touches still visible in the details—the curtains he'd picked out, the rug he'd insisted on, and the shelf of books he'd stocked for guests.
"This is amazing," the kid breathed, setting his backpack down by the door. "Seriously, this is—wow. Thank you so much, I can't tell you how much I appreciate this."
"Fireplace works," I said, moving to the hearth. I crouched down, checking the flue, making sure everything was clear. "Damper's here. You need to—"
"I've got it." He came up beside me, closer than I expected, and I caught a whiff of cold air and something else—maybe his shampoo, something fresh that made me think of summer even though we were in the dead of winter. "I've stayed in enough places to know my way around a fireplace."
I glanced at him. Up close, he was even younger-looking than I'd thought.
Couldn't be more than mid-twenties, probably closer to twenty-four or twenty-five.
His eyes were hazel, more green than brown in this light, and he had the kind of face that was open and easy to read.
Right now, it was reading grateful and a little bit awed.