Chapter 4
GABE
Iwake to the sound of Mara moving around the kitchen.
The small fireplace in my room has burned down to embers, but the space is still warm.
Outside my window, morning light filters through clouds that promise more snow later.
My ribs ache less today, and the fog in my head has lifted enough that I can think without feeling like I'm pushing through cotton.
But the blank space where my memories should be remains as vast as ever.
I dress carefully in the borrowed clothes—jeans that are still a size too big, and a green flannel shirt that's soft from years of washing.
When I look in the small mirror above the dresser, I see a stranger.
The bruises are fading from purple-black to yellow-green, and the cut on my temple is healing cleanly under the fresh bandage Dr. Sage applied yesterday.
But it's my eyes that bother me most. They look like they've seen things I can't remember, carry weight I can't explain.
When I enter the kitchen, I find Mara at the stove, her auburn hair caught up in a messy bun with tendrils escaping around her face.
She's wearing jeans and a cream-colored sweater that brings out the green in her eyes.
Morning light catches in her hair, and for a moment she looks less like someone who could drag a grown man through a blizzard and more like.
.. I don't know. Someone I'd like to get to know.
"You don't have to...”
"I want to." The words come out more forcefully than I intended. "Please. I'm going stir-crazy just sitting around."
She studies my face for a moment, then nods toward the coffee maker. "Can you go in the pantry and find the French-press coffee maker? I’m going to need it soon for guests who don’t like coffee pods."
"Guests?" The idea of other people in the lodge makes my shoulders tense automatically. More variables to account for, more potential complications.
"Not for a couple of weeks, but a lot of them like coffee made with the French press." Mara cracks eggs into a bowl with practiced efficiency.
I find the coffee maker on a high shelf toward the back of the pantry, grateful for something useful to do with my hands. The routine feels familiar—measuring grounds, filling the reservoir, starting the machine. My hands know what to do even when my brain doesn't.
"Tell me about the lodge," I say, needing to fill the silence with something other than my own uncertainty. "How long have you been running it?"
"Three years." She doesn't look at me while she speaks, focused on whisking eggs with more force than seems necessary. "Inherited it from my grandmother's estate and spent the first year renovating. Opened for business year two."
"And before that?"
Her hand stills for just a moment before she resumes whisking. "Before that doesn't matter."
The dismissal is gentle but firm, and I recognize the tone. It's the same way I feel when people ask about my missing memories—protective, maybe a little defensive.
"Fair enough." I lean against the counter, close enough to smell her shampoo—something light and floral that doesn't match the tough woman who saved my life.
There's a story there, layers of meaning I don't have the right to pry into.
But I file it away along with everything else I'm learning about Mara Bennett—her defensive postures, her fierce protectiveness, the way she touches that compass pendant when she's thinking.
"Need help with anything else?" I ask.
"Actually, yes." She gestures toward the back door with her spatula. "There's a loose board on the back steps that's been driving me crazy. I've got the tools, but it's a two-person job, and Zara's got other things to do today."
The prospect of real work, something that requires focus and skill, sends relief through my system. "Lead the way."
The back steps are solid pine, weathered but well-maintained. The loose board is obvious—it rocks when I step on it, and I can see where the nails have worked themselves free from the frame beneath. Mara hands me a drill and a box of deck screws.
"The original nails are too loose now," she explains, crouching beside me to show me where the board attaches to the frame. "If we put screws in at an angle, it should hold better."
She's close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her body, close enough to see the small scar on her chin and the way her breath fogs in the cold air. When she reaches across me to point out where the frame is strongest, her arm brushes mine and my pulse jumps.
"Like this?" I position the drill where she indicated, hyperaware of her proximity.
"Perfect." Her voice is softer than usual, and when I glance at her, she's looking at my hands rather than the board. "You've done this before."
"Have I?" I look down at my grip on the drill, the way I automatically adjusted my stance for leverage. "I guess some things stick even when you can't remember learning them."
"Muscle memory is powerful." She's still watching my hands, and there's something in her expression I can't read. "It's like your body knows things your mind has forgotten."
The first screw goes in clean and straight, the drill settling into my grip like it belongs there.
As I work, I'm aware of Mara beside me, the way she hands me screws without being asked, how she shifts position to give me better angles without getting in my way.
We work in comfortable silence, and for the first time since waking up in her guest room, I feel useful again.
"There," I say, testing the board with my foot. It doesn't budge. "That should hold."
"Thank you." Mara's smile is warm and genuine. "I've been meaning to fix that for weeks."
"What else needs doing?" The question slips out before I can stop it, revealing more about my current state of mind than I'm comfortable with. I don't want to go back inside, don't want to sit still and think about all the things I can't remember.
Mara tilts her head, studying me with those perceptive green eyes.
"There are gutters on the north side that could use cleaning before the next storm.
And I've been meaning to check the foundation vents—make sure they're clear of debris.
But Gabe..." She pauses, choosing her words carefully.
"You don't have to earn your keep here. You're recovering from serious injuries. "
"I know." I gather up the tools, needing something to do with my hands. "But sitting around makes me feel useless. And you've done enough for me already."
"I've done what anyone would do."
"No." I stop and look at her directly. "You've done what you would do. And that's not the same thing."
Something passes between us in that moment—acknowledgment, maybe, or understanding. The air feels charged in a way that has nothing to do with the approaching storm. Mara's cheeks are pink from the cold, but I don't think that's the only reason.
"The firewood, then," she says finally. "But if you start feeling dizzy or your head starts hurting, you stop immediately. Doctor's orders."
"Yes, ma'am."
Her laugh is bright and unexpected. "Don't 'ma'am' me. I'm not old enough for that."
"How old are you?" The question feels too personal the moment I ask it, but I'm curious about every detail of this woman who saved my life.
"Twenty-eight." She starts toward the woodshed, her breath visible in small puffs. "You?"
I have to think about it, pulling the information from wherever basic facts about myself are stored. "Thirty-one. I think."
"You think?"
"The math works out based on my birthday, but I can't actually remember having a birthday." The admission comes out more bitter than I intended. "Kind of hard to be sure of anything when your brain's been scrambled."
Mara stops walking and turns to face me. "Your memories will come back."
"You don't know that."
"No, I don't." Her honesty is refreshing after days of well-meaning reassurances from Dr. Sage. "But even if they don't, you're still you. The things that matter—your instincts, your character, the way you move through the world—those come from something deeper than memory."
The conviction in her voice makes me want to believe her. "How can you be so sure?"
"Because I've watched you these past few days. The way you automatically check for exits when you enter a room, but also the way you worry about putting me in danger. The way you insist on helping even when you're hurt. Those aren't learned behaviors, Gabe. That's who you are."
Her words settle into the hollow space in my chest where certainty used to live. Maybe she's right. Maybe the core of who I am survived whatever happened to me.
The woodshed is organized with military precision—different types of wood sorted by size and burning characteristics, tools hung in precise order, even the kindling stacked with geometric efficiency. Looking at it, I feel a flash of... something. Recognition, maybe, or approval.
"Did you organize this?" I ask.
"Zara, actually. She has a thing about systems." Mara pulls work gloves from a shelf and hands me a pair. "Said chaos makes her nervous."
I can understand that. There's something comforting about order, about knowing where everything belongs.
As we load wood into the canvas carrier, I find myself automatically selecting pieces that will burn well together, balancing hardwood with softer pine for kindling.
My hands know what they're doing even if my head doesn't.
"You know what you're doing," Mara observes, watching me work.
"Apparently." I heft the loaded carrier, testing its weight. "Though I couldn't tell you where I learned it."
"Maybe you grew up somewhere with wood heat. Or maybe it was military training."
"Maybe." The word feels inadequate for the frustration building in my chest. Everything is maybe, could be, possibly. I want facts, certainties, a foundation to build on.
We're halfway back to the lodge when I hear it—the distant sound of an engine echoing off the mountains. Mara hears it too, her step faltering as she looks toward the access road.
"Expecting someone?" I ask, though the tension in her shoulders suggests she's not.
"I’ve got guests scheduled to come in the next few weeks." She shades her eyes against the weak sun, trying to see through the trees. "And Zara would have called if she was coming back."
The engine sound is getting closer, definitely heading our way. Without thinking, I set down the wood carrier and step between Mara and the sound. My body knows what to do even if my mind doesn't—get between her and whatever's coming.
"Gabe." Mara's voice is calm but firm. "It's probably nothing. Maybe someone got lost, or...”
A black SUV emerges from the tree line, moving fast enough to throw snow from its tires.
The windows are tinted too dark to see inside, and it's not the kind of vehicle tourists typically drive to mountain lodges.
My hands curl into fists automatically, and I feel my weight shift to the balls of my feet.
The SUV slows as it approaches the lodge, then pulls into the circular drive and stops. For a long moment, nothing happens. No doors open, no one gets out. Just the vehicle sitting there, engine running, like whoever's inside is watching us.
"Go inside," I tell Mara, not taking my eyes off the SUV.
"I'm not leaving you out here alone."
"Mara...”
"This is my property. If someone wants to explain why they're here, they can do it to both of us."
Before I can argue, the driver's door opens and a man gets out.
He's tall, probably my age, with the kind of haircut and posture that screams military right down to his tactical clothing.
He looks around the property with the same automatic assessment I recognize from my own behavior, cataloging exits and cover positions.
When his eyes land on me, something cold and dangerous flickers across his face.
"Gabriel Andrews," he calls out, his voice carrying easily across the distance between us. "We need to talk."
The name hits me like a punch to the gut, not because I don't recognize it, but because he says it like he knows exactly who I am. Like the blank spaces in my memory aren't blank to him at all.
"Who are you?" I call back, reaching for Mara's hand without thinking.
The man's smile is sharp enough to cut. "Someone who's been looking for you. Someone who knows exactly what you've forgotten."
He takes a step forward, and every muscle in my body tenses. Whatever this man wants, whatever he knows about my past, it's nothing good. The way he moves, the way he watches me—this isn't a rescue.
I squeeze Mara's hand once, her fingers cold but steady. "Stay behind me," I murmur, letting go.
The stranger stops and stays where he is, his predatory smile never wavering. My heart pounds against my ribs, but my feet stay planted. Whatever happens next, I'm between him and Mara.