Chapter 2 – Victor
The ax comes down with a satisfying thwack, splitting the pine log cleanly in two.
I set up another, steady it with my left hand, and bring the blade down again.
Sweat trickles between my shoulder blades.
I've been at this for thirty minutes already—longer than necessary to stack what I need for tonight.
But the physical exertion helps quiet my mind.
It isn't working today.
Jade King is in my guest cabin. Sixteen-year-old Jade—except she's not sixteen anymore. She's a woman now, with curves and confidence and eyes that still challenge everything they land on.
I split another log with more force than needed, sending half flying off the chopping block.
"Shit," I mutter, retrieving it from where it landed ten feet away.
Why did I agree to this? Two days of close quarters with Mark's daughter, of all people. The universe has a sick sense of humor. I could have sent her away. Should have. But something in her face when she recognized me—surprise, then determination—stopped me from walking out of that diner.
I stack the wood methodically, letting the rough bark scrape against my palms. The sensation grounds me, pulls me back to the present. Away from memories of Mark's face the last time I saw him.
I've spent almost a decade perfecting the art of solitude, of keeping the world—and my past—at arm's length.
Now Jade's arrival has cracked open a door I thought was sealed shut.
I finish stacking the wood and wipe my hands on my jeans.
The guest cabin door opens, and Jade steps out onto the small porch, camera in hand.
She's changed into a loose sweater that falls off one shoulder, revealing pale skin that looks impossibly soft.
I turn away, busying myself with gathering the ax and work gloves.
She needs a tour of the place. Basic safety protocols. I can handle that much.
I take a deep breath and walk toward the cabin.
"All settled in?" My voice sounds rough even to my own ears.
She lowers her camera. "Just about. Is the water always that color?"
"What color?"
"In the shower. It's... amber. Like weak tea."
"Iron in the well water. It's clean." I hesitate, then add, "If it bothers you, there's bottled water in the cooler for drinking."
"It doesn't bother me. Just wanted to make sure." She studies me for a moment. "You're bleeding."
I glance down. A thin line of red crosses my forearm—must have caught it on a splinter. I hadn't noticed.
"It's nothing." I wipe it against my shirt. "I'll show you the basics. Won't take long."
The guest cabin is a simple one-room structure with a small bathroom. Kitchenette along one wall, bed against the other, sitting area in between. No television, no wifi. Just books, a woodstove, and necessities.
"Solar panels provide electricity," I explain, pointing to the small breaker box. "Enough for lights and charging your equipment. Water heater's propane. If anything runs out, tell me."
She runs her fingers along the bookshelf, tilting her head to read spines. "Thoreau, London, Abbey... all the wilderness philosophers. Plus... wait, is this poetry? Robert Frost? Emily Dickinson? Mr. Myers, you dark horse."
I ignore the comment. "Rifle above the door is loaded. Bears sometimes come through the clearing."
"You're letting me near a loaded gun? Bold choice." Her mouth quirks into a half-smile that does strange things to my pulse.
"Do you know how to use one?"
"Dad taught me. I'm a decent shot, actually. Hit a tin can at fifty yards first try."
The casual mention of Mark hits me like a physical blow. I turn toward the window, pretending to check the latch.
"You don't talk much, do you, Mr. Myers?" she asks, leaning against the bookshelf.
"Victor," I correct her. "And no."
"I remember." She crosses her arms. "You weren't exactly chatty at family barbecues either. But you used to smile sometimes. I distinctly remember a laugh when Dad fell off the dock that summer at Lake Tahoe."
I meet her eyes, surprised by the gentle teasing in her voice. "Not much to smile about up here."
"Just breathtaking mountains, pristine wilderness, and complete freedom. Terrible."
Despite myself, I feel the corner of my mouth twitch. I suppress it quickly. "Stove's temperamental. Turn the knob all the way left, then back to medium."
She sighs dramatically. "Fascinating. What other household tips are you dying to share? How to fold fitted sheets? The proper angle for stacking toilet paper?"
"Don't leave food out. And don't wander off without telling me where you're going."
"Yes, sir." She gives a mock salute, then sobers. "I'm just giving you a hard time. I appreciate you letting me stay, especially given... well, everything."
Everything. Years of friendship with her father. Then the falling out.
"I'll make dinner at six," I say instead of all the things I can't say. "Main cabin."
She nods, and I leave before I can notice anything else about her that threatens my carefully constructed walls.
I busy myself with dinner preparations, chopping vegetables with military precision. Venison stew—meat from a deer I took down last fall, vegetables from my greenhouse. Simple, hearty. I'm not trying to impress her. It's just what I'd make anyway.
A knock at the door at precisely six o'clock. I wipe my hands and open it to find Jade with a bottle of wine.
"Peace offering," she says, holding it out. "For being a pain in the ass earlier."
I accept it, surprised. "You didn't have to."
"I know. But my mother raised me right, despite evidence to the contrary." She steps inside, eyes widening as she takes in the main cabin. "Holy shit, Victor."
Where the guest house is practical, this space is personal. Exposed beams, stone fireplace, walls lined with books and maps. Large windows frame the mountain view. It's not fancy, but it's mine in a way few things have ever been.
"Wow," she says softly. "You built this?"
I nod, uncomfortable with her attention on my private space. "Most of it."
"It's beautiful." She wanders to the window, looking out at the gathering dusk. "I can see why you stay up here. I'd never leave either."
The genuine appreciation without judgment in her voice eases the tension in my shoulders. I pour the wine, hand her a glass, and return to the stove.
"Can I help?" she asks.
"Almost done."
"I'm actually a decent cook. Living alone in San Francisco means learning or surviving on ramen."
I raise an eyebrow. "You live alone?"
"For three years now. Tiny studio with a view of another building's brick wall, but it's mine." She leans against the counter, close enough that I can smell something floral in her hair. "The rent is criminal, but the magazine work pays well enough when I can get it."
I ladle stew into bowls, set them on the table, and gesture for her to sit. We eat in silence for a few minutes before she picks up the conversation again.
"So tell me about this place. How long have you been here?"
I consider deflecting, but her eyes are earnest. "Nine years."
"After your TV show ended?"
I nod, surprised she knew about that. "Wasn't much of a show. Six episodes on basic survival techniques."
"I watched them all." She takes a sip of wine.
The admission hangs between us. I stare at my bowl.
"Anyway, I've been freelancing since college. Travel photography mostly, some conservation pieces. I accidentally ended up in Morocco last year when I was supposed to be in Madrid—missed a connection and decided to just go with it."
Her story draws a reluctant smile from me. "How do you accidentally go to another continent?"
"Terrible sense of direction and an excessive sense of adventure." She laughs, the sound bright in my quiet home. "Ended up documenting a saffron harvest instead of Spanish architecture. The magazine loved it, though. Sometimes the best stories find you."
She continues, filling the silence with tales of her work—chaotic deadlines, nightmare clients, beautiful discoveries. I find myself listening intently, drawn in by her enthusiasm and the animated way she talks with her hands. The knot in my chest loosens slightly.
"I had this landlord once," she says, "who insisted that the black mold in my bathroom was actually an 'organic feature' of the building. When I threatened to call the health department, he offered me a discount if I'd photograph his daughter's wedding instead."
A laugh escapes me before I can catch it. Her eyes widen in mock surprise.
"Was that actual amusement? Alert the media."
I shake my head, but I'm still fighting a smile. "You talk enough for both of us."
"Someone has to." She sets her spoon down. "This was delicious, by the way. Thank you."
"It's just stew."
"It's more than that. It's... honest food. Nothing pretentious." She leans forward. "Like this place. Like you."
Her directness catches me off guard. I've been called many things—hardened, difficult, remote—but honest isn't usually among them. Not when I've spent years hiding from myself.
She clears her throat. "So, about tomorrow. I'd like to start shooting at sunrise if possible. The light will be perfect."
"That's early."
"I know. But it's worth it." Her face lights up with passion. "The way morning hits these mountains—that first golden light breaking over the peaks, catching in the mist—it's magic. Exactly what this story needs."
I study her, recognizing the fervor of someone who truly sees beauty in wild places. It reminds me of how I used to feel before exhaustion and guilt dulled my senses.
"There are some places..." I hesitate. "Some trails I don't take people on."
"I understand that. And I respect it." She meets my eyes steadily. "I'm not here to exploit anything. I just want to show people why places like this matter—why they're worth protecting."
Her sincerity surprises me. I expected a city photographer looking for dramatic shots, not someone who seems to genuinely care about the land.
"There's a ridge to the east," I find myself saying. "Overlooks three valleys. Sun hits it first."
Her smile is like sunrise itself. "That sounds perfect."
"It's a hard climb."
"I can handle it. I may look like a soft city girl, but I've hiked the Inca Trail and trekked across Iceland. I even survived a week in Death Valley with only a cranky guide and a camera with a cracked lens."
Something tells me she can. This isn't the girl I remember—this is a woman who's navigated her own wilderness.
"We leave at 4:30," I say. "Bring layers. Gets cold before dawn."
"Thank you, Victor." The way she says my name—soft, genuine—sends an unexpected warmth through me.
We clear the dishes together, moving in the small kitchen space with surprising ease. As she hands me the last bowl, our fingers brush—warm skin against callused palm. The contact is brief, but electric. I don't pull away immediately, and neither does she.
For a heartbeat, we stand there, connected by more than touch. Then she smiles—a small, uncertain thing—and the moment passes.