Out on a Limb (Huddling for Warmth #3)

1. Stig

One

Stig

M y boots thud against the rocky earth, and my backpack straps dig into my shoulders. Sniffing hard, I hitch the pack higher and lengthen my stride, eagerness fueling me across the mountainside.

I set out this morning before dawn broke and I’ve barely paused since—only stopped for five minutes here and there to chug water and shake out my arms, breathing hard in the thin air. A whole day has passed, and now blue-tinted shadows drench the mountainside. It’s getting late, the day’s warmth fading fast. The first stars shine above.

Never been so glad to come home.

My legs burn and my throat aches for water. Birds rustle in the trees all around, chattering to each other about this new interloper, because I’m making no effort at all to be quiet. Not gonna stop again now, no matter how thirsty I get.

I’m so close, and it’s been too long. Far too long. So many endless months since I last set foot in my own cabin—months that spilled into years. Didn’t mean to stay away for so long, not when I built that cabin with my own two hands and swore it would be the last place I lived, but here I am coming home a stranger.

Again.

The trees here are the same as I remember, half of them exploding out of the earth with knuckled roots breaking through rock, and the pine-scented air wakes up my lungs from the inside. The sprawl of Starlight Ridge down in the valley is familiar, too—or a little bigger than I remember, maybe. Blinking sweat from my eyes, I squint down at the town as the lights glow from windows and doorways, trying to measure it from memory.

Yeah. A few more buildings, I think.

Shaking my head, I turn away and plunge further along the trail.

Who am I kidding? I wouldn’t recognize half the store signs if I wandered through Starlight Ridge, nor most of the people. Because I may have painstakingly built my cabin on this mountainside, may have put down roots the only way I know how, but since hammering in that last nail…

I’ve drifted. Been gusted away by the slightest breeze, always called away for a new project, a new route, a new record-breaking attempt at something or other; shiny opportunities and pleasurable distractions. Saying yes to things just to keep busy and out of my head, and meanwhile my precious cabin has stood empty, gathering cobwebs instead of memories.

Such a waste.

When I inhale, cold mountain air fills my lungs and buoys me from the inside. My strides grow longer, quicker, and I swat thin branches away from my face as I climb up the forested slope. Sweat soaks my back, my shirt clinging to my skin, and my backpack straps chafe my shoulders like hell.

The grueling exercise feels good. It always does.

That burn in my muscles is more familiar than the town below.

You know, the last few times I made this pilgrimage home, I told myself all kinds of pretty lies. Swore up and down that this time would be different, this time I’d settle properly and make friends in Starlight Ridge and set about living an ordinary life.

Not something dominated by life-risking attempts at climbing mountains and fording vicious rapids, but a normal life. One with friends and quiet time and—god help me—maybe even a partner. And babies one day if we really got lucky. Ha!

Well, you can’t make babies with a woman you’ve never bothered meeting, so. Here I am. Marching home alone once again, back to a cold, empty cabin, with my joints creaking and my lungs gasping in a way that tells me time is a-ticking, the years are passing by whether I want them to or not.

The trail levels out beneath my feet, the slope easing off. When I reach a fork in the path, I don’t go right, which would carry me further up to the peak: I veer left to where the trees get thicker, crowding closer together, whispering in the breeze. Could stop and fish out a flashlight from my pack, but I prefer to navigate by moonlight when I can.

It’s getting darker now, clouds drifting across the night sky, and all I can think about is my cabin. I’m craving it so badly, it’s a physical ache.

Did I leave myself any food, the last time I left? Nothing fresh, obviously, but canned stuff. Dried grains or whatever. Shit, I’m hungry enough to eat a whole elk. If Past Stig didn’t leave me something good, I’m gonna curse loud enough to turn the air blue.

My stomach grumbles in agreement.

The trees break apart almost without warning. That’s something I remember too: the way the glade appears out of nowhere, a break in the forest without reason or rhyme, with my precious cabin nestled in the center. Stepping off the trail, I beam up at the stars, swinging my sore arms as I walk toward my front door.

Need to light a fire in the log burner first, to warm up and get things nice and homey. Then a hot shower and some dinner. Yeah.

The first ping of awareness comes when I step onto the deck. The chairs I built and set out here for visitors—they’re still here, but arranged neatly in a semi-circle instead of pushed back against the wooden railing. Pausing, I blink at them.

But it’s been… what? A year? Maybe two?

And I’m being ridiculous. So what if a hiking group came past and needed to sit down and catch their breath? The chairs are all fine, aren’t they? So no harm, no foul. There are so many worse things in the world to worry about.

Shaking my head, I step toward the front door.

The second ping of awareness comes when my boots meet a bristly welcome mat. A welcome mat I definitely did not put there, hazy memory or no.

I step back and stare down at the deck in dry-eyed amazement. The shadow of the welcome mat is clearly there, an incriminating rectangle in the darkness.

“What the…”

I nudge the mat with the toe of my boot. It slides half an inch along the deck, butting up against the door frame.

Okay, this is weird. I’ll hike down to town tomorrow and ask around for some answers. Someone will know what’s going on here.

Tonight, though, I’m too hungry and thirsty and dead on my feet to chase after practical jokers. Fishing my barely-used key from my pocket, I slide it into the lock.

Or I try to, anyway.

The key slides in partway, then jams. Won’t go any further. Teeth gritted, I jiggle it in the lock, like this is all some misunderstanding. Like if I can slide the key in just right, it’ll turn and everything will be fine, and I won’t be standing in the middle of this nightmare where some fucker has changed the locks on my cabin.

“Damn it. God damn it.” Wrenching the key back out of the useless lock, I shove it back in my pocket. My hands ball into fists, and I’m ready to pound down the door—but years of thinking clearly under pressure help me to step back and breathe.

Okay. Okay.

Here is what I’m sure about: this is definitely my cabin. After building it with my own two hands, I know every nail and whorl in the wood. This is my place.

Here’s what I don’t understand: what the hell is going on here.

But it is my cabin, and that means I can’t break and enter. Sliding my backpack off my shoulders, I set it gently on the deck before turning and moving softly back down the steps.

I could kick the door in, but I’d prefer not to damage my own work.

All I need is a cracked window.