Chapter 8 James
james
The storm comes in fast.
It isn’t a surprise, that's how it works in the canyon. The cliffs funnel everything, wind, snow, cold and hail. You get maybe an hour's warning before the mountains decide to remind you who's in charge.
I've seen it before, growing up here, but I'd forgotten the scale of it.
Twenty-one years of deserts, forward operating bases, and military housing with central heating will do that.
I'm at the Summit House replacing a section of gutter that pulled away during last week's wind when the sky goes from gray to charcoal in twenty minutes.
Nora comes out on the porch, looks up, declares, “That’s a big one.”
She's not dramatic. Nora doesn't waste words any more than I do. So when she says big one, I'm already doing the math. The temperature drop and the wind speed mean that half the ridge is going to lose power. Iron Peak's electrical grid is held together with duct tape and stubbornness.
I finish the gutter and pack my tools. Then I help Nora bring in the furniture from the porch.
I check that the Summit House generator is fueled and ready to rock.
She's got no guests this week, but she'll open the doors if anyone needs a warm place.
That's just how Iron Peak works. The town takes care of itself because nobody else is going to drive through a box canyon in a blizzard to do it.
By four o'clock, the snow is coming sideways. By five we’re nearing a whiteout.
I'm in my truck heading home. It’s a small cabin on the south ridge that I've been renting since I got back. It’s bare-bones and one bedroom. It’s the kind of place that looks like no one lives there, but I’m ready to get off the roads.
Buzz. Buzz.
It’s Jocelyn and I answer on the first ring.
“You okay? Got Mom squared away with the firewood last night.”
“Yeah, I saw that. Thanks. We’re all set. But the power’s out across the north ridge. Evelyn's cabin is up there. She doesn't have a generator, James.”
I stare at the white sheets covering the road. June must have told her. Or Jocelyn looked up the rental listing. Either way, she's right.
Then without another thought, I turn the truck around.
I don't even need to think about it. She's in a cabin on the north ridge with no heat and no generator. The temperature is going to drop below zero tonight. That's not a situation that requires deliberation. That's a situation that requires action… and firewood.
I stop at my place and load the truck bed with split logs, kindling, a camp lantern, and extra blankets. Then I throw in a thermos of coffee because apparently that's our thing now. I grab the tool bag out of habit and then I’m back on the road.
The canyon road is already bad. Snow piles up on the curves and visibility drops.
My headlights cut through white static. The cliffs on either side are invisible.
They’re walls of granite I know are there because I grew up pressed against them.
I take it slow. The truck knows this road the way my boots knew the trails on base. I lead with muscle memory and instinct.
I keep my mind calm and focused on the task at hand.
Evelyn is up there alone.
The thought isn't abstract. It's specific and sharp.
It sits in my chest like a fist. She's alone in a cabin she's lived in for less than two weeks, in a town she chose because no one would find her here.
The storm is swallowing everything outside her windows.
She's probably sitting in the dark trying to breathe through whatever her brain is throwing at her.
The thought makes my stomach clench and I pick up the pace.
I don't know what happened to Evelyn. But I know what it left behind. I'm not going to let that be the case for one minute longer than it takes me to get up this road.
Finally her cabin appears in my headlights. It’s small and pitch black with snow already piling on the porch rail. It’s completely still. There’s not even smoke coming from the chimney so I know the woodstove isn't going.
I park and cut the engine. Then I flash my headlights three times. If she’s looking, she’ll know it’s me. I grab an armload of split logs and kindling. Then I climb the porch steps. Snow lands in my collar and wind cuts through my jacket.
I knock and the door creaks open just a crack.
“It’s me.”
“I saw the headlights, but I thought it was too good to be true.” The relief in her voice is palpable.
She pulls the door open and she’s in an oversized sweater that hangs past her hands and slips off one shoulder.
She’s wearing leggings with wool socks that pull up to her calves.
Her hair is down and messy. It’s the first time I've seen her like this and it hits me somewhere primal.
All those dark curls are loose and wild around her heart shaped face.
Her glasses are fogged from her own breath in the cold air and she pushes them up.
“Come in. What in the world are you doing up here?”
"Your power's out."
"I… yes. I noticed." She wraps her arms around herself. Her breath is visible.
The cabin is dark and cold. When I close the door behind us, I see a pile of blankets on the couch where she was clearly trying to wait it out.
Something flickers across her face. It’s not annoyance.
Relief, maybe. But whatever it is is buried under the reflex to say she's fine. I can see it forming.
"I brought firewood," I say before she can launch it. "And coffee."
She looks at the logs in my arms. Then at my truck, where the rest of the firewood is stacked in the bed alongside the camp lantern and the blankets. Then back at me.
"You drove up the canyon road. In this." She gestures at the wall of white behind me.
"Road's not that bad."
"James. I can't see your truck and it's fifteen feet away."
"I know where the road is."
She stares at me. The fogged glasses. The bare shoulder. She's shivering. It’s not dramatic. But it’s a constant, low tremor that she's trying to suppress by clenching her jaw. The sight of it makes something in me go very still and very focused.
“You’re freezing.” It isn’t a question.
She responds, but I don’t hear it. I’m busy carrying the firewood to the stove. The cabin is even smaller than I expected and she appears to be living out of suitcases. It isn’t cozy, but it’s familiar. Every base housing unit I ever occupied looked exactly like this, functional and temporary.
I open the woodstove and check the flue. “The damper's stuck. It’s rusted. Probably hasn't been used in years.” I work it loose with the heel of my hand while Evelyn stands in the kitchen doorway watching me.
"You don't have to—” She starts.
"It will just take a minute."
She goes quiet. But I feel her watching while I build the fire that'll burn slow and hot for hours. It only takes a few minutes. Then the match catches and the kindling takes. Smoke curls up into the flue and the draft pulls. Before I know it the stove is ticking with heat.
I close the door and stand up. “Come sit close until you warm up. I’m going to get the rest from my truck. The stove is in good shape. Once it gets going it will throw heat like a furnace.”
“I can feel it already. It’s so good.” She bounds toward it and puts her hands up to catch the heat. The firelight illuminates the side of her face and turns her skin gold. “James, thank you so much.”
“Anytime.” I have to look away for a second. The sight of her soft, cold and lit up by a fire I built for her does something to my chest that I can’t describe.
She tries to help, but I shoo her away while I make two more trips outside. I sit the thermos on the counter. I don’t stop moving until I’ve got firewood stacked by the stove, and a camp lantern on the kitchen table casting a warm circle of light. Then I toss a pile of blankets on the couch.
I should leave, but every inch of my body is begging to stay as close to her as possible.
But leaving is the right thing to do. She's warm, she's safe, the fire will last through the night if she feeds it.
“Okay, you should be all set for the night. I’m going to head back down the canyon while I still can.” I glance outside at the stark white blanket of snow and ice glowing in the moonlight.
She blinks a few times then looks up at me with those big, dark eyes. "James."
“Yes.”
I look at her. She's on the couch, wrapped in one of the blankets I brought, curls spilling over the edge. The firelight moves across her face. She's not shivering anymore.
"You have to stay with me tonight.”