Chapter Four
Mack
The creek wouldn't recede for days. Not with rain still falling like this, saturating ground already unable to absorb more moisture.
I stood at the kitchen window, staring at the gathering pools in the yard while coffee brewed behind me. Scout pressed against my leg, sensing my unease. Dawn had barely broken, gray light seeping reluctantly through persistent clouds. In the bedroom, Brynn still slept, unaware of my growing agitation.
Three years I'd crafted this isolation, carved out this existence where I answered to no one, where the only expectations were those I set for myself. Three years of carefully maintained distance from a world that had no place for the man I'd become. And now, my sanctuary had been breached. As usual, I had no one to blame but myself.
The coffee maker sputtered its final protests. I poured a mug and carried it to the desk in the corner where the radio equipment sat, its dials and meters like old friends. I checked the clock—5:47 AM. Ian would be awake, preparing for his shift at the police station. Our scheduled check-in wasn't until tomorrow, but the flood situation warranted earlier contact.
I put on the headset and adjusted frequencies, muscle memory guiding my fingers across familiar knobs and switches.
"Thornton Base to Ashwood Station, over." The formal call sign was unnecessary—no one monitored these channels except Ian and me—but habits from military communications died hard.
Static crackled, then cleared. "This is Ashwood Station. Morning, Mack. Wasn't expecting you today." Ian's voice came through, alert despite the early hour. "Everything okay up on Fire Mountain?"
"Creek's flooded the access road. Checking conditions in town."
A pause. "Most roads are still passable. Some minor flooding in the lower valley. Helen's Orchard got hit pretty bad—barn's underwater. We've got sandbag crews working there now."
I absorbed this information, mentally mapping the affected areas. "What's the forecast?"
"Rain through tomorrow, clearing Thursday. Waters should recede by Friday if that holds." Another pause. "You got enough supplies to last?"
"I'm fine." The answer came automatically, my standard response to any inquiry about my welfare.
"You sure? I can have Vic from the general store put together a package, bring it up on the utility ATV once the rain lets up. I know tomorrow was your usual—"
"I said I'm fine." My grip tightened on the mug. Here it came—the inevitable offer of help, the assumption that I couldn't manage on my own.
"Alright, just offering." My brother’s voice remained level, practiced at handling my moods. "Anything else I should know about?"
I hesitated, debating whether to mention Brynn. If Ian knew I had a stranded woman staying with me, he'd be up here with his ATV and badge, playing the protective big brother role he'd perfected since our mother died.
"Mack? You still there?"
"Yeah." I exhaled slowly. "Listen, I've got a... situation here. Woman crashed her car on the mountain road last night during the storm. I pulled her out before things got worse."
"Jesus, Mack. Is she okay? Did you bring her to the cabin?"
"Minor cuts, possible concussion. Nothing serious. And yes, she's here. Nowhere else to take her."
"Who is she?"
"Name's Brynn Ashcroft. From New York. Writer of some kind."
"And she just happened to be driving up our mountain during the worst storm of the year?" Suspicion colored Ian's voice. My brother the cop, always looking for angles.
"Says she rented a cabin for some project. Car's probably totaled. She'll need a tow once the roads clear."
"I'll call Greg at the garage, let him know." A significant pause. "You doing okay with a guest? I know you don't—"
"I'm handling it," I interrupted, bristling at the implied concern. "It's temporary."
"I could try to get up there, bring her back to town if you—"
"No." The refusal came quicker than intended. I moderated my tone. "We'll manage until the creek drops."
"If you're sure." Doubt lingered in his voice. "Listen, I was going to tell you tomorrow, but since you're on now—I set up the usual deposit. Should hit your account today."
My jaw tightened. The monthly stipend—Ian's way of supporting me without calling it charity. Money from our parents' life insurance that he insisted on sharing, despite having a family of his own to support. A debt I never asked for and couldn't seem to escape.
"I don't need it this month," I lied. The truth was, I'd been stretching the last payment thin, holding off on repairs the cabin desperately needed.
"Mack, don't start this again. It's your money too."
"You have kids, Ian. A mortgage. Save it for them."
"I also have a job and a decent income. Besides, Mom and Dad left it for both of us."
"They left it for you to manage because they didn't trust me with it," I snapped, old bitterness surfacing. "We both know that."
"That's not true and you know it." Ian's voice hardened. "They set it up before your second deployment, when no one had any idea what would happen. If they were here now—"
"But they're not." I cut him off. "And I don't need your handouts."
"It's not a handout, for God's sake! It's your inheritance!" Ian rarely raised his voice, but frustration edged his words now. "Just take the money, Mack. Use it for the cabin repairs you keep putting off. Hell, use it for whatever you want."
A floorboard creaked behind me. I turned to find Brynn hovering in the hallway, clearly uncertain whether to retreat or announce herself. Our eyes met, and I knew she'd heard at least part of the conversation. Irritation flared—at her, at Ian, but mostly at myself for this breach of privacy.
"I've got to go," I said into the microphone. "Check in tomorrow, usual time."
"Mack, wait—"
I switched off the radio before Ian could finish. Silence filled the cabin, heavy with unspoken questions.
"Sorry," Brynn said softly. "I didn't mean to interrupt."
"You didn't." I removed the headset, setting it aside with deliberate care. "Coffee's ready if you want some."
She nodded, moving toward the kitchen with cautious steps. I watched her pour a mug, noting the sleep-rumpled hair and oversized flannel shirt she'd borrowed again from my dresser. She looked smaller this morning, more vulnerable without yesterday's careful composure.
"Was that your brother?" she asked, blowing ripples across the surface of her coffee.
I considered deflection, then discarded it. She'd heard enough to piece things together anyway. "Ian. He's Ashwood's police chief."
"You were talking about me."
"Letting him know about your car. He'll contact the mechanic about a tow once roads are passable."
She leaned against the counter, studying me over the rim of her mug. "Thank you. That's thoughtful."
I shrugged, uncomfortable with gratitude I hadn't earned. "Makes sense to get things lined up."
"And the roads? Any change?"
"Still flooded. Forecast says rain through tomorrow, clearing after that."
Her expression fell slightly before she composed it. "Okay, so another day at least."
"Looks that way." I moved to the cupboard, pulling out a loaf of bread for toast. "Hope you don't mind simple meals. Not much for fancy cooking."
"I could help with that, actually." She straightened, setting down her mug. "Cooking, I mean. As a thank-you for rescuing me and letting me stay."
I paused, bread in hand. "Thought you said you usually lived on takeout."
"I said cooking for one seems like too much trouble." A small smile curved her lips. "Doesn't mean I can't cook. I find it relaxing, actually. Therapeutic, even. I’d devote more time to it if I had the time to spare—and of course a reason."
I raised an eyebrow, skeptical. "With what? Cupboards aren't exactly stocked for gourmet meals."
"Let me see what you've got. I bet I can put together something decent."
Before I could object, she was opening cabinets, surveying my modest supplies with unexpected enthusiasm. I watched in bewilderment as she catalogued items, occasionally nodding to herself as if solving a complex equation.
"Rice... canned beans... some dried herbs... Ah! You have chicken stock. And is that—yes, dried mushrooms." She turned to me, eyes bright with unexpected animation. "Do you have any vegetables in that greenhouse of yours I saw out back? Onions? Garlic? Maybe carrots?"
The abrupt shift from awkward houseguest to confident cook caught me off guard. "Uh, yeah. Some root vegetables in the cold storage. Onions, carrots. Probably garlic. I like working the land. Gives me something to do—planting, harvesting. Saves me some trips into town for produce."
"Perfect! I can make a pretty decent risotto with what you've got. Not completely authentic but satisfying."
I stared at her, trying to reconcile this enthusiastic woman with the polished Manhattan writer who'd crashed into my life. "Risotto?"
"It's really just fancy rice." She waved a dismissive hand. "Comfort food with a pretentious name. I learned to make it during a particularly brutal deadline when I couldn't sleep. Something about the constant stirring is meditative."
I found myself nodding, surprised by the unexpected glimpse into her life. "Cold storage is behind the greenhouse. I'll show you after breakfast."
"Great!" She beamed, then seemed to catch herself, moderating her expression. "I mean, if that's okay with you. I don't want to impose more than I already am."
"It's fine." I turned away, unsettled by the warmth her smile had generated in my chest. "I burn toast anyway."
As if summoned by my words, smoke curled from the toaster. I cursed, yanking the plug from the wall and extracting two blackened slabs that barely resembled bread.
"Case in point," I muttered, dumping the charred remains into the trash.
To my surprise, Brynn laughed—a genuine sound, warm and unrestrained. "I think the universe just confirmed my usefulness," she said, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Let me."
She took fresh slices from the loaf, adjusted the toaster's setting, and popped them in. While waiting, she rummaged further, discovering a half-empty jar of strawberry preserves I'd forgotten existed.
"Homemade?" she asked, examining the hand-written label.
"Mrs. Lindstrom from the orchard down the valley. Payment for helping with some heavy lifting last fall."
Brynn nodded approvingly. "Local economy at work. Trade and barter."
The toast popped up, perfectly golden. She arranged the slices on plates and spread a pat of butter on each followed by generous dollops of preserves, placing them on the table with a flourish.
"Breakfast is served. Nothing fancy, but at least it's edible."
I took a cautious bite. The combination of crisp toast, sweet preserves, and strong coffee created a simple harmony of flavors I rarely bothered to appreciate when eating alone.
"Good," I acknowledged, surprising myself with the admission.
Her smile returned, quieter this time but no less genuine. "See? I'm not completely useless."
Later that morning, after the rain temporarily eased, I showed her the greenhouse and cold storage shed. Her interest seemed authentic, fingers trailing over seedlings with gentle curiosity, exclaiming over the practical organization of the space. In the storage shed, she selected vegetables with careful deliberation, explaining her choices as if I might actually care about the differences between varieties of onions.
The oddest part was, I found myself listening.
By afternoon, the cabin filled with unfamiliar aromas as Brynn commandeered my kitchen, transforming basic ingredients into something that smelled increasingly complex. I busied myself with indoor projects—minor repairs I'd been postponing, cleaning Scout's bedding, sharpening tools—all while maintaining a careful distance that nevertheless allowed me to observe her work.
She moved with unexpected confidence, stirring the pot of rice with one hand while adding liquid with the other, tasting and adjusting with concentrated precision. So different from the disoriented woman I'd pulled from the wreckage the night before. This version of Brynn seemed grounded, capable, at home in her body and its movements. I was having an increasingly difficult time taking my eyes off her.
When she finally placed a bowl before me at dinner, the transformation of humble ingredients was nothing short of remarkable. Creamy rice studded with mushrooms and vegetables, seasoned with herbs from my greenhouse. Simple, yet somehow elegant.
"It's not traditional," she explained, watching nervously as I took my first bite. "Real risotto needs white wine and parmesan, but I had to improvise."
The flavors melded on my tongue—savory, earthy, with unexpected depth. I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten something prepared with such care.
"It's good," I said, the understatement of the year. "Really good."
Relief washed across her features, followed by a pleased smile. "I'm glad you like it. Least I could do, considering the circumstances."
We ate in companionable silence, the usual tension between us temporarily suspended by the simple act of sharing a meal. Scout lay between us, having decided that Brynn's cooking merited his full approval and therefore her presence might be tolerable after all.
As darkness fell, the rain returned with renewed determination, drumming against the roof in a persistent rhythm. I built up the fire while Brynn washed dishes, refusing my awkward offer to help. The domesticity of the scene struck me as surreal—this cabin, my fortress of solitude, temporarily transformed by a stranger's presence into something almost resembling a home.
Dangerous thinking. This arrangement was temporary, a necessity forced by weather and circumstance. Nothing more.
After dinner, Brynn settled on the couch with a book selected from my shelves—Steinbeck's "East of Eden," her choice surprising me again and making me curious about whatever writing project had brought her to Montana. I attempted to focus on repairing a broken radio I'd been meaning to fix, but found my attention repeatedly drawn to her.
Eventually she set the book aside, retrieving her notebook from her bag. The leather-bound journal opened with ease as she uncapped a pen. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she began to write, her pen moving in swift, fluid strokes across the page.
What was she writing? Journal entries? Notes for work? Or something else entirely?
I recalled how she'd been standing near my shadow box that morning, studying my medals with undisguised curiosity. How her eyes sometimes lingered on my scars when she thought I wasn't looking.
The pieces began arranging themselves in my mind, forming a pattern I didn't like. The stranded writer. The probing questions. The careful observations.
Her pen paused. She looked up, catching me watching her. Our eyes locked for a heartbeat too long before I turned away. I would need to be more careful around her. Much more careful indeed.