Chapter 5 #2
I picked up the receiver like it might bite me. “Does it even work?”
“Never loses a signal,” he said, deadpan.
I squinted at the rotary dial. “Do I need a manual to figure it out?”
That earned me the faintest grunt — amusement, maybe. Or annoyance. Hard to tell.
He started making coffee with the same quiet efficiency he’d used hauling my car out of the snow. Scoop, pour, click. Every movement precise, controlled.
The smell of fresh grounds filled the cabin, but I wasn’t relaxed. Not even close.
I dialed Aunt Margie’s number, turning my back to him, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Hey, Aunt Margie? It’s me. I, um… kind of slid off the road. I’m okay! Just… at this cabin with a man who calls himself Bear. If I don’t come back—”
From behind me, a deep voice boomed, “Hi, Margie!”
I jumped so hard the phone nearly slipped out of my hand.
There was a pause on the other end. Then, Aunt Margie’s familiar laugh. “Well, I’ll be. That you, Bear?”
He leaned against the counter, one hand around his mug. “Yeah. Pulled your niece outta a snowbank before a semi made her into a hood ornament.”
“Oh, thank heavens.” Her voice came through warm and easy, like she’d just been waiting for this exact sentence. “I knew she’d find trouble the second she said she was driving up here.”
“Guess I did too,” Bear muttered.
I turned slowly, face heating. “You two know each other?”
Bear just shrugged, completely unbothered. “Small mountain.”
On the line, Aunt Margie was chuckling. “Oh, honey, you’re in good hands. Bear’s family. He and Steve rode together for years. You couldn’t be safer.”
I sank into the nearest chair, equal parts relief and mortification. “Right. Of course. Safe. Totally fine. Just, you know, stranded with a stranger named after wildlife.”
Margie laughed again, the sound soft but teasing. “Don’t worry, Becca—I’m more worried for him than for you.”
Bear’s mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. He turned away before I could be sure.
I could almost hear Aunt Margie’s grin through the receiver. “Stay put till the roads clear. There’s a storm coming in tonight, and I don’t want you sliding off another mountain. Bear’ll make sure you’re fed and warm.”
I glanced around the spartan kitchen. “That remains to be seen.”
Bear raised a brow, clearly hearing me, then poured a second mug of coffee and set it down in front of me without a word.
I blinked at the cup, then up at him. “You always this friendly?”
“Only on non-holidays,” he said.
My stomach growled so loud it practically echoed off the log walls.
Bear didn’t react. He just sipped his coffee, unbothered, like he hadn’t heard my insides staging a revolt.
“So…” I started, forcing a smile. “About dinner. Or lunch. Or any food that involves chewing.”
He lifted one shoulder. “Check the cupboard.”
I did. And immediately regretted it.
“Protein powder,” I said flatly, holding up the giant tub like it was evidence in a crime. “Chocolate… whey. That’s it?”
He glanced over, deadpan. “It’s got nutrients.”
“I was thinking something solid. With texture. Maybe a vegetable?”
Another shrug. “Don’t cook much.”
“Clearly,” I muttered. “Your fridge looks like the inside of a frat house right before finals.”
He gave no indication he’d heard me. I was pretty sure this man could tune out nuclear war.
I wandered further into the family room, coffee mug in hand, trying to take stock of my surroundings.
No TV mounted on the wall. Just an old, boxy one in the corner with a set of rabbit ears sticking out of the top.
No laptop. No tablet. No Wi-Fi router. Not even a power strip.
A battered bookshelf held a radio, a stack of VHS tapes, and — I squinted — Time magazines dated 1993.
Beside them, Sports Illustrated: Swimsuit Edition 1999.
“Wow,” I said under my breath. “Vintage smut and Cold War news. How… current.”
I turned back to him, arms crossed. “Do you seriously live like this? No internet? No Netflix? Not even a smart speaker to yell at when you’re bored?”
He didn’t look up from where he was rinsing his coffee mug in the sink. “Don’t need that crap. I have a regular TV in my room. Satellite internet and cable… I’m living large up here.” His eyes twinkled a bit before they turned flat again. If I blinked I would’ve missed it.
“Do you at least have a lightning charger?”
He tipped his head toward the ancient rotary model. “Right there.”
I stared at it. “Ha. Hilarious.”
Finally, he looked over his shoulder — just long enough to let a grin tug at the corner of his mouth. It was quick, gone in a heartbeat, but I saw it.
Oh, he was enjoying this.
My eyes narrowed. “What?”
“Nothing,” he said, but there was a spark of amusement in his voice. The first sign of actual life I’d seen from him since he’d pulled me out of the snowbank.
That grin—infuriating, rugged, and smug as hell—did something weird to my insides.
Annoyance. Definitely annoyance. And maybe something else I refused to name.
I turned in a slow circle, taking it all in. The old recliner patched with duct tape. The wood stove. The stack of logs by the door. A rifle mounted over the fireplace.
And that rotary phone.
My pulse ticked up.
Protein powder, guns, isolation…
I swallowed hard. Oh no. What if he’s a serial killer? Like, actual Dateline material?
Because really, who lives like this?
“Something wrong?” His voice cut through my spiraling thoughts.
I spun, clutching my coffee cup like a shield. “Nope! Totally fine! Just, you know, admiring your… rustic lifestyle.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Rustic?”
“Yeah. Like, very—uh—off-grid-chic. Minimalist. Early psycho survivalist cabin.”
That got a quiet sound out of him — not quite a laugh, more like a low rumble. “If you got a problem with my hospitality, sweetheart, you’re welcome to go back out in the snow.”
The air between us tightened.
He wasn’t angry exactly… just blunt. Solid as the log walls around us.
I met his gaze, chin lifting despite the fact that every inch of him radiated don’t test me.
“Okay, Bear,” I said, slow and careful, dragging out his name. “Message received.”
He just stood there for a second, watching me with that unreadable look again — like he couldn’t decide if I amused him or annoyed him.
Then he turned back to the stove. “You hungry or not?”
“Depends,” I said warily. “On whether the next words out of your mouth are ‘human flesh.’”
That earned me another almost-grin. “You talk too much.”
“And you talk too little.”
“Guess we’re even.”
By midafternoon, the wind had picked up, whistling through the trees hard enough to rattle the windows.
Bear disappeared outside not long after lunch—or what passed for lunch, which was two cups of coffee and a handful of trail mix he tossed my way like he was feeding a zoo animal.
Now the cabin felt too quiet.
No hum of electricity, no TV static, no phone notifications. Just the steady tick...tick...tick of the woodstove and the occasional crack of a log shifting in the flames.
When the lights flickered once, twice, then went black completely, my heart sank.
Perfect.
I lit the only candle I could find on the counter—half-burned, smelled faintly like motor oil—and sank into the armchair by the fire. The John Grisham novel I’d pulled from his shelf earlier was surprisingly good.
Fast-paced. Smart.
Not that I could see more than half the page in the dim glow.
I smiled to myself, tucking it aside for later, along with a Mary Higgins Clark paperback I’d found wedged between two car manuals. If I was going to die here, at least I’d go with good literature.
Outside, through the frost-fogged window, I saw movement.
Bear—jacket zipped to his chin, gloves on—bent over the front wheel of one of his trucks, chain links clinking as he looped them into place.
Two metal barrels burned nearby, orange light flickering across the snow like twin beacons.
The firelight made the flakes shimmer around him, and for a second, he looked carved out of the mountain itself.
I hugged myself tighter.
This wasn’t exactly how I pictured Christmas vacation.
No cinnamon rolls with Aunt Margie. No sugar cookies, no lights, no music.
Just a storm, a man named Bear, and my stomach growling loud enough to echo.
After ten minutes of internal debate—and the sharp twist of hunger pains—I pulled my coat and boots back on and opened the door. The blast of icy air slapped me across the face, stealing my breath.
“Bear?” I called, stepping carefully onto the porch.
He didn’t look up. The sound of the chains clinking swallowed my voice.
I tried again, louder. “Bear! You’ll freeze out here!”
He didn’t turn, but I caught the ghost of a smirk. “You sayin’ that ’cause you care or ’cause you need somethin’, sunshine?”
“I’m saying it because it’s freezing and I’m starving,” I snapped, stomping closer. “Like, low blood sugar, fainting kind of starving.”
He tightened the last link on the tire and straightened, towering over me. The firelight danced off his beard, catching flecks of snow still clinging to it.
“Go suck on one of those candy canes you made me rescue from your car,” he said gruffly.
My mouth fell open. “Excuse me?”
He froze mid-step. His jaw clenched, a breath misted from his mouth. “Sorry. That came out—” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “—wrong. Shit. I’m almost done. Go back inside, and we’ll figure it out.”
I blinked at him, startled more by the apology than the words.
For a man who looked like he communicated exclusively in growls, “sorry” felt monumental.
He turned back to the truck, knuckles white as he adjusted something near the axle. “Jammed my damn thumb putting the plow on earlier,” he muttered under his breath.
“Okay,” I said softly, pulling my coat tighter. “I’ll, uh… wait.”