Chapter 4 Stranded
STRANDED
JACK
She looked better in my clothes than I did.
That was an inconvenient thing to notice.
I turned back to the stove and adjusted the damper, even though it didn't need adjusting, because staring at a woman I'd just pulled out of a river probably wasn't the move here.
She was sitting on the couch with her knees pulled up, wrapped in my thermal and flannel like a kid in her dad's closet, and she should have looked ridiculous.
She didn't.
I didn't like how much I noticed that.
"You hungry?" I asked, moving toward the kitchen before she could answer.
"I don't want to impose..."
"You're not." I opened the cabinet and pulled down a can of soup. "I was going to eat anyway."
Lie. I usually ate around seven, and it was barely past four. But she'd been in cold water, and warm food was part of the protocol, even if SAR wasn't here to enforce it.
I dumped the soup into a pot and set it on the propane burner. Two bowls. Two spoons. The bread was still good, I'd baked it two days ago, so I sliced off four pieces and set them on a plate.
Simple. Efficient. Normal.
Except nothing about this felt normal.
And now there was a woman on my couch, wearing my clothes, and the space didn't feel invaded.
It felt… occupied.
I didn't know what to do with that.
The soup started to simmer. I stirred it, watching the steam rise, and tried to ignore the fact that I could feel her watching me.
"Do you do a lot of rescues?" she asked.
I glanced over my shoulder. She was still curled up on the couch, but her eyes were sharp now, curious, not shocky.
"No," I said.
"But SAR knows you."
"I call things in when I see them. They appreciate accurate reports."
"That's not what it sounded like."
I turned back to the soup. "Pat's been dispatching for twenty years. She knows everyone on this mountain."
"She called you Jack."
"That's my name."
"She didn't ask for your callback number. She just… knew."
I ladled soup into the bowls and didn't answer.
She let it drop. Smart woman.
I carried the bowls over and handed her one, along with a spoon and two slices of bread. She took them with both hands, fingers steadier now, and I caught the faint smell of wood smoke and soap rising off the thermal shirt.
My shirt.
I sat in the chair across from her, not the couch, because that felt like too much proximity for someone who was still technically a stranger, and started eating.
She took a bite, chewed, swallowed. Paused.
“It’s canned,” I said.
“The bread isn’t.”
“No.”
I gestured vaguely around the cabin. "Not much else to do out here."
She glanced around, really looked this time, and I saw her taking in the details. The joinery on the cabinets. The hand-planed finish on the floorboards. The way the loft railing curved at the corners instead of cutting sharp angles.
"You built this," she said. Not a question.
"Yeah."
"By yourself?"
"Mostly."
She looked at me like she was trying to solve a puzzle, and I didn't know if I wanted her to figure it out or not.
"That's impressive," she said finally.
I shrugged. "I had time."
"And skill."
"That too."
She smiled, small, warm, real, and I felt it hit somewhere in my chest like a percussion wave.
Inconvenient.
We ate in silence for a few minutes. Not awkward. Just… quiet. The kind of quiet I usually liked, but that felt different with her in the room. Fuller, somehow.
"So," she said eventually. "How long have you been delivering firewood to the resort?"
"Three years. Give or take."
"I've been working there for two and a half. How have we never crossed paths?"
"I stick to the access roads. Don't go near the main lodge."
"Why not?"
Because I didn't want people asking questions. Because I liked being the guy who dropped off wood and disappeared. Because anonymity was easier than explanations.
"Quieter that way," I said.
She tilted her head, studying me. "You like quiet."
"I do."
"Me too." She took another bite of bread. "Off-season's my favorite time of year."
"No guests?"
"No guests. Just me and a clipboard and a hundred things that need fixing before we open again." She smiled. "It's kind of perfect, actually."
I believed her. She had the look of someone who didn't just tolerate solitude, she sought it out. Chose it.
That was rare.
"What do you do when you're not rescuing people or chopping wood?" she asked.
"Read. Build things. Walk the property."
"What kind of things do you build?"
"Furniture, mostly. Cabinets. Whatever needs making."
"For yourself?"
"Usually."
"Ever sell anything?"
"No."
She raised an eyebrow. "Why not?"
Because selling meant dealing with people. Orders, deadlines, and conversations about finish options and timeline expectations.
Because I'd spent twenty years doing that in a different context, and I was done.
"Don't need the money," I said.
It was true. Just not the whole truth.
She didn't push. Just nodded and finished her soup, setting the bowl on the side table with a quiet clink.
"Thank you," she said. "For all of it. The rescue, the clothes, the food. The… not making it weird."
"Why would I make it weird?"
"I don't know. Some guys would."
I didn't ask what she meant by that. I could guess.
"You're safe here," I said. And meant it.
Her eyes met mine, and something passed between us, acknowledgment, maybe. Understanding.
"I know," she said quietly.
The fire crackled in the stove. Outside, the light was starting to fade, the shadows lengthening across the cabin floor.
I should have been thinking about logistics. Where she'd sleep. How long the road would be out. When I could get her back to the resort.
Instead, I was thinking about how natural it felt to have her here.
And how that was a problem I didn't know how to solve.