Chapter 7 Morning Light
MORNING LIGHT
ELAINE
I woke to sunlight and the smell of coffee.
For a moment, I didn't remember where I was. Then I felt the weight of the quilt, the unfamiliar mattress, the lingering warmth where another body had been.
Jack's cabin. Jack's bed.
Jack.
I sat up slowly, pulling the quilt with me, and looked around the loft. Simple. Clean. A dresser against one wall, a single chair with clothes draped over it, the window letting in pale morning light.
The bed was neatly made on his side, like he'd gotten up without disturbing me and still managed to tuck the covers back into place.
Who did that?
Apparently Jack did.
I heard movement downstairs, the soft clink of a mug, the scrape of a chair, and felt something warm unfold in my chest.
I found the thermal shirt and flannel from last night and pulled them on, along with the sweatpants, then climbed down the ladder with slightly less grace than I would've liked.
Jack was sitting at the small kitchen table, a mug of coffee in front of him, reading something on a tablet. He looked up when I reached the bottom rung, and his expression shifted, subtle, but I caught it.
Pleased. Maybe relieved.
"Morning," he said.
"Morning." I crossed to the kitchen, suddenly hyperaware of my bedhead and borrowed clothes. "Is that coffee I smell?"
"Yeah. It's fresh." He stood and poured a second mug, handing it to me. "Milk?"
"Black's good."
He nodded like I'd passed some kind of test and gestured to the chair across from him. "Sit."
I sat.
We drank in silence for a moment, and it wasn't awkward, it was just… quiet. The kind of quiet I usually liked, but that felt different now. Fuller.
"How'd you sleep?" he asked.
"Really well, actually." I wrapped my hands around the mug. "Your bed is comfortable."
"Good."
"How long have you been up?"
"Couple hours. I'm an early riser."
"And you just… let me sleep?"
"You needed it." He said it like it was obvious. "You went through a lot yesterday."
"So did you. You pulled me out of a river."
"That took five minutes. You were the one in the water."
I smiled despite myself. "Are you always this practical?"
"Usually."
"Even about…" I gestured vaguely between us. "This?"
He set his mug down, eyes steady on mine. "Are you asking if I regret it?"
"Maybe."
"I don't."
"Good. Me neither."
Something eased in his expression. "Good."
We drank more coffee. Outside, I could hear birds, sharp and bright against the quiet, and the faint rush of the river in the distance.
"Did SAR call?" I asked.
"Yeah. Pat checked in around seven. Roads are still out, but they're working on it. Should be clear by this afternoon."
"So I'm stuck here a little longer."
"If that's okay."
"It's okay."
He looked pleased again, that same subtle shift, and I realized I liked making him look like that. Liked knowing I wasn't an inconvenience or an obligation.
"Are you hungry?" he asked.
"Starving."
"Eggs okay?"
"Eggs are perfect."
He stood and moved to the kitchen with that same easy efficiency I'd noticed last night. Opened the fridge, pulled out a carton of eggs and a block of cheese. Grabbed a pan from the hook on the wall.
I watched him cook, methodical, unhurried, and felt something settle in me.
"Can I ask you something?" I said.
"You've been asking me things since you got here."
"I know. But this one's… different."
He cracked an egg into the pan. "Go ahead."
"Why do you live out here alone?"
He was quiet for a moment, watching the eggs sizzle. "I like the quiet."
"I know that part. But there's quiet, and then there's…" I gestured around the cabin. "Building yourself a whole life where no one else fits."
"I didn't say no one else fits."
"But you don't make room for it either."
He glanced over his shoulder. "You're here."
"By accident."
"Maybe." He turned back to the stove. "But you're still here."
I didn't know what to say to that.
He plated the eggs, perfectly scrambled, fluffy, with cheese melted through, and brought them to the table along with more of that bread from last night, toasted this time.
We ate, and I tried not to think about how domestic this felt. How easy.
"Jack," I said.
"Yeah?"
"What happens when the road opens?"
He set his fork down. "What do you want to happen?"
"I don't know. I just…" I looked at him. Really looked. "I don't want this to be one of those things where we pretend it didn't happen."
"I'm not good at pretending."
"Me neither."
"Then we won't."
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe this was something that could exist outside of this cabin, this moment, this strange pocket of time where the world had narrowed down to just the two of us.
But I also knew how these things went. How easy it was to say something in the moment and harder to follow through when real life came back.
We finished breakfast, and I helped him clean up, falling into a rhythm that felt practiced even though we'd only known each other for less than twenty-four hours.
He washed. I dried. We didn't talk.
Afterward, I wandered around the cabin while Jack stepped outside to check on something with the woodpile. I wasn't snooping, not exactly, but I was curious.
The cabin was so deliberately simple. No clutter. No personal photos. Just the essentials arranged with care.
But there were details. Small things that told a story if you knew how to look.
The joinery on the cabinets, hand-cut, precise.
The books on the shelf, structural engineering, forestry management, a few novels.
The carving on the mantel, an intricate pattern of pine branches, done in dark wood.
And on the small desk in the corner, under a stack of mail, I saw the edge of something that made me pause.
A blueprint. Or maybe a property map.
I shouldn't have looked.
I looked anyway.
Pulled the paper out from under the stack and unfolded it.
Lone Ridge Resort. Property survey. Legal boundaries marked in red.
And at the bottom, in neat block letters: Owner: Myers, Jackson R.
I stared at it.
Read it again.
Owner.
Jack owned the resort.
Not just the cabin. Not just the land around it.
The whole thing.
The door opened behind me, and I turned, still holding the paper.
Jack stood in the doorway, eyes dropping to what I was holding.
He didn't look surprised. Just… resigned.
"You own it," I said.
"Yeah."
"And you didn't think to mention that?"
He closed the door behind him. "It didn't come up."
"It didn't..." I stopped. Took a breath. "Jack. I work there."
"I know."
"And you just… what? Decided to play mysterious lumberjack?"
"I'm not playing anything." He crossed his arms. "I deliver firewood. I live here. That's all true."
I set the paper down on the desk, trying to organize my thoughts.
I wasn't angry. I should have been, maybe. But I wasn't.
I was just… confused.
"Why?" I asked.
He looked at me for a long moment. Then he moved to the couch and sat, gestures indicating I should join him.
I did.
"I bought the resort five years ago," he said. "It was going to be sold to developers who wanted to tear it down and build condos."
"So you saved it."
"I preserved it. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yeah. I didn't save it to run it. I saved it so it could keep existing the way it was meant to."
"And the management company?"
"Handles everything. I check the reports, approve budgets, make sure things are maintained. But I don't…" He paused. "I don't get involved."
"Why not?"
He was quiet for a moment.“Because when people know who you are, they want things from you." He looked at me. "I didn't want that."
"So you just… disappeared."
"I opted out," he corrected. "I kept the land. I just didn't keep the noise."
I understood that. More than I wanted to admit.
"And the firewood business?"
"Is real. I like the work. It's simple."
"Meaning you're secretly rich and you're chopping wood for fun."
"I'm not secretly anything. I just don't advertise."
I sat back, processing.
He could have told me. Should have, maybe.
But I also understood why he didn't.
Because telling someone changed things. Made them see you differently. Wonder what you wanted.
"Are you mad?" he asked quietly.
"No."
"You should be."
"Why? Because you have money and didn't tell me? That's your business."
He looked almost relieved. "That's all I wanted to be."
"Why?"
"Because it's easier."
"Than what?"
"Than being needed."
Oh.
That landed somewhere deep.
I reached for his hand, rough palm, callused fingers, and held it.
"Jack," I said. "I'm here because you pulled me out of a river and made me coffee and listened when I talked too much."
"You don't talk too much."
"I do. But you don't seem to mind."
"I don't."
"So." I squeezed his hand. "Can we just… keep doing this? Whatever this is?"
He looked at me, really looked, and I saw something shift in his expression.
Not relief. Something bigger.
"Yeah," he said. "We can."
"Even when the road opens?"
"I promise."
And somehow, I believed him.