Chapter Two
“This is why I don’t deal with people.”
Leif
I was a quarter mile into my perimeter check when the rain started. Not the gentle summer shower the tourists hoped for, but the kind of Montana downpour that turned trails into creeks and creeks into rivers. Perfect. Just what I needed when the fire risk was already high enough to keep me patrolling the ridge line every day this week.
Lightning forked across the sky, followed immediately by a crack of thunder that vibrated in my chest. Too close. I quickened my pace, axe in hand, mentally mapping the nearest shelters. My cabin was still a good twenty-minute hike through increasingly treacherous terrain.
That's when I heard it—a sound that didn't belong. Not the steady drum of rain on leaves or the groaning of wind-whipped branches, but something distinctly, irritatingly human. A woman's voice, muttering colorful curses at the wilderness itself.
I stopped, listening. Considered walking away. Not my problem if some city slicker had wandered off the marked trails. Except another flash of lightning illuminated the sky, followed by a yelp that sounded equal parts startled and pained.
Goddammit.
I veered off my usual path, following the sound. The undergrowth was dense here, ferns and salal dripping with moisture, collecting on my already soaked skin. I didn't bother moving quietly—the storm took care of any subtlety.
When I found her, she was on her hands and knees in the mud, looking like she'd gone ten rounds with the forest and lost spectacularly. Dark hair plastered to her head, clothes that belonged in a yoga studio rather than wilderness, and those ridiculous shoes—the kind with heels that might as well be invitations for a broken ankle.
This was why I avoided the summer crowds. People who had no business being in these woods, who treated the mountains like some kind of Instagram backdrop rather than the deadly serious environment it was.
She turned when I approached, eyes widening as she took me in. The fear there was expected—lone woman, strange man, middle of nowhere. The sudden shift to something else—something that looked suspiciously like appreciation—was not.
"Are you about to murder me, or...?" she asked, mud streaking her rosy cheek as she pushed herself to sitting.
I tightened my grip on the axe handle. "You lost?"
"No, I'm sitting in mud puddles for fun." She winced, immediately looking contrite. "Sorry. Yes. Very lost. My car has a flat tire somewhere that way." She pointed vaguely in a direction that could have been anywhere. "Or that way. Or possibly that way." She indicated three completely different headings. "The trees all look the same."
Perfect. A directionally challenged civilian with a smart mouth. Exactly what this day needed.
"You shouldn't be out here alone," I said, scanning the darkening forest. The storm was intensifying, sheets of rain now falling so heavily they obscured visibility beyond twenty feet. "Especially not in those." I nodded at her mud-caked heels.
"Yeah, well, that wasn't exactly the plan." She attempted to stand, wobbled, and nearly went down again. "I'm Skye, by the way. Skye Dawson. In case you need to file a missing person’s report later."
Despite myself, I snorted. At least she had a sense of humor about her situation. Most people in her position would be hysterical by now.
"Leif Brannick," I offered, before I could think better of it. "And you won't be missing if you come with me. My cabin's closer than whatever campground you were headed to."
Her eyes narrowed, calculating. Smart enough to be wary, at least.
"You live out here? In the actual wilderness?"
"No, I commute from Seattle every day." The sarcasm slipped out before I could stop it. "Yes, I live out here."
That earned me a slight smile. "Just checking. Most axe murderers don't have fixed addresses."
"Most axe murderers don't waste time on people who are already doing such a good job of endangering themselves."
She opened her mouth, closed it, then laughed—an unexpectedly bright sound in the gloom of the storm. "Fair point."
I extended my free hand, an offer she eyed briefly before accepting. Her fingers were soft and damp, and she was lighter than I expected as I helped her over a tangle of tree roots. She swayed slightly, and I steadied her with a hand at her elbow.
"You hurt?"
"Just my pride. And my knee. And whatever's left of my reputation as someone who can handle basic adult tasks." She glanced down at herself, grimacing at the state of her clothes. "I was supposed to be teaching astronomy to tweens tonight. Not getting rescued by..." Her eyes did another quick sweep of my bare chest before darting away. "By a local."
"Camp counselor?"
"Science teacher. Friend's in a bind. I got volunteered." She squinted up at the sky, where rain continued to pour through the canopy. "Guess the stargazing portion of the evening is shot anyway."
Lightning split the sky again, followed almost instantly by thunder. No time for twenty questions.
"This way," I said, nodding toward the faint game trail I'd followed in. "Stay close."
For once, she didn't argue. Small mercies.
The trek back to my cabin was slow going. Her footwear was worse than useless on the slick terrain, and twice I had to catch her before she went down. By the third near-fall, I simply kept my hand at the small of her back, guiding her around the worst of the obstacles.
True to my first impression, she filled the silence with nervous chatter.
"So you just live out here? Like, full-time? With no neighbors? Or Amazon delivery? Do you hunt your food? Make your own soap? I read this book once about a guy who lived in a cave for thirty years and grew his own mushrooms, but I'm guessing you're not a mushroom guy, you seem more like a—"
"I have solar panels and rainwater collection," I cut in, if only to stem the tide. "And I go into town for supplies."
"Oh." A beat of silence. Blessed, wonderful silence, broken only by the steady drum of rain and the squelch of her laughable shoes in the mud. It lasted approximately eight seconds. "What were you doing out here with an axe, anyway? Besides terrifying lost city girls?"
"Checking the fire line." I guided her around a particularly treacherous root system. "Lightning strikes. Drought conditions. Making sure nothing's smoldering."
"You're a firefighter?"
"Was."
That earned me another brief, welcome silence as she processed this. We crested a small rise, and my cabin came into view—a simple structure of weathered timber and stone nestled against the hillside, barely visible through the curtain of rain.
"Whoa." She stopped short, nearly causing me to run into her. "You actually have a cabin. I was half-expecting, like, a lean-to made of sticks or something."
"Sorry to disappoint."
"No, no—it's great. Very..." She seemed to search for the right word. "Rustic. In a good way. Like something from a magazine about people who've escaped the rat race to live their best mountain man lives."
I grunted, not sure if I was being complimented or mocked, and led her the rest of the way. The covered porch provided immediate relief from the downpour. I propped my axe against the wall and unlocked the heavy wooden door.
"After you."
She hesitated only briefly before stepping inside, bringing the scent of rain-soaked earth and something else—something sweet like vanilla—with her. I followed, flipping the switch that activated the solar-powered lights.
My house was exactly what I needed it to be—functional, organized, and minimal. Single room with a sleeping loft, stone fireplace, small kitchen area with propane stove, and a bathroom addition with actual plumbing courtesy of a gravity-fed system I'd installed myself. It wasn't large, but it was mine, built with my own hands after I'd left the hotshot crew.
Skye stood in the center of the room, dripping on the plank floor, taking it all in with unabashed curiosity. Her gaze swept over the hand-hewn furniture, the wall of tools, the books stacked neatly beside the single armchair and finally landed on the small forge in the corner, currently cold but clearly well-used.
"You made this place?"
I nodded, moving past her to the bathroom. The temperature inside was already stifling—July heat trapped under the timber roof, making the cabin feel like a sauna. Even with the windows open, the humidity made the air thick enough to chew.
"You need dry clothes." I gave her a clinical once-over. She was curved in ways that suggested my usual attire would swallow her whole. "Bathroom's through there. Towels in the cabinet. I'll find you something."
She nodded, hugging herself. "Thanks. For, you know, not leaving me to become a cautionary tale for future generations."
"Wouldn't want that on my conscience."
A smile tugged at her mouth, revealing a dimple in her right cheek that I absolutely did not notice.
Once the bathroom door closed behind her, I took a steadying breath. It had been—what, eight months?—since I'd had anyone in my space. The sudden presence of a woman—this woman, with her rambling and attitude and rain-soaked curves—was jarring.
I climbed the ladder to the sleeping loft and dug through my meager wardrobe. Most of my clothes were practical, built for durability rather than style. I settled on a flannel shirt that had shrunk slightly in a wash and a pair of drawstring shorts that might—or might not in a perfect universe—stay on her smaller frame.
When I descended, the bathroom door was still closed. The sound of running water suggested she'd figured out the shower on her own.
Leaving the clothes outside the door, I changed quickly into dry jeans, leaving my chest bare. Even a t-shirt felt like too much in the oppressive heat. The storm had dropped the temperature outside, but inside, the cabin trapped warmth like an oven. I opened another window, hoping for some cross-breeze, but the air remained thick and still.
A few minutes later, I heard the water shut off and Skye emerged from the short hallway wrapped in my flannel shirt, which hung to mid-thigh on her. Her chestnut hair was twisted up in one of my towels, and her face, scrubbed clean of mud, revealed a scattering of freckles across her nose.
"I, uh, left my clothes hanging in there. Hope that's okay. They were pretty gross."
I nodded, focusing on the window rather than the expanse of bare leg visible below my shirt. The shorts I'd offered were clutched in her hand.
"These are great, but they, um, don't stay up. At all. But the shirt covers everything important, so..."
Jesus Christ.
"Hungry?" I asked, mostly to change the subject.
"Starving, actually."
I moved to the small kitchen area, conscious of her eyes on my back. The last thing I wanted to do was turn on the stove in this heat, but she needed to eat. I opened the ancient cooler I kept stocked with ice from town and pulled out some deer jerky, a block of cheese, and apples.
"It's too hot for cooking," I explained, setting the makeshift meal on the small table. "But this will keep you going."
"That looks perfect, actually." She sat across from me, legs tucked under her, the flannel riding dangerously high on her thighs. I kept my eyes firmly on my plate.
While she ate, I noticed her gaze continuously drifting to the forge setup in the corner.
"You make things?" she finally asked.
"Knives, mostly. Some tools." I tore off a piece of jerky. "Trade them in town."
"That's incredible." She sounded genuinely impressed. "Like, actually incredible. I can barely change a light bulb."
"Different skill sets."
"Yeah, well, your skill set seems a lot more useful when the apocalypse hits." She bit into an apple, a drop of juice escaping down her chin. She wiped it away with the back of her hand, the gesture unconsciously sensual. "So what happens when the zombies come? You just hole up here with your knives and jerky?"
"Something like that."
"Can I see one? A knife you made, I mean."
I hesitated, then rose and went to the workbench. My latest project was a hunting knife with a curly maple handle—simple, functional, but with clean lines I was satisfied with. I handed it to her, handle first.
She took it reverently, turning it over in her hands. "This is beautiful. Like, art beautiful, not just useful beautiful."
Something warmed in my chest at her genuine appreciation.
"I call it Brannick Forge ," I said, surprising myself by offering the information. "My knives, I mean."
"Fancy." She grinned, handing it back. "So you're not just a mountain hermit—you're a blacksmith mountain hermit. That's like, extra."
The corner of my mouth twitched. "If you say so."
We finished eating in surprisingly comfortable silence, the storm providing all the background noise needed. She sat back and stretched her arms above her head. I was glad to see her relaxing.
I stood, gathering our empty plates. "I should check the weather."
I moved to the small ham radio setup I kept for emergencies, dialing in to the NOAA frequency. The static-laden forecast confirmed what I'd suspected. The storm was settling in for the night, part of a system moving across the mountains. Flash flood warnings for low-lying areas. Wind advisories. The works.
"Sounds serious," she said from directly behind me, causing me to start slightly. For someone usually so chatty, she moved quietly. "We're not going to get washed away, are we?"
"We're on high ground." I switched off the radio. "But the roads might be rough tomorrow."
She nodded, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. "I should let Mandy know I'm okay. She's probably freaking out." A pause. "Except my phone's dead and there's no signal anyway."
"I can get a message out in the morning if needed. Emergency channels."
Relief softened her features. "Thanks. For all of this. I know I'm an inconvenience."
"You're not—" I stopped, reconsidered. "It's fine."
Another crack of thunder shook the cabin, and she jumped slightly. "Guess I'm not doing much stargazing tonight anyway."
"Clear skies tomorrow, according to the forecast. You'll make your camp."
She smiled at that, a genuine smile that reached her eyes and did something uncomfortable to my chest. "You really think we can fix my tire?"
"I've got patches, a pump. If it's not completely shredded, we can get it holding air long enough to get you where you're going."
"My hero," she said, and though her tone was light, there was something in her eyes that made me look away.
"So what's the plan for tomorrow?" she asked, perching on the edge of the couch. "Beyond tire repair and camp rescue."
"Depends on the roads. Might need to clear fallen branches."
"And the camp—Fire Mountain Youth Adventures—you know where that is?"
I nodded. "Used to be a Girl Scout camp. About an hour from here."
"You know everything about these mountains, don't you?" There was something like admiration in her voice.
"Been here five years. You learn the terrain."
"And before that? When you were fighting fires?"
I tensed. Most people didn't push once I made it clear a topic was closed. But she was watching me with genuine curiosity, not the ghoulish fascination most people had when they learned what I used to do.
"Hotshot crew out of Colorado," I said finally. "Then some time with a Montana unit."
"That sounds intense."
"It was."
She seemed to sense my reluctance to elaborate and, surprisingly, didn't push. Instead, she rose and wandered to the bookshelf, running her fingers along the spines.
"Quite the collection for a guy living off the grid. Jack London, Thoreau... bit on the nose, don't you think?" Her tone was teasing.
"They understood something about solitude."
"And is that what you're after? Solitude?" She glanced back at me, expression suddenly serious.
"Something like that."
She hummed noncommittally and continued her exploration, pausing at a small shelf where I kept a few personal items. A polished piece of obsidian. A worn compass that had been my grandfather's. A faded photograph in a simple wooden frame.
"Is this you?" she asked, lifting the frame.
I crossed the room in three strides, taking it from her hands more roughly than intended. "Yes."
Surprise flashed across her face, followed quickly by understanding. "Sorry. I shouldn't have—"
"It's fine." I set the photo face-down on the shelf. "You should get some rest. I'll get you some blankets."
I climbed back to the loft, grateful for the moment of separation. This woman—this stranger—was getting under my skin in ways I didn't want to examine. Her chatter, her resilience, the way she kept looking at me like I was some kind of wilderness savior rather than a man who'd chosen isolation for very specific reasons.
When I returned with bedding, she was standing by the window, watching the storm lash the trees. The last of the evening light caught in her damp hair, turning it to liquid copper in places. My flannel shirt hung off one shoulder, revealing the delicate line of her collarbone.
"Here," I said, voice rougher than intended.
She turned, accepted the blankets with a soft "thanks," and set about making up the couch. I retreated to the opposite end of the cabin, giving her space to settle.
"I'm sorry about the photo," she said quietly. "I didn't mean to pry."
"You didn't know."
"Still."
A beat of silence, filled only by the sound of rain against the roof.
"It was my crew," I found myself saying. "Before the Pine Ridge fire."
She nodded, not asking the obvious follow-up question. Instead, she said, "I have one like that. My dad and me at the observatory, about a month before he had his heart attack. Can't look at it, can't bring myself to put it away."
Something shifted between us then—a recognition of shared grief, though the specifics remained unspoken.
"Anyway," she said, breaking the moment, "I should turn in. Big day tomorrow, what with tire fixing and camp rescuing."
"Right."
She settled onto the couch, pulling the blankets up despite the lingering heat. "Night, Leif," she murmured. "Thanks for rescuing me."
"Get some rest, Skye."
I sat in the armchair opposite, pretending to read by the light of the single lamp while the storm continued outside. Within minutes, her breathing had deepened and slowed. I allowed myself to look at her then—really look. The sweep of dark lashes against her cheek. The slight part of her lips. The tumble of hair across my pillow.
Something shifted in my chest, an unfamiliar tightness that had nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with the woman asleep on my couch. She looked impossibly soft, impossibly out of place among my spartan furnishings. Like a bright bird that had flown into my world by mistake—vibrant, delicate, meant for somewhere else entirely.
I rose quietly and moved to the window, staring out at the rain-lashed forest. Beyond these walls lay twenty thousand acres of wilderness, and I knew every ridge and valley intimately. This space, this solitude, had been my sanctuary since I'd walked away from the fire service. No complications. No responsibilities beyond my own survival. No one to protect but myself.
Now, with a single lost hiker, that carefully constructed isolation had been breached. And the most troubling part wasn't her presence in my cabin—it was the realization that it didn't feel like the intrusion it should have.
I glanced back at her sleeping form, watched the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. Tomorrow, I told myself firmly. Tomorrow I'd fix her tire, point her toward her camp, and return to my solitude.
Simple, right?