Chapter 3
Chapter Three
TIMBER
After setting down the postcard, a fleeting shiver reminds me of the practicalities of frontier life. My socked feet curl against the cool wooden floor as I reach for the battery-operated lantern, its switch sounding with a soft click. Instantly, a warm light floods the room, pushing the darkness into the corners where shadows linger.
Despite the unease of solitude, a grin crosses my lips. The lantern brings modern comfort to the rustic space. It’s a blend of old and new here, much like the postcard’s history meeting my present. The lantern has a socket—a small yet significant amenity. I rummage through my bag, retrieving my phone cord. While a phone call might be optimistic with the spotty service, I can at least set an alarm. I pull out my phone, seeing the battery’s charge holding on, though the signal is barely a whisper of a bar.
With day turning to night, it's time to prioritize sustenance over sentiment and cell phones. Kane left a fire smoldering in the wood stove, a welcome luxury I’m not keen to squander. I kneel before it and wonder if all I’m supposed to do is add a log? Surely it can’t be much different from the firepit in Mom’s backyard. Once lit, all it requires is consistent feeding. The logical choice is to add a piece of wood and pray that it coaxes the fire back to life. When I do, the fire grows and heat seeps into the room, making up for the lack of amenities. Maybe Eliza is right after all. Perhaps this is all I need.
I’m convinced of that until my stomach grumbles with a complaint that it, too, needs feeding, so I search for something to cook with. The lantern light guides me to a cupboard, filled with mismatched items, each with its own story. My fingers close around a plate, its porcelain edge chipped—a slight imperfection that hints at a long history. I wonder about the meals it has held, the laughter or conversations it has witnessed, all here in the quiet seclusion of the cabin.
I locate a pot next, its bottom blackened from the many fires it has sat above. I realize that all my cooking here will depend on the wood stove, a challenge I accept with a mix of apprehension and excitement. There’s a romance to the idea of this cabin, this simplified way of life that I will experience. Love it or hate it, it’s what I have for the next eight weeks, and I can do anything for that long.
With a sigh, I place the chipped plate on the countertop alongside a small jar of salmon—less daunting, more familiar than squirrel or beaver. Beside it, I place single serving jars of preserved vegetables and a fruit compote, their colors vibrant even in the lantern’s artificial glow. It’s a balanced meal—simple, yet nourishing.
I set a small pot for the vegetables and salmon on top of the stove, the heat welcoming and ready. Once cooked, the salmon will be warmed through and the vegetables tender. This is cooking stripped back to its essence. I glance at the plate again. Its chip is now a feature I admire. It’s a mark of endurance and resilience—qualities I hope to embody here.
At the small table, I eat and look around the cabin. The wood stove is the heart of the cabin and sits in the corner, its matte black surface a stark contrast against the warm glow of the flames within. A pile of wood is stacked neatly beside it. Everything here has a purpose. The plate in my hand is not just a container for food but a piece of the cabin’s soul, and now, a part of my story, too.
After finishing, I spy a plastic bin tucked beneath the sink. It seems like the likely candidate for water collection. This task, in theory, should be simple, but in practice, it seems like an initiation into a life I’ve only read about in adventure novels.
I don my jacket and tug my hood over my head. With the bin in hand, I step outside and into the dwindling rain. The cool air is a brisk reminder of my new reality. The water pump stands a few yards away, looking like a relic from a bygone era. I approach it with a mix of determination and the kind of trepidation one might experience when meeting a legend. The pump handle is foreign, but water gushes out in a rhythmic beat soon enough, a sound oddly satisfying.
Water sloshes over the rim as I carry the bin back inside. I tread carefully to avoid more spills. This simple act is so different from turning on a tap, and it leaves me feeling accomplished and utterly out of my element. But I’m here to embrace it all—each small victory and every new challenge.
I heat the water on the stovetop, carefully pouring it into the tub to wash the dishes. Each plate and cup is like a small victory as I scrub them clean. Even a simple task like washing dishes becomes complicated without plumbing.
With the night deepening, I cast a wary glance toward the outhouse. The wooden structure stands ominously in the darkness, its weathered door hinting at untold secrets. I imagine what horrors might await me behind that door—spiders, ghosts, or perhaps something even more sinister. As I gather my courage, the realization hits me that living here will be full of unexpected challenges.
I grab a lantern as I step outside. Shadows stretch and play tricks on my eyes. The rain has stopped, and the cool, moist air of the night is scented with pine and damp soil. It fills my senses, leaving me exhilarated and slightly on edge. Droplets fall rhythmically from the pine needles, punctuating the stillness. The forest seems to hold its breath, observing me. My boots press into the soft earth, the quiet so complete around me that each step echoes between the trees. I’m wrapped in solitude, yet the rustle of leaves and the soft creaks tell me I’m far from being alone.
I reach the outhouse door and pull it open with a trembling hand, half expecting a rush of nightmarish critters to burst forth. Instead, I’m met with the startling civility of cleanliness. The toilet paper is stacked with military precision, and a box of wipes sits next to a bottle of hand sanitizer. On the wall is a poster of a squirrel with its eyes covered as if to say, “No peeking!” It’s absurd, it’s hilarious, and for a moment, I forget to be afraid.
With a sigh of relief, I do what nature demands while trying to ignore the chorus of ‘what-ifs’ my mind comes up with. Something at that moment releases a haunting screech into the night, and I’m convinced it’s the dinner bell for every creature with teeth or claws.
I finish up, shaking slightly as I pull my pants up and slather my hands in sanitizer. I’m ready to bolt when another shriek pierces the air, sending a shiver down my spine. Is it an owl, some small furry woodland creature, or something scarier? I’m trapped in the tiniest room of my life, and suddenly, it’s a fortress against the vast, unknown wilderness.
What will I face on the other side of the door? A bear? A pack of wolves? Should I go or stay? I chastise myself for my fear of the unknown and for even thinking for a second that I could sleep in the outhouse. With a deep breath, I fling the door open and practically leap out. The darkness has transformed every bush into a lurking predator, every innocent shadow into a hungry hunter. My mind is a Hollywood director of horror films, casting each rustling leaf as a potential ravenous beast.
Heart sprinting, I sprint too. The 20-yard dash back to the cabin is like a marathon through a gauntlet of imagined monsters. I burst through the door, half expecting applause for escaping the clutches of the night, but I’m met with only the crackling of the fire.
Slamming the door shut, I lean against it, panting and laughing at my wild imagination. As the adrenaline fades and I settle into the cabin’s embrace, my phone, which had struggled to cling to a solitary bar of signal earlier, lights up with the arrival of a message. Surprise washes over me. Messages are rare for me in my usual world. I’d expect them to be non-existent here.
I cross the room, wondering who texted. Back at school, my phone is purely practical—always a colleague asking for a favor, a last-minute substitution, or a reminder about a deadline. Social invites, the kind that hint at inclusion and camaraderie, like happy hours or a Bunco night, never show up on my screen. Those are for the tenured teachers who have firmly established their place within the faculty’s inner circles. There would be no calls from my best friend because that was always Mom, and she’s no longer here. When she passed, it was like losing a piece of myself. It would have been different if she’d passed after a long illness. I would have been almost happy in that scenario to not see her suffer, but Mom was healthy and vibrant when she was struck by a car on a morning run. That’s what makes it so much harder. Mom had so much life left in her .
I swipe the screen and find a message from Eliza telling me she’ll pick me up at nine to show me around.
I text back, but the message fails to send because my whisper of a bar has turned to none. I set the phone down, and my attention shifts to the duffle bag lying open. It’s time to make this space mine.
I work quickly, pulling out the essentials. First, my Kindle. Its library of unread books is a lifeline, a comfort I’m not willing to do without.
Next comes the hefty bag of Jelly Belly candies, a colorful splash against the cabin’s muted tones. I hope they’ll last the duration of my stay, but my sweet tooth might have other plans. I think about May’s comment and laugh. You don’t maintain a sturdy frame like mine without a few indulgences.
I dig deeper, finding the framed photo of my mother. It’s a candid shot, her laugh frozen in time. I place it on the small bedside table, a piece of home, of her, to watch over me.
“I can’t imagine you being here.” I glance around the cabin and look out the window into the inky night. “Is this why you hated the cold so much?”
There are so many unanswered questions. The only time my mother ever mentioned my father was when I asked about him, and she told me he left her—left us. She didn’t know how to find him. She told me the past is the past, the future is the future, and all we have is here and now—the present. She’d insisted it was a gift, meant to be unwrapped with care and lived with joy, not with eyes fixed backward or gazing too far ahead. I never thought about him again until that postcard dropped out of my mother’s herbal medicine journal. One of my parents is dead, but the other is around, and I’m curious about a lot of things. I have so many questions that need answers. Like, why did he leave? What does he look like? What parts of me are like him? I hope to find the answers while I’m here.
I refocus my energy on unpacking, and a few other treasures emerge, like a soft, well-worn hoodie that’s seen better days, and a beanie baby. Cubby the Bear has been with me for as long as I can remember. There is no way I’d leave him behind on this adventure when he’s been here through every major event in my life. I set him on the nightstand beside Mom. Lastly, I take out a soft fleece blanket. It’s comforting and warm to hold on to during the lonely nights ahead. I lay it across the bed, ready to be my cozy hug in this new, quiet place.
My makeshift home now holds the small but significant imprints of my life. I stand and step back, surveying the cabin, sensing a thread of connection to everything within it. This is home, for now. With little left to do, I change into flannel pajamas and climb between the sheets to read.
The morning light filters in, and I wake ready to conquer the day. My morning routine is easy, and the trip to the outhouse doesn’t seem as scary in the full light of day. Just as I’m finishing a bowl of jarred peaches, the unmistakable sound of an ATV approaches. I peek through the window, my breath catching at the sight of who could only be Eliza, steering the vehicle with one hand while the other rests on her pregnant belly. A mix of emotions tugs at me. I’m struck by the excitement of meeting her and the concern that she’s forced to come out and help me in her condition.
I push the door open as the sound of the engine cuts off.
“Morning, Timber!” Eliza’s voice, bright and clear, breaks the stillness around me. She vibrates with energy. “Looks like you’ve survived your first night!” she says.
“Survived is one way to put it,” I say, stepping into the crisp morning air. “A heads-up about the outhouse could’ve been part of the welcome package.”
Eliza’s laugh is full and unapologetic. “I guess I could’ve, but then I might have risked you changing your mind. And we can’t have that,” she says, her tone light but sincere.
“Well, I’m here now.”
Inwardly, I know the truth of it. Even if Eliza had sent a list of every hardship and every challenge that awaited me, it wouldn’t have deterred me. I would’ve come regardless, even if it meant sleeping in a tent. I need the money, and I have a mystery to solve.
Eliza slides off the ATV and walks to me. Her stomach reaches me a full second before she does. “Are you ready to see what we have to offer?”
“Absolutely.” I look around, seeing my temporary home in the light of day, and I find it enchanting. If everything else in town is half as captivating, I’ll be in for a treat. “I’m quite happy to be here.”
Eliza’s belly pushes against mine without notice, and her arms wrap around my shoulders. “I just knew in our few conversations that you’d be perfect for the job.”
The hug is surprising, but not unwelcome. It has been a long time since anyone hugged me, and I hold on a few seconds longer than I should.
“I’ll do my best to fill your shoes while you’re busy.”
“You’ll be great. Let’s get on with the tour.” Eliza climbs back on the ATV and pats the seat beside her. “Just got this baby back this morning.”
I climb onto the contraption that looks more like a souped-up golf cart.
“Is this the normal mode of travel?” I look at her stomach and wonder how she’ll get around once the baby is born.
“It’s this, the snowmobile in the winter, or walking.” She points to the back seat. “I can strap him in for safety.”
“You’re having a boy. That’s wonderful.”
Eliza laughs. “Yes, much to the disappointment of the entire town. Women are outnumbered here at least four to one. But I’m happy to have a son. We’re naming him Cody.”
“That’s a wonderful name. Now, tell me about Port Promise. I mean, the things I couldn’t learn from an internet search.”
“We have a small community. We’ve dwindled to less than a hundred from about four hundred a few years ago. And trust me, it seems like most of them are related to me!”
As we ride, her words mix with the ATV’s buzz. She talks about the trees and wildlife and asks me if I’d like to accomplish anything while I’m here.
I think about all the woodland sounds that kept me sleeping with one eye open last night. “I’d like to stay alive.” I keep my real mission under wraps—finding the mysterious postcard sender. I’m not sure I’m ready to share that just yet. It seems too personal to share that with someone I don’t know. Besides, how do you ask about a man you know nothing about? I don’t even have a name.
“We’d like you to stay alive too,” she says as she winds around the wooden path I walked yesterday. “You started well. You survived Kane, who can come across as a bit rough around the edges. Was he alright to you?”
I offer a noncommittal smile. I couldn’t tell her that he was like a welcome wagon and showed up with gifts, but then again, I couldn’t say anything negative either. He was direct and to the point. “He was ... efficient,” I say, which is true enough.
She laughs, a sound that seems to understand the unsaid. “Efficiency is a virtue with that one. He’s had to be on top of things, being the oldest of us. Port Promise isn’t without its challenges. My brother has faced many,” she says. “I’m the youngest, the last attempt for a daughter. And let me tell you, growing up with all those boys ... you learn to stand your ground. Thankfully, I had a good role model in my mother. May God rest her soul. ”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” I say. We share the understanding and experience of grief. “I lost my mother recently, too. It seems we have a lot in common.”
Eliza’s face shows a blend of empathy and sisterhood. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she says.
She looks down at her stomach. “I miss my mother always, but I wish I had her now. Thankfully, she was here when we got the news that I was pregnant, and we were able to celebrate. I just wish she could have held on so she could meet the baby. I never imagined having a child without her here to guide me,” she says.
“That must be so hard.” I can’t imagine having to be a mother without my mother’s support. For the first time, I’m grateful that I’ll never have to face that.
With a knowing nod, Eliza adds, “I bet we’ll be fast friends, you and me. And who knows? The town might grow on you, and you’ll want to stay. Lord knows we don’t have enough people like you here.”
“You mean women?”
She nods. “They come, sure, but stick around? That’s rare, which goes back to my four to one ratio,” she says, eyeing the endless stretch of wilderness.
It gets me thinking. Alaska? Mom never breathed a word about this place. With her shivering at anything below sweater weather, it just doesn’t add up. The postcard’s “come back” haunts me. Could she have braved the cold here for love? The pieces don’t fit.
While I'm not comfortable asking about a man I don’t know, I certainly don’t mind asking about a woman I do. “Do you ever remember meeting anyone besides me with the last name Moore? Like an Aspen Moore?” I ask, hoping for a speck of recognition. “I think my mother may have visited here in her youth.”
She furrows her brow, steering the ATV around a particularly stubborn rock before answering. “Moore? I can’t say I recall anyone by that name. But you have to understand that we don’t always get to know the short-term visitors. Especially if they stick to themselves, and if it was your mother, she would have come long before my time. The person to ask is May. She’s always in the know.”
“Thank you. I’ll consider that. I met her on the dock yesterday. She seems nice.”
“May’s the wisdom of the town—she’s seen seven decades come and go. If your mother was here for anything longer than a weekend visit, May would remember. That woman’s got the memory of an elephant. She’s the backbone of this town. We don’t have a doctor close by. I have to travel to Craig for my appointments, so May’s the one we turn to for the less serious things. She’s got a remedy for every cough and a potion for every ache, all from the plants she tends like her own kids. She’s our gem, and without her, well, we’d be a bit lost.”
As the trees begin to thin and the dense woods open up to the expanse of the water, the dock comes into view, signaling the edge of town. Eliza guides the ATV onto a clearer path.
“We’re headed to her place now,” she announces as we approach the center of the town. “Best pancakes in town, and you’ll get to meet some of the locals.”