2. Corbin
two
Corbin
The storm hits earlier than forecasted.
I hunch my shoulders against the driving rain, pulling my worn leather hat lower over my eyes as I make my way through the increasingly treacherous terrain. Lightning flashes, illuminating the forest in stark white before plunging it back into premature darkness. Three seconds later, thunder cracks overhead, far too close for comfort.
I need to get to my shelter soon. The canvas bag at my side holds only half the strawberries I'd planned to gather, but survival trumps foraging. Every experienced woodsman knows when to abandon a task. Nature doesn't negotiate and doesn't care about human intentions. The mountain demands respect, especially during a summer squall like this one.
That's when I hear it: a sound that doesn't belong to the storm. A human cry, desperate and frightened, barely audible over the howling wind.
I pause, rain streaming down my face as I listen. There it is again. It’s definitely a woman's voice calling for help.
Every instinct tells me to continue to my cave, to prioritize my personal safety. These aren't gentle woods on the best of days, and in a storm like this, they turn deadly. Whatever tourist has wandered off the marked trails has made their own poor choices. Not my responsibility.
I take three steps toward my shelter before cursing under my breath and turning toward the sound.
The rain has transformed the forest floor into a slippery maze. Carefully placing each foot, I navigate around a stand of young firs, following the increasingly frantic cries. Rounding a rocky outcropping, I finally spot her as a splash of unnatural blue against the greens and browns of the mountainside.
She's clinging to the trunk of a pine tree halfway up a steep slope where a fresh landslide has obliterated the trail. Her bright blue yoga pants and jacket are soaked through, and her blonde hair is plastered to her head. Even from this distance, I can see she's shivering violently.
"Hey!" I call out.
Her head whips around, eyes wide with desperate hope.
"Help!" she calls. "The trail just disappeared! I can't get down!"
I assess the situation quickly. The landslide has left her stranded on an increasingly unstable slope. The ground beneath her is saturated, threatening to give way with each passing minute. She's maybe twenty feet up, clinging to the tree as her only anchor, her inappropriate footwear—some kind of fashion hiking boots with zero traction—slipping in the mud.
"Don't move!" I shout, already plotting the safest approach. "I'm coming up!"
Finding handholds in the slick earth, I make my way carefully up the slope, testing each step before committing my weight. When I'm about five feet from her, I get my first clear look at her face—younger than I expected, mid-twenties maybe, with wide hazel eyes rimmed red from crying or rain or both. Despite her obvious terror, there's something striking about her features, a natural beauty that seems oddly out of place against the raw violence of the storm.
"Give me your hand," I command, extending my arm toward her.
She stretches toward me, her fingers trembling. "I can't. I'll fall!"
"You need to trust me," I say, my voice firm but not harsh. "The tree won't hold if the ground gives way. We need to move. Now."
Something in my tone must convince her. She takes a deep breath, visibly steeling herself, and in one quick movement, releases the tree trunk and grabs my outstretched hand.
Her fingers are ice cold and slippery with rain, but I maintain a firm grip, pulling her toward me. For a heart-stopping moment, her foot slides through the mud, and she pitches forward with a cry of alarm. I brace myself, catching her full weight against my chest, one arm wrapping instinctively around her waist to stabilize her.
"I've got you," I say, suddenly aware of how small she feels against me, how fragile despite the curvy build I can feel beneath her soaked clothing. "Just hold on."
She nods against my shoulder, her body trembling.
Together, we make our way down the treacherous slope, my hand never leaving her waist, guiding her to place her feet where the ground is most stable. When we finally reach level ground, she stumbles, her legs apparently giving out from cold and fear. I steady her, keeping my arm around her shoulders.
"Thank you," she manages through chattering teeth. "I thought—I didn't know if—"
"What are you doing out here in this?" I cut her off, unable to keep the disapproval from my voice despite the circumstances.
"The storm," she says, hugging herself for warmth, "wasn't supposed to hit until tonight. I checked the forecast. I was already heading back when the rain started, and the trail vanished."
Lightning flashes again, followed almost immediately by a deafening crack of thunder. She flinches, instinctively moving closer to me.
"We need shelter," I say, making a quick decision. “I have a place. It's not far. Can you walk?"
She nods. "Yes. Please. Lead the way."
I set off at a pace that acknowledges both the urgency of our situation and her obvious exhaustion. The wind has picked up, driving the rain sideways, making it difficult to see more than a few feet ahead. I find myself repeatedly looking back to ensure she's still behind me, although I can feel her clinging to the back of my coat like a baby elephant.
"I'm Tessa, by the way," she calls over the howling wind after several minutes of silent hiking.
I hesitate before responding. How long have I gone without speaking my name aloud to another person? "Corbin.”
"Thank you for saving me, Corbin," she says. Her innocent smile catches me off guard.
We push forward through the worsening storm, crossing a small stream that's already swollen with rainwater. When Tessa struggles with the slippery rocks, I extend my hand without comment. She takes it gratefully, her fingers curling around mine with surprising strength.
The cave entrance appears ahead, partially hidden behind a stand of firs that bend and sway in the violent wind. Not my cabin—that's another hour's hike north—but a shelter I've used before, stocked with basics for emergencies like this one.
"In here," I direct, pushing aside the branches to reveal the opening.
She ducks inside without hesitation, relief evident in every line of her body. I follow, immediately moving to the small cache of supplies I maintain. The beam of my flashlight reveals her fully for the first time, and I'm struck by the incongruity of her presence in my wilderness refuge.
She stands shivering in the center of the cave, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her blonde hair is darkened by rain and clings to her face and neck. Water drips from her clothing, forming a small puddle at her feet. Despite her bedraggled appearance, she makes me feel strange feelings that I haven’t felt in a long time.
"You're freezing," I observe, already arranging kindling for a fire. "Need to get dry."
"I'm okay," she says unconvincingly, teeth still chattering. "Just need to warm up a bit."
I strike a match, carefully nurturing the small flame until it catches the dry wood I've stored here. As firelight fills the cave, casting dancing shadows on the stone walls, I turn to assess our situation more thoroughly.
The cave is small—perhaps fifteen feet deep and eight feet wide at its mouth—and feels decidedly cramped with two people inside. Tessa moves closer to the growing fire, holding her hands out toward the warmth.
"Thank you," she says again, her eyes meeting mine across the flames. "I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't found me."
I don't respond immediately, busying myself with spreading the waterproof tarp I keep stored here. The truth—that she likely wouldn't have survived the night alone on the mountain in this storm—seems unnecessarily harsh to vocalize.
"You're welcome," I say finally, surprising myself with the gentleness in my tone. "Storm's not letting up anytime soon. We'll need to wait it out."
She glances toward the cave entrance, where rain continues to pour in sheets, lightning periodically illuminating the darkened forest beyond. "So we're... stuck here? Together?"
The uncertainty in her voice draws my attention. Our eyes meet across the small fire, and for a moment, I feel a different kind of storm brewing, this one internal and unexpected. She's beautiful in a way I'd forgotten to notice in women—natural and alive, despite her obvious city origin.
"Looks that way," I manage, tearing my gaze away to add another stick to the fire. "Hope you don't mind roughing it."
"Actually, this is kind of amazing. A real adventure. Though I'm sorry to intrude on your solitude."
The sincerity in her voice catches me off guard. Most people don't understand why anyone would choose to live away from the comforts and connections of civilization. They see isolation as punishment rather than freedom.
"It's fine," I say, surprised to find I mean it. "Better than you getting washed down the mountain."
Her laugh is sudden and bright, lighting up her face. "When you put it that way..."
I notice she's still shivering despite the fire's growing warmth. Her clothes cling to her body, dripping onto the stone floor. Without comment, I reach into my pack and pull out my spare flannel shirt—clean and, most importantly, dry.
"Here," I offer, extending it toward her. "You need to get out of those wet clothes."
She hesitates, glancing around the small cave. There's no privacy to be found in this space, a fact that suddenly seems significant in a way it never has before.
"I'll turn around," I add, already moving to face the wall.
"Thank you," she says softly, and I hear the rustle of wet fabric as she changes.
I fix my gaze on the cave wall, acutely aware of her presence behind me, the sounds of movement, the scent that doesn't belong to the forest—something citrusy and distinctly feminine—that somehow cuts through the smell of rain and earth. The storm rages outside, rain pounding against the earth, wind howling through the trees, but here in this small space, time seems suspended.
"Okay," she says after what feels like an eternity. "I'm decent."
I turn to find her standing closer than I expected, draped in my flannel shirt that falls to mid-thigh. She's laid her wet clothes near the fire to dry, her legs bare below the shirt's hem. Her hair is loose now, falling in damp waves around her shoulders. The sight stirs something in me that I thought had long since gone dormant.
"Better?" I ask, my voice rougher than intended. I try not to think of how beautiful and soft her bare legs look and how much I’d love to have my face between her thighs.
She nods, hugging herself in the oversized shirt. "Much. Thank you."
We settle on opposite sides of the fire, the small space forcing a proximity that feels both uncomfortable and strangely right. The storm shows no signs of abating, the thunder growing more distant but the rain continuing its steady assault.
"So," she ventures after several minutes of silence, "Do you live out here? In the mountains, I mean? I’m assuming you don’t live in this cave."
I nod once. "Cabin. A few miles north."
"By yourself?" There's no judgment in her tone, just curiosity.
"Just me." I settle back against the cave wall, watching the play of firelight across her features. "Prefer it that way."
"I get that," she says, surprising me. "Sometimes people are..." She trails off, searching for the right word.
"Exhausting," I supply.
Her eyes meet mine, a flash of recognition in them. "Exactly."
Outside, the storm continues its fury, but inside this small cave, something shifts, a current of understanding passing between us. Her presence, which should feel like an intrusion into my carefully constructed solitude, instead creates a strange sense of connection I hadn't realized I was missing.
The night stretches ahead of us, long hours of confinement in this small space with this unexpected woman who somehow managed to get stranded on my mountain. As she smiles tentatively across the fire, something inside me responds, a rusty door creaking open after years of disuse.
This is going to be a complicated storm to weather.