Chapter 2
Wade
Thermostat’s been sticky for a month and I’ve been too stubborn to fix it because I hate taking the old girl out of service when there’s work to do. But I didn’t expect a vehicle to squeal behind me like a spooked elk, either.
Lilah hops out, hair more blonde than I remember.
Same eyes the same shade of her father’s.
Same little chin on a face that’s almost angelic.
She was an adorable child. Now she’s standing in the middle of the road — sunlight and trouble both aiming my way.
She’s not little any more. She’s wrapped in womanly curves. Damn!
I’m friendly, welcoming, but a little gruff. It’s my normal mode — my go to when I don’t want people reading what I’m not saying.
Lilah seems confident, almost cocky. And bright enough to hurt a little if I look at her too long — just like the sun.
We talk about the truck which is safer ground. I keep my hands busy and my voice level and try not to notice the camera strap cutting across her sweater, the way she watches everything like the world is a secret it told only to her. She’s grown into herself … curves and all that beauty.
Dave’s going to be over the moon. He’ll feed Lilah and fuss over her. He’ll tell me she got his good side, which he doesn’t have but believes with religious conviction.
And me? I’ll be around. Because I always am. Because that’s my job in the life we built — Dave and me — back when our kids were sticky-fingered, loud, and everything was simpler. I fix what breaks. I scout the weather. I take people up the mountain and bring them back down in one piece.
When she offers to follow me to the house, I tell her no. It’s an unnecessary courtesy. But I make sure she gets to her dad’s just fine.
Dave’s waiting at the door like he heard us from a mile out. He wraps Lilah up in a big bear hug.
My boy, Caleb, is at a football practice, trying to pretend senior year doesn’t end in a door closing.
I’ve been pretending not to notice, because noticing means feeling it.
And I don’t want to think about how empty the cabin will be if I don’t have him around.
I guess Dave’s already experienced that.
“I’ll get her bags,” I say, because it’s easier to be useful than it is to stand in the doorway and watch something I can’t hold.
Her duffel’s heavier than it looks. She lets me take it without protest, which is new. The kid who left this town would’ve insisted. The woman who came back knows when to let someone help.
Inside, the house is warm and familiar. Dave hollers from the kitchen and bangs a lid. The chili smells like cumin and tomatoes – great comfort food.
I set her suitcase in the spare room and catch my reflection in the window — flannel, hair turning gray, and lines around my eyes the mountain gave me for being hers this long.
You’re not young anymore. Stop being an idiot.
“Wade?” Lilah’s voice floats down the hall, soft. “Thank you.”
I turn. She’s in the doorway, hair pulled over one shoulder, hands folded like she’s not sure what to do with them. I feel the moment tip, like a canoe when someone shifts their weight at the wrong time.
“Anytime,” I say, because it’s true. But maybe in a way, it shouldn’t be.
She steps closer. The closeness makes me feel like I just got exposed by a sun ray. “I might need a guide for a day or two. If you’re free. I have locations in mind.”
Work subject. That feels better and safer. I can put both hands on that. “You planning the ridge above Eagle Run? Snow’ll lock that out soon.”
“I was hoping tomorrow for the overlook. Then the creek. Then …”
“The elk flats,” I finish for her, because of course she wants the flats. “Sunrise. You’ll freeze if you don’t pack right.”
She brightens. “I can handle cold.”
“You said that when you were fourteen and stole your dad’s socks and got blisters anyway.”
She laughs and concedes I’m right.
“You remember that, Wade?”
I remember everything. The day she and Caleb built a snow fort that leaned like it was sighing. The scraped knee she refused to cry about. The first time she asked me a question about camera lenses like she wanted to borrow my eyes.
“I remember when people borrow gear and forget to return it,” I say lightly. “Bring gloves. Real ones. I’ve got spares if you don’t.”
She nods, serious again. “Thank you.”
Dave calls us to the kitchen and we go. I take the seat I always take.
Lilah sits across from me and lifts her spoon, blowing at the steam.
The room is filled with easy talk. Early snows and whether the high school’s going to make the playoffs.
I’m aware of every accidental brush of her knee against the table leg like I’m a compass and she’s north.
When she tells Dave how surprised she was to run into me on the road, he grins and aims his spoon like a pointer. “He’s a good one to run into. Always shows up when a person needs him.”
There’s a truth in that I should be proud of. Instead I feel confined.
After dinner, I help with dishes because I always do. Lilah dries. Our hands bump once. I move slower than I need to. The window over the sink frames the last of the light leaking out of the day. When my phone buzzes on the counter, I force myself to step away to read the message.
Caleb: Practice ran long. Be home by eight. Hungry.
I smile. My boy eats like a bear in spring.
Me: I’ll throw something on. Watch for possible black ice by the turn.
I pocket the phone and look up to find Lilah studying me. I don’t know what she sees and I’m not sure I want to know.
“Tomorrow?” she asks, setting down the towel.
“Before dawn.” I keep my voice even. “Dress warm. Meet me at the trailhead. I’ll text you the pin. Give me your number.”
“Okay.” She rattles off her cell phone number and I put it in my contact.
“Get some sleep.” I reach for my jacket, tell my feet to keep moving, and step into the cooling dark.
On the porch, I pause. The night smells like wet bark and a cold front shouldering over the ridge.
I’ve been good at drawing lines my whole life.
Lilah – I hate to leave her company, but I really shouldn’t stay longer.
Caleb’s hungry and coming home. Besides, I’ve learned that there are things you think about as a man that you don’t act on …
and this grown up version of Lilah is one of them.
Tomorrow, I’ll take her to the overlook. I’ll point out the false trail where tourists wander off-course. I’ll talk about wind, light and elk patterns. I’ll reign in these thoughts and certainly keep my hands to myself.
At least … I tell myself I will.
I’m not twenty-five. I’m not an idiot.
But I am a man, and the mountain isn’t the only thing that knows how to overtake you in a sudden landslide.