Chapter 6
Wade
The day never warmed. Even now, near dusk, the cold hangs around like a guest who’s not sure he’s still wanted.
I finished my afternoon hike group two hours ago, dropped the gear at the shop, and promised Ray I’d look at the busted ATV clutch tomorrow. Now the truck hums up the long grade toward home, the heater clicking faintly.
Caleb’s at emergency responder training, which means the house will be quiet for a while. Quiet is usually what I want. Tonight it feels like a room missing its center.
When I pull up to the cabin and the wifi kicks in, my phone buzzes with a new message:
Lilah: You were right about the creek. Sending proof.
The image loads and I exhale through a smile I don’t mean to have. The frame is wide, the curve of water caught between snow-bright banks. At the far edge—two boot prints side by side before the reflection begins. Ours.
I type, Nice composition, then delete it. Too technical. I type again.
Me: Didn’t think you’d catch the footprints before they filled in.
Lilah: Some things deserve to be remembered.
She has a way of saying things that make me think she’s got a double meaning behind the words. I’d almost bet that’s the case.
I hang my jacket by the door, load up the fireplace with wood and get the fire going. I should make dinner, pay bills, do anything ordinary. Instead I pour a glass of bourbon and step out onto the porch admiring the stars.
I think about this morning … her laugh when the raven crossed the sun, the way she said I see everything right now. People say that sort of thing and don’t mean it. She did.
The crunch of tires interrupts the thought. Headlights weave through the trees, pulling into my drive. Her little SUV idles, then shuts off.
She steps out holding a container wrapped in a towel. “I swear I’m not stalking you,” she calls, breath fogging in the cold. “Dad made stew. He said you probably hadn’t eaten yet.”
I rest a hand on the porch post to steady what the universe just tilted. “He’s not wrong. You driving around in the dark for charity?”
“For warmth.” She lifts the container. “And because I owe you.”
I wave her up. “Careful on the steps.”
She climbs the three boards like she’s been here before. I take the pot from her. Lilah’s hands brush mine. “Come inside,” I say, waiting for her. “I appreciate this surprise,” I say, setting it by the stove. “Tell your dad he’s saved me from canned soup.”
She grins, rubs her hands near the fire. “I don’t usually intrude. But the road was clear and … ”
“And you followed it,” I finish for her.
“Guess so.”
“You want to stay long enough to eat your share of that stew?”
Her eyes lift, bright as sparks jumping in the fire. “If you insist.”
“I do.”
I ladle the stew into mismatched bowls, and we eat sitting at the kitchen bar area. I offer her a soda or water and she chooses water. I’m not stingy with the bourbon. It’s just that I want her senses fully aware when she drives back.
The stew is delicious with small potatoes, onions, carrots, and beef. It’s seasoned well.
When she speaks, it’s softer. “Wade, why did you retire so early from the fire department? You’re really not that old.”
“Endurance for risk taking, I guess.” I glance at her. “I had a real close call and lost a buddy that was more experienced than I.”
“I see. Smokejumpers are needed though, aren’t they? Would you do it again if needed?”
“If the mountains needed me, I wouldn’t be able to say no. Caleb’s planning on doing it once he graduates school and undergoes training in Montana. So, in a way … I’m leaving the mountains a legacy to watch over them.”
“That’s a unique way to think of it. Still, you’re so young to be quote unquote retired.”
Lilah looks at me like she’s signaling that I’m not too old for her. I feel it … and I’d love to believe it. But I won’t.”
“Age has a way of making you slow down and look at things differently, with a little more caution. Sometimes, it’s what the wind doesn’t whisper to you. You have to hear what’s not being said.”
She tilts her head. “What’s it not saying tonight?”
“That you should probably head back before the road glazes.”
She doesn’t move. “And if I wait five more minutes?”
“Then it’s saying I’ll probably walk you out myself.”
The corners of her mouth curve, but she doesn’t tease. She just nods, like she knows I’m not pushing her away — just keeping the line where it belongs.
We finish the bowls. I rinse them while she wraps her scarf, then we step outside. The stars have doubled since she arrived.
At her car, she pauses with the door half-open. “Thanks for the company, Wade.”
“Anytime.”
“I’ll send you the next batch of photos tomorrow.”
“Looking forward to it.”
She starts the engine, gives a short wave, and disappears down the hill. I stand there until the tail-lights vanish into the trees.
Inside, the cabin smells of stew and the faint scent of Lilah. I feed another log to the fire, watch it catch, and let the warmth creep back into my hands.
There’s work tomorrow. There’s always work.
As the crackle settles into something softer, I think about what she stirs in me. She’s more than a warm familiar face. Lilah is my best friend’s daughter … and a woman I’d like to know in ways I shouldn’t. And that’s a real problem.