Chapter 4
FINN
“Get comfortable,” I say. “Storm’s going to keep us here for a while.”
I watch her process this, the emotions playing across her face like clouds moving over the mountains—resignation, anxiety, a flash of something that might be relief.
“Maybe I can still make it to town,” she says, glancing toward the window. “Before it gets worse.”
“No.” The word comes out sharp, definitive. I soften it with: “Not in this weather. Not on that road.”
I cross to the emergency radio, turning up the volume so she can hear the latest update. The mechanical voice confirms what I already know: eighteen to twenty-four inches expected, winds gusting to sixty miles per hour, all mountain passes closed until further notice.
“Oh,” Marcella says softly, before looking around the space. “May I use the bathroom?”
I point her toward it and as the door closes behind her, I’m grateful for the moment alone, the ranger station feeling smaller with her in it.
Four years I’ve lived here, and the space has always felt exactly right.
Room to breathe. Room to exist without the pressure of other people’s expectations.
Now every corner seems to pulse with her presence—the Dutch oven still on my stove, the candle on my table, the faint trace of her perfume in the air.
I move through my storm prep checklist. Muscle memory.
Check the generator fuel levels—three-quarters full, good for at least forty-eight hours of intermittent use.
Confirm the woodpile by the back door—stacked high, seasoned oak and pine, enough to last a week if needed.
Test the backup propane for the stove—full tank, barely touched since I refilled it last month.
Fill extra water containers in case the pipes freeze—a precaution I’ve never needed but always take.
The routine steadies me. Gives my hands something to do while my mind processes the impossible situation I’ve found myself in.
Each task is familiar, practiced. I could do this in my sleep.
Have done it in my sleep, during the bad nights when staying busy is the only thing that keeps the dreams at bay.
A woman. In my home. For at least one night, probably more.
My chest tightens. The familiar squeeze of anxiety, the voice in my head cataloging everything that could go wrong.
She’ll want to talk. She’ll ask questions.
She’ll expect things from me—conversation, interaction, normalcy—that I’m not capable of providing.
She’ll see how broken I am, how badly I function with other humans, and she’ll look at me with pity or disgust or both.
I grip the edge of the counter. Breathe. In for four. Hold for four. Out for four.
She’s not a threat, I tell myself. She’s not an obligation. She’s just a person who needs shelter from a storm. You can handle that.
The bathroom door opens. As Marcella emerges, I watch her take in the space with fresh eyes.
The main room of the ranger station isn’t large, but I’ve made it functional.
Kitchen flowing into living area. Stone fireplace as the centerpiece.
My leather chair. The couch I built two years ago when Moira insisted I needed somewhere for guests to sit.
I’ve never had guests. Until now.
“Your furniture is incredible,” Marcella says, running her hand along the back of the couch. “Did you really make all of this?”
I nod. Words feel stuck.
“The craftsmanship...” She crouches down, examining the joinery on the coffee table. “This is museum-quality work, Finn. You could charge a fortune for pieces like this.”
“I do okay.”
She looks up at me, those brown eyes too perceptive. “That’s not what I meant. I meant you’re an artist. This isn’t just furniture—it’s beautiful.”
Something uncomfortable shifts in my chest. Compliments are hard.
I never know what to do with them, how to respond without sounding either arrogant or dismissive.
Moira tells me I should learn to say “thank you” and move on, but my brain doesn’t work that way.
Every kind word feels like a trap, like there’s an expectation attached that I’ll fail to meet.
Jimmy used to give me shit about it. Take the compliment, McGrath. You’re a good shot. Just say thanks and stop looking like someone pissed in your coffee.
The memory surfaces without warning, sharp-edged. Jimmy’s grin. His easy confidence. The way he could defuse any awkward moment with a joke.
I shut it down. Lock it away. Not now.
“You should let someone know where you are,” I say instead, my voice rough.
Marcella blinks at the abrupt shift, then understanding dawns. “Coralyn. Oh God, she’s going to lose her mind.” She pulls out her phone, frowning at the screen. “One bar.”
“Storm’s probably affecting the towers.”
She taps out a message, biting her lip in concentration. I try not to watch her mouth. Fail.
“What are you telling her?” The question comes out before I can stop it.
Marcella glances up, a wry smile tugging at her lips. “That I’m not dead, not kidnapped, and that she gave me the wrong address. In that order.” She returns to typing. “Also that Boyd is apparently a massive jerk, so thanks for nothing on the matchmaking front.”
“You’re telling her about Boyd?”
“I’m telling her I saw him through binoculars being horrible to another woman and that the universe clearly intervened to save me from that disaster.” She hits send, then looks at me with something like gratitude. “Which it did. In the weirdest possible way.”
The universe. Right. Not the universe—just a forgotten door lock and a determined storm.
Her phone buzzes. She reads the reply, laughs, then groans.
“What?”
“Coralyn wants to know if you’re hot.”
I feel my neck heat. “What did you tell her?”
“I told her you’re a murderer with three heads and a collection of human skulls.” She’s grinning now, the earlier tension bleeding out of her shoulders. “She said I should ask if you’re single.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. Fortunately, the wind chooses that moment to hit the ranger station like a fist, rattling the windows and making Marcella jump.
“Jesus,” she breathes. “That’s...”
“Going to get worse.” I move to check the window seals, a task that gives me an excuse to put distance between us. “Storm won’t peak until late tonight. We’ve got hours of this ahead.”
She’s quiet for a moment. When she speaks again, her voice is smaller.
“Finn? I really am sorry. For all of this. For invading your space and making you deal with me when you obviously—” She stops, starts again.
“I can tell you like being alone. I’ll try to stay out of your way as much as possible. ”
I turn to look at her. She’s standing in the middle of my living room, arms crossed over her chest, making herself smaller. Like she’s trying to take up less space. Less air. Less everything.
My jaw tightens.
“You don’t have to do that,” I say.
“Do what?”
“Shrink.”
Her eyes widen. I’ve surprised her. Hell, I’ve surprised myself.
“I know I’m not—” I stop, grind my teeth, force the words out. “I’m not good with people. Being around them. Talking. Any of it. But that’s my problem, not yours. You don’t have to disappear to make me comfortable.”
Marcella stares at me for a long moment. Then, slowly, her arms uncross. Her shoulders square. She stands a little taller.
“Okay,” she says softly. “I won’t.”
The lights flicker. Once. Twice.
We both look up at the ceiling, then at each other.
“Generator?” Marcella asks.
“Solar panels, mostly. Generator backup when that fails.” I’m already moving toward the control panel by the door, checking the readings. “Storm’s probably covered the panels. Should switch to backup automatically.”
The lights flicker again, then go out entirely.
For a moment, the only illumination comes from the fire in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the walls. Marcella’s face is golden in the firelight, her eyes wide but not panicked. She’s watching me, waiting for my lead.
Something clicks in the utility closet. The generator humming to life. A moment later, the lights come back on—dimmer than before, running on backup power.
“That’s going to happen a few more times tonight,” I tell her. “When it does, we switch to fire and candles. Save the generator fuel for essentials.”
She nods, processing. “Okay. What can I do to help?”
The question catches me off guard. Moira never asks what she can do—she just does things, bulldozing over my preferences with sisterly certainty. But Marcella is asking. Waiting. Respecting that this is my space, my routine, my survival plan.
“The short ribs,” I hear myself say. “If they’re really as good as they smell, we shouldn’t let them go to waste.”
Her face lights up again. That same brightening I saw earlier, like sunshine breaking through clouds. It does something uncomfortable to my chest.
“They’re better than they smell,” she says. “I promise.”
She moves to the kitchen, already in motion, already filling the space with her warmth and her energy and her presence.
I watch her for a moment—the confident way she handles the cookware, the little hum that starts up as she checks on the braise, the way she moves like cooking is breathing, natural and necessary.
This is going to be a problem.
I know it like I know the weight of a rifle, the sound of incoming fire, the exact second before everything goes wrong. This woman, with her warmth and her food and her way of looking at me like I’m worth seeing—she’s going to be a problem.
Because I don’t want her to leave.
The thought arrives unwelcome, undeniable. Somewhere between the moment she turned around with that wooden spoon raised like a weapon and now, watching her move through my kitchen like she belongs there, something shifted. Some wall I’ve spent four years building developed a crack.
The wind howls. The lights flicker again. The fire pops and settles, sending a scatter of sparks up the chimney.
I have nowhere to run. No mission to disappear into. No excuse to maintain the distance that’s kept me safe for four years.
Just this woman. This storm. This ranger station that suddenly feels like both a refuge and a trap.
You chose this, I remind myself. You told her to stay.
I did. And I’d do it again. A hundred times. A thousand. Because the alternative—watching her drive off that mountain into whiteout conditions, knowing I could have stopped her—isn’t something I could live with.
But that’s not the only reason.
That’s the part that scares me most.