Chapter 6 #2
Two doorways lead off the main room. One to a bedroom, I assume. The other probably a bathroom.
"It's not much," Rhys says, moving to the wood stove. He opens the door, revealing kindling already laid inside. Strikes a match and the fire catches quickly. "Give it twenty minutes and it'll be warm in here."
"It's perfect," I say. And I mean it. No technology. No distractions. Just the basics of survival and shelter.
He shows me how the stove works while it heats, and how to adjust the damper for more or less heat.
The propane stove operates on tanks stored outside, refilled twice a year.
The hand pump brings water from a well, cold and clean.
There's a bathroom with a composting toilet and a shower fed by a tank that heats on the wood stove.
"Generator is out back if we need it. But I try to keep usage minimal. Solar panels charge batteries for lights." He flips a switch and LED bulbs glow warm. "Satellite phone is here if we need to contact Zeke."
I look around the cabin, taking it in. Photos line one shelf. Most of them are of a woman I assume is Emma. Blonde and smiling, sometimes alone, sometimes with Rhys. Young and in love. Before tragedy rewrote their story.
"You can take the bedroom," Rhys says. "I'll sleep out here."
"We can figure it out later." I move to the kitchen, needing something to do with my hands. "You have food?"
"Pantry's stocked. Nothing fancy, but enough to last a month if needed."
We work together in the small kitchen. Rhys pulls out cans and dried goods while I start water heating on the propane stove. The domesticity feels strange. I haven't cooked with another person since Baker. Haven't shared space like this with anyone.
"Chili okay?" Rhys asks.
"Chili's great."
He works efficiently, opening cans, adding spices from jars labeled in neat handwriting. Emma's handwriting, probably. The thought creates a weird tightness in my chest.
"Tell me about her," I say. "About Emma."
Rhys stills, can opener in hand. For a long moment he doesn't respond, and I think maybe I've pushed too far. But then he starts talking.
"We met in high school. She was a year behind me. Took her three years to notice I existed." A faint smile touches his mouth. "But once she did, that was it. We were together from then on."
"What did she do?"
"Nurse. Worked at the hospital in Palmer.
Night shifts mostly, because they paid better and we were saving for a house.
" He stirs the chili, movements automatic.
"She was good at her job. Really good. Patients loved her.
Other nurses loved her. She had this way of making people feel safe even when they were scared. "
The way he talks about her, present tense slipping in, tells me he's never really let her go. Not fully.
"She sounds amazing," I say.
"She was." He adds more spices. "She would have liked you. Would have appreciated someone who actually knows what they're doing in a crisis instead of falling apart."
We fall into silence again, but it's companionable now. The chili simmers. Snow hisses against windows. The wood stove crackles and pops.
"What about you?" Rhys asks. "Tell me about Baker."
The name hits like it always does. Sharp. Immediate. I take a breath and let it out slow.
"We were partners for three years. Crisis Negotiation Unit. He was patient where I was aggressive. Calm where I was intense. We balanced each other." I watch the chili bubble. "We started dating about a year before Chicago. Kept it quiet because Bureau relationships are complicated."
"What happened in Chicago?"
I've told this story before. Review boards. Therapists. My own reflection in dark hotel windows. But telling Rhys feels different. He understands loss in a way most people don't.
"Hostage situation. Armed robbery gone wrong. One suspect, one hostage. I got close, established rapport, thought I was making progress." The details come out flat, practiced. "Baker told me to pull back. Let the tactical team take the shot. I didn't listen. Thought I could talk the suspect down."
Rhys doesn't interrupt. Just listens while stirring the chili.
"The hostage broke free. Suspect panicked. Shots fired. Ricochet caught Baker in the throat." I swallow against the tightness. "Arterial bleed. He died before the medics could get to him."
"His last words?"
The question surprises me. Most people ask if I'm okay, or say it wasn't my fault, or offer empty comfort. Rhys asks what matters.
"'Not your fault.'" My voice cracks. "But he was wrong. If I'd pulled back when he told me to, he'd still be alive."
"Maybe. Or maybe the suspect would have killed the hostage and Baker would still have taken that shot. You can't know."
"I know I made the call that got him killed."
Rhys turns off the heat under the chili. "I know I wasn't there when Emma's car went off the road. I know I didn't see the black truck that forced her over. I know I failed to protect her." He meets my eyes. "But she's still dead. And I still have to live with it."
"Survivor's guilt," I say.
"The worst kind of guilt there is." He ladles chili into bowls. "Because part of you knows it's irrational, but the rest of you doesn't care."
We eat at the small table, the conversation shifting to lighter topics. The logistics of off-grid living. The best books on his shelves. The way snow sounds different at altitude.
The tension from earlier fades. The awareness remains, but it's gentler now. Less urgent.
After dinner, I help clean up. The hand pump takes some getting used to, but I manage. Rhys feeds the wood stove, adjusting it for the night. The cabin is warm and close, the storm outside making it feel even smaller.
"I should probably get some sleep," I say. Even though it's barely eight o'clock. Even though I'm not tired.
"Yeah. Tomorrow might be a long day depending on the storm."
But neither of us moves. We stand in the main room, the wood stove between us, snow falling thick outside the windows.
"Thank you," I say. "For bringing me here. For trusting me with this place."
"Thank you for not thinking I'm crazy for having a secret cabin in the wilderness."
I smile. "I think it's smart. Everyone should have a place no one else knows about."
"Do you? Have a place like that?"
"Not anymore. I did in Chicago. A coffee shop on the south side. Nobody from the Bureau knew about it. Just me and whoever made the best espresso in the city." The memory is bittersweet. "I haven't had a place like that since I left."
"You could make this your place," Rhys says quietly. "If you wanted."
I know what he's really offering. I should say something safe. Something that keeps distance between us. But what comes out is, "I'd like that."
He moves closer. Not crowding, but deliberately closing the space. Close enough that I can see the lighter flecks in his eyes. Close enough to smell cedar and smoke and something distinctly him.
"Harlow." My name sounds different in his deep voice. Careful. Like he's testing how it feels to say it.
"Rhys."
His hand lifts, hesitates, then brushes my cheek. Gentle. Questioning. His palm is warm against my skin. Rough. Steady.
I lean into the touch without meaning to. Without thinking. Just responding to the need for connection, for warmth, for someone who understands.
He leans down. Slow enough that I could pull away. Slow enough that this is a choice we're both making.
Our lips meet. Tentative at first. Testing.
Then his hand slides into my hair, fingers threading through to cup the back of my head, and mine fist in his shirt, pulling him closer.
The kiss deepens. His beard rasps against my skin, rough and real.
He tastes like coffee and something darker.
His other hand finds my waist, thumb pressing against my hip bone through my shirt.
Heat floods through me, three years of his grief and two years of my guilt seeking absolution in each other.
I arch into him and he makes a sound low in his throat, hungry and desperate.
Nothing about this feels tentative anymore.
Then I feel it. The wedding ring in his pocket. Emma's ring. Pressing against my hip where our bodies meet.
I pull back. Breathing hard. "We can't."
Rhys steps away immediately, hands dropping. "I know."
"It's too fast. Too much."
"I know," he says again. His voice is rough. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry." I touch my lips, still feeling the pressure of his. "Just not yet. Not when we're running on adrenaline and fear and proximity."
He nods. Runs a hand through his hair. "You should take the bedroom. I'll be out here if you need anything."
I need the space as much as he probably does. At the bedroom door, I pause. Look back.
Rhys stands by the wood stove, backlit by firelight, looking every inch the mountain man who built this refuge with his bare hands. But his eyes are all sheriff. All protector. All the man I'm starting to want despite every reason I shouldn't.
"Goodnight, Rhys."
"Goodnight, Harlow."
I close the door between us. Lean against it. Press my fingers to my mouth where I can still feel him.
Through the bedroom window, snow falls so thick I can't see the tree line. We could be the only two people left in the world out here.
The thought should terrify me.
It doesn't.