Chapter Six
Ava
I can always tell when a storm is going to be bad.
Not from the weather alerts, or Tom’s ranger reports, or even the green-black color the clouds get when they’re ready to dump a foot of snow on us in an hour.
No.
I can tell because the cabin walls start… talking.
Not literally, thank God, because I’d have bigger problems than my heating bill. But the wood pops and groans like an old man waking from a nap, and the floorboards sigh in that resigned, “welp, here we go again,” way that only buildings in mountain towns ever truly master.
This morning, the cabin is practically holding a full conversation.
By noon, the wind has picked up to a roar. By two, the snow is coming down sideways, thick enough to erase the world beyond my front porch. By three, the power grid is groaning under the strain of the entire town cranking their heaters up to “volcanic.”
Violet and I spend the afternoon in a sort of cozy chaos—she’s doing homework at the kitchen table, and I’m trying to get ahead on meal prepping so I won’t have to cook if the power goes out. Again.
I’ve just managed to coax our toaster into not burning the bread when a loud, echoing bang shakes the window.
“What was that?” Violet asks, eyes snapping up.
“Probably a tree branch,” I lie.
Ten seconds later my phone buzzes with a town alert.
Lodge maintenance update: Pipe burst on east side. Temporary closures. Water pressure fluctuating. Electric load unstable. Please conserve power if possible.
I drag my hands down my face. “Great.”
Violet raises a brow. “Want me to tell the power grid to breathe through its feelings?”
“Tell it to meditate. Manifest stability.”
She snorts. “Maybe write affirmations.”
Before I can add a sarcastic follow-up, the heater makes a noise I only ever hear in horror movies—like a dying mechanical whale—and then blows out a puff of sad, cold air.
The vents go quiet.
Too quiet.
“Oh no,” I whisper. “Oh, absolutely not. You are not doing this to me right now.”
I kneel beside the unit, checking breakers, switches, anything that looks like it might be persuaded with love or threats. Nothing. The heat is dead. Fully. Completely. Beyond resuscitation.
Violet’s footsteps pad over. “Mom…?”
Her voice is too small.
Too scared.
And fear for myself is one thing—but fear for her? That’s the kind that hits me in the sternum.
“Okay,” I say, straightening. “We stay calm.”
My breath fogs in the air.
Inside the house.
Not a good sign.
“How cold is it supposed to get tonight?” she asks.
I don’t answer. She knows I won’t sugarcoat it anyway.
Instead, I cross to the counter, pull her insulin pens from the basket, and check them. They’re still cool, still viable—but insulin can’t freeze. If the cabin drops low enough…
A pulse of panic streaks through me.
“Grab your jacket,” I say. “We’re going to try the backup space heater.”
Twenty minutes later, I’ve confirmed something I already suspected:
The backup space heater is dead, the portable generator hasn’t been functional since before Violet was born, and the storm has knocked out half the town’s HVAC systems.
A bead of sweat rolls down my spine despite the cold.
What do I do? Where do I take her? Who still has heat?
I pull out my phone and text the emergency crew chat.
Anyone still have working heat? Insulin needs stable temps.
The replies come quickly.
Kelsey: Mine flickered out twenty minutes ago.
Dana: Same here. Bundling the kids in sleeping bags.
Rachel: Space heaters keeping us warm, but barely.
And then:
Tom (Ranger Station): Generator here, but bunk space is low and we’ve already got three stranded tourists. Roads too iced to get to you. Stay put for now.
I inhale through my nose, slow and steady, even as the cold creeps deeper into the room.
Violet stands by the table, arms wrapped around herself, trying to look calm. It kills me a little.
Think, Ava. Think.
Another message pops up.
Mrs. Calder: If you get desperate, the cabin on North Ridge still has power. The new guy’s place. He’s got a generator.
My stomach drops to my toes.
Of course.
Of all the people in Silver Ridge, the one cabin still running on full power belongs to the only man alive who manages to be both infuriating and magnetic in equal measure.
The man who didn’t want to be saved.
The man who looked at me in the clinic like he hated that I’d dragged him out of the snow.
Jax.
Jax Something-I-Don’t-Know-But-I-Know-It’s-Not-Really-“Taylor.”
I stare at the message like I can will another option into existence.
Another buzz.
Rachel: Yeah, he’s got a generator. Saw the porch light earlier. Lucky bastard.
Kelsey: Heard he installed it himself. Quiet thing. State-of-the-art.
Tom: If you can get up there safely, that’s your best bet.
I close my eyes, just for a heartbeat. I can already imagine the look on his face.
That guarded freeze. That grim line of his mouth. The grief sharp enough to cut through bone.
I don’t want to knock on his door. I don’t want to need anything from him.
Not after the way he looked at me. Not after the way he seemed almost angry I’d kept him breathing.
But Violet’s insulin…
I turn. She’s watching me, trying so hard not to show how cold she is. Her fingers are already pink, her shoulders trembling despite her hoodie and jacket.
Decision made.
“Sweetheart,” I say gently, grabbing the emergency bag I never wanted to need again. “We’re going out.”
Her eyes widen. “Where?”
“Up North Ridge.”
Understanding hits her immediately—a flicker of dread followed by the tiniest glimmer of hope.
“The avalanche guy?” she asks.
I curse under my breath. “Yes.”
“You don’t like him.”
“No,” I admit. “But his cabin has heat.”
“And we don’t.”
“Correct.”
“And my insulin—”
“—needs the kind of temperature that doesn’t involve frostbite.” I zip up our bag and sling it over my shoulder. “We’re going.”
The wind shrieks against the windows as if it wants to argue.
I tighten Violet’s scarf, brush a curl from her face, and try to pretend I’m not silently begging the universe to cut us a break.
Just one.
“Mom?” she asks softly. “Is it safe?”
“As long as we take it slow,” I promise. “And stick to the plowed path.”
She bites her lip. “Do you think he’ll let us in?”
I don’t know. I hate that I don’t know.
“He will,” I say, because she needs me to be certain even when I’m not. “He’s grumpy, not heartless.”
Violet grabs her backpack. “Okay.”
We step outside. The cold slams into us, vicious and immediate, cutting straight through fabric and muscle. Snow blows so thick the porch disappears behind us after three steps.
I grip Violet’s hand tightly.
“Ready?” I ask.
She nods.
And somewhere between the wind and my own reluctant frustration, a single thought pulses through me:
Please be home. Please open the door. Please don’t be the man you were yesterday.
I don’t pray often.
But for this?
I swear under my breath.
“Of all the cabins in Silver Ridge,” I mutter into the storm, “we have to go to his.”
Violet snorts. “Maybe he won’t remember you.”
“Oh, he’ll remember,” I say grimly. “I dragged him out of an avalanche. I think that sticks with people.”
She laughs, just a little.
And we keep walking toward the cabin with the only generator in miles.
The cabin belonging to a man I should never need.
A man I’m about to ask for help. A man who looked at me like he wished he were still buried in the snow.
I swear again, louder this time, letting the wind steal the word away before Violet can hear it.
“Jax,” I mutter bitterly. “This better be worth it.”