CALLAN
Chapter One
Seven years later
I’m at home here.
High up on the side of this mountain, in the very center of the woods, watching as the seasons change and the warmth of summer begins to fade into the coolness of fall. The wild animals are the most acutely aware of the shift, busying themselves getting ready for winter.
Ace, my dog, knows something’s in the air too. He’s more excitable than usual, rushing up and down during the day to burn up his energy. It’s as if he knows that in a few months we could be trapped inside during the heavy snowfall so he’s making the most of being outdoors.
I’ve lived up here in the mountains all my life, close to the town in Snowflake Falls but not a part of it.
My ancestors were trappers originally, who settled up here to make a living.
Then my great grandfather began farming Christmas trees as a side hustle when he realized that they grew well in the good soil.
That expanded into our main business supplying wood all year round and trees over the holidays.
It’s a full time job, and it’s just my brother Finn and I taking care of everything after Mom died and Dad’s accident.
My dad thinks Finn is the golden boy and I was always Mom’s favorite. So Finn and my Dad think they run the show, but I’m the one who’s out here in all weathers, putting the real work in.
In a way, my life is simple. Wake before dawn, feed Ace, put the coffee pot on the stove, get showered and dressed, and spend the rest of the time outside, breaking for lunch and finishing when the light starts to fade.
I like my own company but sometimes I wonder if I’m under-socialized when I go back into town.
People, especially women, look at me like I’m something to be scared of.
Maybe I am; I’m not sure where I fit in anymore.
Photography is my hobby. I love documenting the changing seasons.
There are clouds gathering in the distance; there’s been some talk that we could see the biggest storm in fifty years here this weekend if the front moves in from the east. The sun is starting to dip low in the sky, so I climb down from the side of the tree I’m perched on, whistle to Ace and start to head home.
I’m about ten minutes from the house when an unusual sound stops me in my tracks. Ace’s ears prick up immediately and his body swivels around in the direction of the noise. It sounds like singing. Or wailing. Whatever it is, it’s coming from our land.
Trespassers aren’t tolerated. I don’t have my shotgun - aggressive interlopers will take it as an incentive to get off our property - but I know I’m pretty intimidating with a scowl on my face.
Ace rushes off barking in the direction of the singing and I follow. Getting closer, there’s a small figure crouched close to the ground. It’s a dark-haired woman, bent almost double so I can’t see her face. She’s singing some sort of nursery rhyme, loudly and tunelessly. Maybe she’s lost her mind?
Ace runs towards her, but even though she must have heard him, she stays bent double. The singing stops.
“Hey boy. Did you come to help me?” She inclines her head towards him and he responds by snuffling and licking her face.
Ace is a working dog and it’s unusual for him to be this friendly to a stranger.
He sits down right beside her crouching form and slightly props her up with his body by leaning against her.
As I get closer it’s clear she’s crouched because she’s unable to get up. The irrigation system we use for the Christmas trees involves a complex system of interlocking tubes, buried in the ground. The woman seems to have both of her hands stuck in one.
At the sound of my approaching footsteps she tries to turn her head round, but because of the angle she’s at, I’m in her blind spot. There’s something familiar about her that I can’t put my finger on.
“Hey! Hey there. Nice dog by the way.” She laughs. “This is so embarrassing but I’ve got my hands stuck and I can’t get them out. Sorry if it’s your tube…I can’t see you.”
I know her voice.
“Why were you singing nursery rhymes?” A wave of tension washes over me and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
“Uh, well, I watched this show that said if you need help, don’t shout the word ‘help’ because people won’t come…
because they’re scared of getting involved in some drama that might hurt them.
So I shouted ‘fire’ for a while. And then I switched to nursery rhymes because I thought maybe singing would carry farther on the wind.
Singing isn’t my strong point.” She shrugs her shoulders as best she can with two hands trapped in the tube.
“It’s not.” I walk over to her side and she twists her body and head up so she can see me. She gives a little intake of breath that’s part gasp and part squeak.
It’s Paige.
The girl I still dream about at night. The girl who told me never to contact her again.
Who took my hopes and shattered them. There’s a small, hurt part of me that wants to walk away for a minute, leaving her with her ass in the air and her hands in a tube, just to torture her like she’s tortured me.
Instead I stand there, very still, gazing down at her. Her eyes are the same beautiful shade of amber brown that I’ve never seen on anyone else.
“Callan?” Her voice manages to be both high-pitched and serious at the same time.
“Correct. What are you doing on my property?” Ace twists his head to one side at the sudden gruffness of my voice. I usually only talk like that when he’s done something wrong.
“Look, Callan, I’m sorry but I can’t concentrate with my hands stuck in this stupid tube. Can you help me?” She turns her head back down so she’s not craning her neck. Maybe she feels ashamed for how she treated me.
“Why are your hands stuck in the tube?” I’m still not ready to release her yet. Another part of me is enjoying the way her curvy butt is angled upwards, with her thighs straining at the fabric of her tight jeans.
“I’m writing an article about how nature can help us relax.
A little green frog hopped in here, I wanted to take a photo of it.
So I reached in to get it, grabbed it with one hand, couldn’t get my hand out and then put the other hand in to try and release it…
” She shrugs again, not bothering to look up.
I want to laugh. But I resist and walk closer to her. “Do you still have hold of the frog?”
She snorts. “No. He’s long gone - hopped down the tube to a frog party. How are you going to get my hands out?”
“It’s fine. I have an ax here.”
Her whole body stiffens and she cranes her neck to look up at me again. “Excuse me? That sounds dangerous.”
“I’m kidding. We don’t need an ax.” I watch as her shoulders relax.
“I was worried there for a second. My hands are starting to go numb.” She turns her head back towards the ground.
I can’t bear to think of her in pain, so I crouch down to take a look.
It’s clear to me that there’s strong suction in the tube, which, combined with the water, has trapped her hands.
I squeeze the tube together as hard as I can to make it into an oval shape and, as she pulls back, her hands slide out.
She sits back on her butt, waggling her fingers.
She looks up at me and her cheeks flush pink. “Thanks, Callan.”
“You’re welcome. Why are you here?” It sounds brusque but my social small talk skills are rusty.
“I didn’t realize it was your land. I’m in Snowflake because I inherited my uncle’s cabin after he died.
I wanted to write an article about city burnout and getting back to nature, so I thought I’d stay here and soak up the atmosphere.
It’s so beautiful here in the fall.” She pets Ace, who is wagging his tail excitedly.
“You’re alone?”
She nods. “I can handle myself, I’m a Snowflake girl.”
“Well, if you’re okay I need to get back. And you should too, the light’s going.” I whistle for Ace, who gives Paige a last lick and then springs to my side.
“Thanks for your help Callan. And - I’m sorry.” She’s still sitting on the ground and I resist an urge to run over and help her up. I start to walk away and as I can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t sound angry or rude or weird, I don’t.
I sneak a glance back over my shoulder and she’s still looking at me. I raise my arm in a wave and make tracks to get home before darkness falls.
She’s back here in Snowflake Falls.
The one - the only - woman for me.
And she’s right next door.
Shit.