2. Elsie
two
Elsie
The bus window vibrates against my temple as we wind through mountain roads I never knew existed.
Each turn reveals vistas more breathtaking than the last—endless pines, jagged peaks touching clouds, valleys so deep they seem bottomless.
It's nothing like the concrete and glass landscape I've left behind.
I clutch my small suitcase closer. Twenty-one years old, and everything I value fits in this single bag. Is that sad or liberating? I'm still deciding.
"Last stop, Darkmore Mountain," the driver calls out.
My heart flutters knowing he'll be waiting there. Silas. A man I know only through words on a screen and one grainy photo that showed more mountain than face. A man who, somehow, understood exactly what I'd been seeking when I barely had words for it myself.
The other two passengers gather their things. They look like they belong here, with their weathered faces and practical clothing. I glance down at my city boots and wonder, not for the first time, if I've made a terrible mistake.
You need this, I remind myself. You need him.
Ten years ago, after my parents' divorce shattered our family into jagged pieces, I drifted from one shallow relationship to another.
Once I was older, I dated men who wanted a pretty doll but not the messy human beneath—men who couldn't understand why sometimes I just needed to feel small, safe, and taken care of.
The psychologist I saw briefly called it a "response to attachment trauma." I call it knowing what I need.
When I found Rocky Mountain Matches, it felt like stumbling into a clearing after being lost in dense woods.
The site didn't pretend to be anything other than what it was—a place for women seeking traditional roles with elements that went deeper.
A place where I could admit what I wanted: someone strong enough to carry both my burdens and me.
I need boundaries. Structure. A man who can be firm without being cruel. A Daddy. The word still makes me blush, even in the privacy of my thoughts.
Silas's profile had been different from the others.
No bragging, no suggestive innuendo. Just honest words about a solitary life with room for someone to share it.
His message response revealed a man who understood the dynamic without fetishizing it.
He seemed to crave the genuine connection, the trust, the exchange of power freely given and respectfully held.
The bus jerks to a stop, pulling me from my thoughts.
I stand unsteady, thank the driver, and step into the crisp mountain air.
The small wooden building labeled "Darkmore Station" stands alone at the edge of town, with a gravel lot containing exactly three vehicles—a delivery truck, an ancient station wagon, and a well-maintained forest green pickup that looks as solid and dependable as the mountains themselves.
A man leans against the pickup, and time suspends.
Silas is taller than I expected, his posture straight despite his relaxed stance.
Salt and pepper hair, shorter on the sides, slightly longer on top.
A neatly trimmed beard frames a face with lines that speak of both laughter and solitude.
He's wearing a simple flannel shirt, sleeves rolled to expose forearms corded with muscle.
But it's his eyes that catch me—steady, patient, watching me with an intensity that doesn't feel intrusive but... attentive. Like I'm something valuable he's afraid might slip away.
I take one step, then another, my suitcase suddenly feeling heavier.
"Elsie?" His voice is deep, the single word carrying a warmth that melts something frozen inside me.
"Yes." My own voice sounds small. Uncertain. "Silas?"
He nods, pushing away from the truck but not approaching further, letting me come to him at my own pace. This simple consideration nearly brings tears to my eyes.
When I reach him, I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. Up close, I can see the flecks of amber in his brown eyes, the slight nervousness behind his calm exterior.
"Welcome to Darkmore," he says. "Was the journey difficult?"
"No," I lie, not wanting to begin with complaints about the three bus transfers and the night spent in a station with fluorescent lights that never dimmed.
A slight smile tugs at his lips. "You're not a very convincing liar, little one."
The endearment slips out naturally, unforced, and warmth floods my cheeks. His eyes widen slightly as if surprised by his own words, but he doesn't take them back.
"It was long," I admit. "But I'm here now."
He reaches for my suitcase, his fingers brushing mine momentarily. HIs hand is callused but warm.
"That you are." He stows my bag in the truck and opens the passenger door. "The cabin's about forty minutes up the mountain. Are you hungry? We can stop in town first if you need something."
The consideration in his question, the lack of assumption, makes me feel seen in a way I haven't in years: Not as a pretty accessory or a potential conquest but as a person with needs and preferences.
"I'm okay," I say, climbing into the truck. "I’m eager to see where you live. Where we might live," I add, my voice catching.
Silas closes my door carefully and walks around to the driver's side. When he slides in beside me, the cab feels smaller, his presence filling the space without being suffocating.
"It's just a cabin," he says as he starts the engine. "Nothing fancy. But it's sturdy and warm, and there's a room ready for you. Your room," he emphasizes. "No expectations, Elsie. We have time to figure this out."
The knot of tension between my shoulders eases slightly. As we pull away from the station and begin to climb, I steal glances at his profile—the strong jaw, the steady hands on the wheel, the quiet confidence in his movements.
I came here seeking safety and structure, someone who could be the anchor I've never had. Looking at Silas now, I feel something unfamiliar stirring in my chest.
Hope.
"Tell me about your home," I say softly.
As Silas begins to speak about his mountain and the life he's built there, I listen to the care in his voice and think that maybe, just maybe, I've found what I've been searching for—the missing piece that might make me whole.