Chapter 2 – Ezra
She's shaking.
Not the small tremor of someone caught off-guard by cold. The full-body kind that comes when the body starts shutting down non-essential systems to keep the core warm. Her lips are pale, almost bloodless. Her cheeks are flushed too bright, red flags against skin gone waxy.
I scan her quickly, cataloging: wet jeans frozen stiff at the hems, soaked boots, gloves dark with moisture. She's been out here longer than she should have been.
The dog sits at my feet, panting and wagging like this is all a grand adventure. He's fine. Came straight to my cabin when he bolted, probably following the scent of smoke or the chickens in the coop out back. Found him nosing around the woodpile not ten minutes before I heard her calling.
I'd already grabbed his leash when I went looking for whoever was stupid enough to be out here in this.
Her eyes are unfocused, glassy. Shock, maybe. Or the early edge of hypothermia.
Inside, the air is warm and thick with the smell of woodsmoke and the food I left on the stove. The fire crackles in the hearth, flames dancing behind the blackened grate.
She stops just inside the door, swaying again, and I step around her to block the draft still seeping in through the edges of the frame.
"Boots off," I say.
She blinks at me, then looks down at her feet like she's surprised to find boots there. Her hands move slowly, clumsily, fumbling with the laces.
I kneel and do it for her.
Her breath catches, but she doesn't pull away. I unlace the boots quickly, my fingers efficient despite their size, and ease them off her feet. Her socks are soaked through, clinging to her skin, and I can feel the cold radiating off her even through the wet fabric.
"Socks too," I say, glancing up at her.
Her face is pink now, embarrassment cutting through the shock. She peels them off, fingers shaking, and I take them from her without comment, tossing them near the hearth where they'll dry.
"You should sit down," I tell her, nodding toward the chair closest to the stove.
She moves toward it, slow and unsteady, and lowers herself into the seat. Bolt follows and sits at her feet, his tail thumping against the floor.
I straighten and move to the stove, pulling the kettle off the heat and pouring tea into a mug. I add a spoonful of honey, stir it once, and bring it to her.
"Drink."
She takes the mug with both hands, wrapping her fingers around the warmth, and lifts it to her lips. She sips, winces at the heat, then sips again.
I step back and cross my arms, watching her.
The shaking is already easing. Not gone, but less violent. Her shoulders are still hunched, her body curled in on itself, but the mug seems to ground her. She takes another sip, then another, and some of the tension starts to drain from her frame..
"I’m Ezra, by the way," I tell her, keeping my voice low and even.
Behind me, I hear the soft creak of floorboards, and I turn to see Kinsley standing in the doorway to her room, her book tucked under one arm. She's wearing the wool socks I made her put on this morning, and her dark hair is tangled around her face.
She's staring at the woman.
"Dad?" Her voice is quiet, tentative.
"It's alright," I say. "She got lost in the storm. She's staying until it passes."
Kinsley's eyes flick to me, then back to her. She doesn't move closer, but she doesn't retreat either. Just watches, cautious and curious in equal measure.
She lowers the mug and looks at Kinsley, and something in her expression softens.
"Hi," she says, her voice still a little shaky but warm. Genuine.
Kinsley doesn't answer, but her grip on the book loosens slightly.
She doesn't push. She just holds Kinsley's gaze for a moment, then looks back down at her mug, giving the kid space.
Kinsley takes a step into the room.
I glance at my daughter, and she looks up at me, her expression unreadable. I nod once, permission, and she moves closer, skirting the edge of the room until she's standing near the table, still keeping distance but close enough to see.
The woman notices. I can tell by the way her gaze flicks toward Kinsley, just for a second, before returning to her mug.
"What's your name?" Kinsley asks suddenly.
She looks up, surprised. "Wendy."
"I'm Kinsley."
"That's a pretty name."
Kinsley's cheeks flush, and she looks down at her book, but I catch the small, pleased smile tugging at her mouth.
Wendy takes another sip of her tea, then sets the mug on the floor beside her chair. She leans forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees, and looks at Kinsley again.
"What are you reading?"
Kinsley hesitates, then holds up the book. It's one of the nature guides I picked up in town last fall, one about wildflowers and medicinal plants.
"That's a good one," Wendy says. "I used to teach kids about plants. Not out here, though. In a classroom."
Kinsley's eyes widen slightly. "You're a teacher?"
"I was. Now I'm more of a tutor. One-on-one stuff, mostly."
I file that away. Someone who knows how to work with kids.
Kinsley shifts her weight, her curiosity clearly winning over her caution. "What did you teach?"
"Everything, really. Reading, math, science. But I liked science best. Especially the hands-on stuff—experiments, nature walks, that kind of thing."
Kinsley nods, her expression thoughtful, and I realize she's already decided Wendy is safe.
It doesn't happen often.
Wendy reaches down and scratches Bolt behind the ears, and the dog leans into her hand, tail wagging lazily. She smiles softly and the expression transforms her face.
I look away and move to the stove, checking the beef stew. It's ready, thick and hot, and I ladle some into a bowl, grab a spoon, and bring it to Wendy.
"Eat," I say, handing it to her.
She takes it, her fingers brushing mine briefly, and looks up at me. Her eyes are green, I notice. Bright and clear now that the shock is fading.
"Thank you," she says quietly.
I nod and step back, putting space between us again.
Kinsley moves to the table and sits, opening her book but not really looking at it. She's watching Wendy instead, stealing glances when she thinks I'm not paying attention.
Wendy eats slowly, methodically, and the color starts coming back into her face. The shaking has stopped entirely now.
I lean against the counter, arms crossed, and watch her without meaning to.
"How long do storms like this usually last?" Wendy asks, glancing toward the window. The glass is fogged over, snow piling against the panes.
"Depends," I say. "Could be hours. Could be a day or more."
She nods, taking it in without panic. "I left my car at the trailhead. My phone's in it."
"You won't be getting back to it tonight."
"I figured." She takes another bite of stew, chews thoughtfully. "I'm sorry for the trouble."
"It's not trouble."
She looks at me, searching my face like she's trying to decide if I mean it.
I do.
"You can take the couch," I add. "Kinsley and I will stay in our rooms. Storm should pass by morning, hopefully. I'll walk you back to your car when it's safe."
"Thank you," she says again, and this time her voice is steadier.
Kinsley looks up from her book. "Do you want to see my room?"
The question surprises me. Kinsley doesn't invite people into her space. Ever.
Wendy smiles. "I'd love to."
Kinsley hops down from the table and gestures for Wendy to follow. Wendy sets the bowl aside, stands carefully, and follows Kinsley toward the back of the cabin.
I watch them go.