Chapter 6
GINNY
The SUV claws its way up the mountain road, tires grinding against packed snow. Wind scrapes over the windshield in long, whistling breaths.
When I was a kid, that sound used to freak me out. Especially when dad drove me up here on Halloween night.
“You handle these roads well,” he murmurs, voice rough from exhaustion.
I glance sideways.
The wounded man stirs from a trauma-induced sleep, eyes flickering open.
He's dazed but alive.
Relief ripples through me.
“Yeah,” I say, keeping my hands tight on the wheel. “I’ve been doing this since I was 12.”
“Mountain local? Billy Goat?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. A weak attempt at humor.
“That was my nickname,” I admit, surprising myself with a grin. “Still is to a few folks.”
The SUV creeps higher, engine straining.
I’m relieved when the cabin materializes—a shadow against the black sky.
“We’re here,” I say, opening the rear door for my dog. Charlie Boy leaps forward, He joins me as I unbuckle the stranger’s seat belt.
As I help him out, I enjoy the feeling of him leaning against me, his breath warm against my cheek.
I fumble for the key, then shove it into the lock, As soon as I enter, I flick the wall switch.
Nothing.
“Storm must’ve tripped the generator,” I say, helping him to the sofa. “I’ll pop over to the generator shed. Won’t be a minute.”
I cross over to the shed, praying it’s operational. I have my answer when the switch flips with a metallic click. A low rumble stirs to life.
“I’m back!’ I announce, flying through the front door. But as soon as I snap on the lights, I hear a loud crash.
“OMG!” A raccoon, flour-encrusted white from muzzle to tail. stands on the kitchen counter, counter. His beady black eyes glow under the bulb. For a breath, it looks like a spirit caught in headlights.
“Charlie Boy!
With a mighty bark, my dog pounces, chasing the raccoon through a half-latched window.
"Did you arrange this charming welcome committee?"
“Of course I did,” I deadpan.
We both laugh.
“I’ll use the radio to call the station. See how fast they can send help.”
But when I pick up the handset and punch in the familiar channel for dispatch, I’m met with silence.*
"No worries. I have a plan B."
I shove my hand into my parka and pull out a small, hard-plastic square.
"What is that?" he asks.
"A PLB. Personal Locator Beacon. Like the locator on your device’s What's App, but stronger. It can send a one-way distress signal straight to the satellites.”
I flip open the cover and press the activation button. A small red light blinks steady and bright.
Then I force the window open just wide enough to attach the device to the outer windowsill, wedging it against the frame.
"Mission accomplished!" I say, I slamming the window shut. As I do, I see the snowfall picking up speed.
But I paste a bright smile on my face as I turn to him. “Looks like you're stuck with me for now. I’ll exmine you for injuries now,” I say, moving forward.
Seeing the expression in his eyes, I smile. “No worries. I’m a trained emergency medic. But I suppose I should ask your name first.”
“Dylan.”
“I’m Ginny.”
I kneel beside him, tugging at the zipper of his parka. Underneath, he sports an expensive but torn leather jacket, blood crusted at the collar. Not your average motorcyclist.
“You’re bleeding,” I tell him. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”
I ease the jacket off him, careful not to pull too hard where the leather’s stuck to dried blood.
Beneath it, he wears a white shirt, half the buttons gone. I remove that too.
Dylan flinches when the air hits his skin.
I check the shallow cuts on his chest—nothing deep. He’s pale, though, too pale.
“Remember hitting your head?”
He shakes his head. "Not sure. “
“Any dizziness? Blurred vision?”
“At first. But not now.”
“Still cold as hell in here. Let me light a fire.”
I cross the room to the fireplace, kneel, and feed it tinder from the kindling box. The flame catches fast.
In a moment, the scent of burning slogs floods the cabin.
When I turn back, Dylan’s eyes are wide open.
Clearer now. Icy blue and too sharp for someone I earlier feared was at death's door.
Everything about him is sharp. The lines of his body. His gorgeous, chiseled face.
“You’re not from these parts,” I say.
“New York.” His voice barely rises over the crackle of the fire.
Figures. City man on a mountain road.
“Alright, New York,” I say, taking a folded blanket from the storage closet and tucking it carefully around his broad shoulders.
“I’m going to give you a bath. Then get that blood off you. You okay with that?”
He nods. “You run this place alone?”
“Since my dad died,” I say, feeling the still raw pang of his loss. “now I'm going to heat the water. Charlie Boy, watch him!”
My dog leaps up to the sofa, snuggling up against the big man.
I head to the stove, set the kettle on, then start filling pots for the old tin tub tucked beside the bathroom wall.
It takes forever, but eventually water hisses against the hot metal.
Tonight, survival means heat, water, and keeping him awake.