Stranded with the Mountain Man

Chapter 1 – Carrie

I press my forehead against the steering wheel, taking one last deep breath before facing my new reality.

The scent of pine and mountain air filters through the cracked window of my car, a welcome change from the city's exhaust-filled atmosphere.

My fingers drum nervously on the wheel as I stare at the cabin—my cabin now—silhouetted against the vast Rosewood Valley sky.

"You can do this, Carrie," I whisper to myself, the words hanging in the quiet car.

Aunt Mabel's cabin sits before me, more weathered than I remembered from my childhood visits.

The wooden porch sags slightly in the middle, and several shingles are missing from the roof.

But beneath the wear, I can see the bones of something beautiful—something that could become the art retreat I've been dreaming of creating.

I unfold my body from the driver's seat, my joints stiff from the long drive.

The mountain air hits my lungs, crisp and pure, making me dizzy with its richness.

I stretch, my oversized sweater riding up slightly over my jeans, and I instinctively tug it back down, a habit born from years of self-consciousness about my curves.

The isolation hits me immediately. The nearest cabin is a good few yards away, barely visible through the thick stand of pines.

Beyond that, there's nothing but mountains and sky, stretching endlessly in every direction.

The silence is deafening after years of city living—no traffic noise, no neighbors arguing through paper-thin walls, just the whisper of wind through the trees and the occasional bird call.

"Welcome home," I murmur, though the words feel foreign on my tongue. Is this home now? Can it be?

I pop the trunk and start unloading my supplies—easels, canvases, paints, and brushes, alongside boxes of clothes and personal items.

I've packed my entire life into this car, leaving nothing behind but a failed attempt at making it as an artist in Seattle. At twenty-five, starting over wasn't exactly in my near future plans, but here I am, hauling my dreams up a mountain.

After unlocking the cabin door, I push it open with my hip, arms loaded with supplies.

Dust motes dance in the shafts of afternoon sunlight streaming through the grimy windows.

The interior is exactly as Aunt Mabel left it, frozen in time—rustic furniture draped in sheets, old-fashioned kitchen with avocado-green appliances, and a stone fireplace dominating the main wall.

Despite the dust and cobwebs, it feels like Aunt Mabel could walk through the door at any moment, offering me hot chocolate and asking about my latest painting.

The memory brings a lump to my throat. She was the only one who ever truly believed in my art, who saw something in my work that was worth nurturing.

I set down my boxes and walk to the center of the main room, turning slowly to take it all in. The cabin needs work—a lot of work—but I can see its potential. With fresh paint, new curtains, and some repairs, it could become a sanctuary for artists seeking inspiration in nature's beauty.

"This is going to work," I tell myself firmly, though the uncertainty in my voice betrays me.

I make several more trips to the car, each one more exhausting than the last. By the fourth trip, my hair is sticking to my forehead, and my arms feel like overcooked noodles. I'm hauling a particularly awkward box of art supplies when I feel eyes on me.

I look up, startled, and nearly drop the box.

A man stands at the edge of my property, watching me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle.

He's tall—intimidatingly so—with broad shoulders that stretch the fabric of his flannel shirt.

His dark hair is short and slightly disheveled, contrasting with the long, thick beard that covers much of his face.

But it's his eyes that capture me—deep-set and penetrating, the color of steel under storm clouds.

His presence is undeniably powerful, a force of nature against the backdrop of pines and mountains. He looks like he belongs here, rugged and untamed, while I feel like an intruder in pressed jeans and a sweater still carrying the scent of the city.

I freeze, unsure whether to acknowledge him or continue with my task. The box in my arms grows heavier by the second.

He makes the decision for me, striding toward me with purpose, his movements fluid despite his size. As he approaches, I notice the lines around his eyes—he's older than I initially thought, maybe early forties. The age difference only adds to his commanding presence.

"You shouldn't be carrying that by yourself," he says, his voice deep and rough, like gravel underfoot. He doesn't offer it as a suggestion but as a statement of fact.

I bristle slightly at his tone. "I'm managing just fine," I reply, though my trembling arms betray me.

His eyebrow raises almost imperceptibly. Without asking permission, he reaches for the box, his calloused hands brushing against mine. The brief contact sends an unexpected jolt through me, and I relinquish the box more out of surprise than compliance.

"Where do you want it?" he asks, holding the heavy container as if it weighs nothing.

"Inside. By the fireplace is fine," I say, following him up the porch steps.

He navigates the creaking floorboards with familiar ease, setting the box down with surprising gentleness.

Then he turns to face me, filling the small space of the cabin with his presence.

I'm suddenly aware of how dusty and disheveled I must look, and I resist the urge to smooth my hair or adjust my sweater.

"You're Mabel's niece," he states. Not a question.

"Yes. Carrie. Carrie Marshall." I extend my hand automatically, a city habit.

He looks at it for a moment before taking it. His palm is rough against mine, warm and engulfing. "Hugh Blackwood. I live in the cabin down the way."

"Nice to meet you," I say, though I'm not entirely sure if it is. There's something unsettling about him, something that makes my heart beat a little faster. "Have you lived here long?"

"All my life." His response is clipped, efficient.

An awkward silence falls between us. Hugh's gaze travels around the cabin, assessing, and I feel a strange urge to defend my inheritance.

"I know it needs work," I say, breaking the silence. "I'm planning to turn it into an art retreat. A place where artists can come to find inspiration, learn new techniques, maybe sell their work to tourists."

His expression doesn't change, but something in his eyes hardens. "Not many tourists up here. Especially in winter."

"Well, spring and summer then," I counter, unwilling to have my dream dismissed so easily. "The hiking trails and lake views alone would be worth painting."

He makes a noncommittal sound, then moves toward the door. "You've got a broken gutter on the east side. And that roof won't last another winter without repairs."

I blink at the abrupt change of subject. "Oh. Thank you for letting me know."

"Just being practical," he says, his hand on the doorknob. "You should get the rest of your things inside. Storm's coming tonight."

I glance out the window at the cloudless blue sky. "It looks clear to me."

A ghost of a smile—the first I've seen—flickers across his lips. "You'll learn to read the air up here. Pressure's dropping."

Before I can respond, he's gone, the door closing firmly behind him. I watch through the window as he strides back toward his cabin, his figure stark against the landscape.

There's a little girl waiting for him at the edge of the trees—I hadn't noticed her before. She can't be more than six or seven, with dark hair pulled into a messy ponytail. His daughter, I assume. He says something to her, and she skips ahead of him, disappearing into the woods.

I stand there for a moment, processing the encounter. Hugh Blackwood is exactly the kind of person I expected to find in a remote mountain community—gruff, direct, a little intimidating.

Yet there was something in his manner, a careful gentleness beneath the rough exterior, that catches me off guard.

Shaking off the thought, I return to the task at hand. There's still much to unload, and apparently a storm to prepare for. As I head back to my car, I can't help but glance toward Hugh's cabin, now barely visible through the trees.

For better or worse, he's my closest neighbor in this new life I'm trying to build. I just hope his obvious distaste for my retreat plans doesn't set the tone for my future in Rosewood Valley Mountains.

The wind picks up as I grab another box, and I notice dark clouds gathering on the distant horizon. Maybe Hugh knows what he's talking about after all.

With renewed urgency, I continue unloading my car, the weight of uncertainty and new beginnings heavy on my shoulders. But beneath that weight is a flicker of something else—a spark of curiosity about the older man with storm-gray eyes and a hidden gentleness in his rough hands.