Chapter 2 – Hugh
The rain starts as a whisper against the cabin roof, soft and unassuming. I've been sitting in my worn leather chair for the past hour, whittling a small wooden horse while Aria sits cross-legged on the braided rug, her coloring books spread around her like fallen leaves.
"Is it going to be a bad storm, daddy?" she asks, looking up from her division problems, pencil twirling between her small fingers.
"Looks that way," I answer, my voice gruff even to my own ears. I set aside the half-finished horse and move to the window, pulling back the faded curtain. Dark clouds have swallowed the mountains. The rain is coming down harder now, drumming against the glass.
I feel a familiar tightness in my chest—not worry exactly, but awareness.
"We might lose power tonight," I tell Aria, my eyes still on the darkening sky.
She nods solemnly, returning to her colored pencils. At seven years old, she's already learned to take mountain warnings seriously. That's more than I can say for our new neighbor.
As if summoned by my thoughts, movement catches my eye. Through the curtain of rain, I can make out a figure darting around Mabel's old cabin. Carrie. She's trying to secure a tarp over something on her porch, fighting against the wind that keeps tearing it from her grasp.
"Foolish woman," I mutter. The storm hasn't even hit its stride yet, and she's out there like it's a summer drizzle.
A crack of thunder shakes the cabin, making the windows rattle. Aria jumps, then pretends she didn't.
"Just thunder," I reassure her, my voice softer than usual. "Keep playing."
I step onto the covered porch, the cold air biting through my flannel shirt. The wind has picked up considerably, bending the pines and sending debris skittering across the ground. The rain is coming sideways now, stinging my face as I look toward Mabel's cabin.
Carrie's still outside, her blonde hair plastered to her face as she struggles with the tarp. I'm about to turn away—her poor planning isn't my problem—when I hear it: the unmistakable groan of wood giving way.
A massive branch from the old pine beside her cabin, weakened by years of rot, snaps with a sound like a gunshot. It plummets downward, crashing into the roof with enough force to shake the entire structure. Even from here, I can see the jagged hole it tears in the aging shingles.
"Damn it." The curse escapes before I can stop it.
Behind me, the door creaks open. "What happened?" Aria asks, her small face appearing.
"Nothing you need to worry about, baby. Stay inside, lock the door. I'll be back soon." My tone leaves no room for argument.
She nods, wide-eyed but obedient.
I grab my heavy coat from the hook by the door and pull it on, ducking my head against the rain as I stride toward Mabel's cabin.
Each step fills me with irritation. This is exactly what I expected from a city woman playing at mountain life.
Now I'm trudging through a storm because she couldn't be bothered to listen to my warning.
By the time I reach her, I'm soaked through. Carrie stands frozen in the middle of her yard, staring up at the damage. Rain streams down her face, and her thin sweater clings to her curves, completely inadequate for the weather.
"I told you a storm was coming," I say by way of greeting, having to raise my voice over the wind.
She whips around, startled by my appearance. For a moment, she looks relieved to see me, but then her expression hardens. "I was trying to secure my supplies."
"Well, now you've got bigger problems." I gesture toward the roof, where water is already pouring through the hole, undoubtedly soaking everything inside. "That branch took out part of your support beam. Whole section could collapse."
Her face pales. "But... my things..."
"You can't stay here tonight." My words are flat, factual. "It's not safe."
Another crack of thunder punctuates my statement, making her jump. The rain is coming down even harder now, turning the ground to mud beneath our feet.
"I don't have anywhere else to go," she says, and I catch the slight tremor in her voice. She's trying to sound tough, but I can see the panic edging in.
I exhale heavily, already regretting the words before they leave my mouth. "Get what you need for the night. You can stay at my place."
Her eyes widen in surprise. "I couldn't impose—"
"It's not an imposition, it's common sense." My patience is wearing thin. "You've got five minutes to grab your things. I'm not standing out here all night."
She opens her mouth as if to argue, then closes it again, nodding stiffly. "Fine. Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Just hurry up."
She darts inside the cabin, and I remain on the porch, rain dripping from my beard as I survey the damage.
Carrie emerges five minutes later with a small duffle bag and a plastic-wrapped canvas under her arm. Her hair is pulled back in a wet ponytail, and she's added a jacket that's doing little to keep her dry.
"That's all you're bringing?" I ask, eyeing the canvas.
"It's a commission I'm working on. I can't let it get water damaged." There's a certain defensiveness in her tone that I recognize.
I don't respond, just turn and start walking back toward my cabin. I don't check if she's following; the squelching footsteps behind me are confirmation enough.
The wind howls around us, driving the rain into our faces and making conversation impossible.
Not that I'd be interested in small talk anyway.
The sooner we get to my cabin, the sooner I can get back to my evening with Aria, pretending that the outside world—and irritating, unprepared city women—don't exist.
Halfway back, I hear a muffled curse and the sound of slipping feet. I turn to see Carrie regaining her balance, one hand braced against a tree trunk, mud splattered up her jeans.
"The ground gets slick when it's wet," I say unnecessarily.
"Really? I had no idea," she retorts, sarcasm cutting through the rain.
I feel the unexpected urge to smile at her spirit, but I suppress it. "Watch your step. We're almost there."
We continue in silence, the distance between my cabin and hers feeling much longer in the storm. When we finally reach the porch, I hold the door open, letting her enter first. Aria looks up from her drawing, eyes widening at the sight of our unexpected guest.
"This is Carrie," I tell her, keeping my voice neutral. "She's staying with us tonight because of the storm."
Aria's face brightens immediately. "Like a sleepover?"
"No," I say at the same time Carrie says, "Sort of."
Our eyes meet briefly, and I look away first, uncomfortable with the silent exchange.
"You're both soaking wet," Aria observes, stating the obvious in that direct way children have.
"Bathroom's down the hall," I tell Carrie, moving to stoke the fire. "First door on the right. There are towels in the cabinet."
She nods, clutching her duffel bag like a shield. "Thank you."
"Take these." I grab a flannel shirt and a pair of sweatpants from the clean laundry basket near the sofa.
Carrie accepts them with obvious reluctance, disappearing down the hall. As soon as the bathroom door closes, Aria bounces up from her spot on the floor.
"Is she your friend?" she whispers loudly, eyes bright with curiosity.
"No," I answer firmly. "She's the neighbor staying in Mabel's cabin. The storm damaged her roof, so she's staying here tonight. Just tonight."
Aria looks like she wants to ask more questions, but thankfully falls silent when the bathroom door opens. Carrie emerges looking like a different person. Her face is scrubbed clean, her damp hair falling around her shoulders.
Something uncomfortable twists in my chest, and I look away, busying myself with the fire.
"Thank you for the clothes," she says quietly.
I grunt in acknowledgment, not trusting myself to look at her again. "You hungry?" I ask instead, addressing the question to the fireplace.
"A little," she admits.
"Dad makes the best grilled cheese," Aria pipes up, apparently deciding that Carrie is worth talking to.
"I'm sure he does," Carrie responds with a gentleness that makes me glance her way again.
She's kneeling beside Aria now, looking at the coloring books spread on the floor. "Oh, these are beautiful! I was never very good at staying inside the lines when I was your age."
"I can show you how I do it!" Aria offers eagerly.
I move to the kitchen, pulling out bread and cheese, listening to their conversation with half an ear. Aria is explaining her strategy with enthusiasm, and Carrie is responding with what sounds like genuine interest.
The domesticity of the scene is jarring. For six years, it's been just Aria and me in this cabin. No visitors, no interruptions to our routine. Now there's a woman sitting by my fire, wearing my clothes, talking to Aria as if she belongs here.
She doesn't.
I focus on making dinner, keeping my back to them. The storm continues to rage outside, rain beating against the windows like it's trying to get in. Occasionally, the cabin creaks and groans, but the sound is familiar, comforting.
"Dinner," I announce, setting plates on the small wooden table.
They join me, Aria chattering about her day while Carrie listens attentively. I remain silent, watching her from the corner of my eye. She seems relaxed now, the initial tension in her shoulders easing as she responds to Aria's questions.
"Do you really paint pictures?" Aria asks, clearly impressed.
"I do," Carrie nods. "That's why I came to Rosewood Valley. To paint and maybe teach others how to paint too."
"Like a teacher?"
"Sort of, yes."
I bite back a comment about the impracticality of her plan. There's no point in discussing it now, not with Aria present. Instead, I focus on my food, trying to ignore the way Carrie's presence seems to fill the small cabin, making it feel crowded.
After dinner, Aria helps clear the dishes—a routine we established long ago. Carrie tries to assist, but I wave her off.
"You can take the couch," I tell her, nodding toward the worn leather sofa. "I'll get you some blankets."
She looks like she wants to argue, to insist she can help, but something in my expression must discourage her. Instead, she moves to the living room, settling awkwardly at the edge of the sofa.
I fetch extra bedding from the hall closet, hyper-aware of her presence in my space. When I return, she's staring into the fire, lost in thought. The flames cast a warm glow across her features, softening them, highlighting the gentle curve of her cheek and the fullness of her lower lip.
I clear my throat, and she looks up, startled. "Here," I say, thrusting the blankets toward her.
"Thank you," she says, taking them. "I know you didn't have to help me."
Her sincerity makes me uncomfortable. "It's what anyone would do," I reply gruffly.
I hold her gaze longer than I should, caught in the strange intensity of the moment. "You should get some rest," I finally say, stepping back. "Storm might let up by morning. We can check your cabin then."
She nods, arranging the blankets on the couch. "Goodnight, Hugh."
"Night," I mutter, retreating to help Aria with her bedtime routine.