Chapter Ten – Sarah
Sarah glanced around the small office, which felt even smaller since Michael had entered, stomping snow from his boots.
But his arrival had certainly turned up the heat!
A good thing, since the small space heater in the corner of the office wasn’t man enough for the job of warding off the cold from the snowstorm outside.
As the office shook from a particularly strong gust of wind, the lights flickered, and the small heater finally gave up.
“Damn.” Michael kneeled beside the ancient space heater, frowning as he tapped its metal casing. The light on the front blinked once more, then died completely.
“That’s it,” he said, his voice calm despite the rapidly dropping temperature. “It’ll be warmer in the other hut with the wood stove.” He stood, brushing off his knees as he looked at her. “Are you okay to walk? It’s not far. Just follow me and stick close.”
Sarah nodded, putting her trust in Michael as he gathered what they’d need. No wasted actions, no panic, just quiet competence that made her feel strangely safe despite the worsening storm.
She tucked her tablet and proofs into her messenger bag, zipping it closed with fingers already stiffening from the cold. Her coat came next, the zipper catching halfway up until she tugged it firmly into place.
Michael rummaged in a drawer and pulled out what looked like metal cleats. “Yaktrax,” he explained, holding them out. “They’ll give you better traction in the snow.”
She slipped them over her boots, the metal coils biting into the rubber soles. Michael handed her something else—a small packet that felt warm against her palm.
“Hand warmer,” he said. “Here, tuck this into your glove.”
She juggled her bag and the packet, trying to work it into her glove without dropping everything. Michael watched her struggle for a moment, then held out his hand.
“May I?”
The question, so simple and respectful, caught her off guard. How many times had Liam simply grabbed her things, her arm, her attention—never asking, just taking?
She nodded, a shiver running through her that had nothing to do with the cold. Michael took the hand warmer and gently slid it inside her glove, his fingers brushing against her wrist. The warmth spread instantly, but it was nothing compared to the heat that bloomed where his skin had touched hers.
“Thanks,” she croaked, her voice suddenly hoarse.
He nodded and smiled, then made a final check of the office. Satisfied, he rested his hand on the door handle.
“Ready?”
She nodded again, clutching her bag to her chest like a shield.
He pushed the door open, and the cold rushed in like a living thing, hungry and fierce. Michael stepped out into the swirling whiteness, and she followed, waiting as he secured the door behind them.
“Step where I step, okay?” he called over his shoulder, his voice muffled by the wind.
“Okay,” she called back, but the snow seemed to swallow her voice.
She followed close behind him, watching his boots break trail through the fresh powder.
The world had vanished into a blur of white, disorienting and endless, but Michael moved with complete certainty.
Sarah kept her eyes fixed on his broad back, trusting him to guide them safely through the blinding snow.
There was something strangely intimate about it—the two of them alone in this white cocoon, connected by nothing but trust and proximity. All there was in this world was her and him, moving through the storm together.
After what felt like forever but was probably only minutes, a dark shape loomed ahead.
Michael reached back, his hand finding hers as they approached what she now recognized as a small cabin.
He opened the door, hooking his arm around her as they entered, then shut the door firmly against the howling wind.
It was cold inside, but at least they were out of the storm.
Sarah dumped her bag on the rough wooden table, her teeth chattering as she looked around.
The cabin was simple but well-maintained.
From what she could see, there was one room with a wood stove, a small kitchen area, a table with chairs, and what looked like a storage cabinet against the far wall.
Michael immediately moved to the wood stove, crouching before it with practiced ease.
Sarah watched as he arranged kindling in a careful pattern, twisting strips of newspaper between small sticks of wood.
His movements were precise, almost meditative.
He struck a single match, touching it to the paper in exactly the right spot.
The flame caught, growing steadily as he gently closed the stove door, leaving it cracked just enough to create a perfect draw.
Within minutes, the fire was burning cheerily, warmth beginning to radiate from the black iron stove. Michael filled a battered kettle with water from a jug and placed it on top, then turned to her with a tin in his hands.
“Coffee will be ready soon. Cookies?”
Sarah accepted the tin, surprised to find homemade shortbread inside. “Thank you.”
The silence stretched between them, punctuated by the crackling of the fire and the rising howl of the wind outside. She searched for something to say, something that wouldn’t sound ridiculous or too personal.
“How long have you run the farm?” The question came out stilted, formal.
“Since my dad retired five years ago.” His answer was equally brief.
Sarah winced inwardly. She sounded like an HR form, not a woman stranded in a cabin with a man who made her pulse quicken. The conversation died again as Michael shrugged out of his jacket, hanging it on a peg by the door.
Her breath caught as she watched him roll up his sleeves, revealing strong forearms marked with small scars, evidence of years working with trees and tools.
There was something undeniably attractive about a man who knew how to use his hands, who could build a perfect fire with one match and guide her safely through a blizzard.
“What feels like Christmas to you?” Michael asked suddenly, his voice soft as he poured hot water into two mugs.
The unexpected question made her smile. “Hot cocoa around the Christmas tree,” she answered honestly. “That’s what we did last night after the town square tree...” She trailed off, surprised by how easily the words had come.
“Christmas carols for me,” Michael said, handing her a steaming mug. “My mom sings them as she bakes. As soon as December comes around, so do the carols.”
The simple admission revealed more about him than any resume could have. Sarah sipped her coffee, letting the warmth spread through her chest.
“Favorite job tool?” he asked, settling into the chair across from her.
She thought for a moment. “A soft pencil. The 6B kind that smudges easily. There’s something about sketching by hand that digital can never replace.”
“A whetstone,” he replied. “Nothing feels quite as satisfying as bringing a dull edge back to life.”
The wind gusted against the cabin, rattling the windows. Michael stood and crossed to a small chest, pulling out a flannel shirt that had been folded neatly inside.
“For your lap,” he offered. “It gets cold by the window.”
She accepted the makeshift blanket, touched by the thoughtfulness. The flannel smelled faintly of pine and something else…something uniquely him. She spread it across her legs, then pushed the tin of cookies toward him.
“Please have some. They’re delicious.”
He took one with a nod of thanks, and they fell into a more comfortable silence. The storm raged outside, but here, in this small cabin with its crackling fire and the scent of coffee and pine, Sarah felt strangely at peace.
“Why Bear Creek?” Michael asked after a while, his voice gentle but curious.
Sarah hesitated, her fingers tightening around her mug. She’d prepared a polished answer for casual acquaintances, but something about his direct gaze made her want to offer more truth.
“I moved because Emmy needed...” She paused, searching for the right words. “Routine I couldn’t build alone. After the divorce, everything felt like quicksand. Bear Creek, and my mom, felt like solid ground.”
She kept it simple, no ex-bashing, but she saw in Michael’s eyes that he understood what she wasn’t saying. How the weight of starting over, of rebuilding a life from scattered pieces, was one she wasn’t sure she could lift on her own.
“And you?” she asked. “Why a tree farm?”
He considered the question with the same care he’d given to building the fire. “I like things that last,” he finally said. “The trees teach patience. You plant something knowing you might not be around to see it fully grown. There’s something magical about that.”
Sarah nodded, feeling a flutter of connection. This was a man who thought in decades, not days.
“You’re very thoughtful,” she said, the words stumbling a bit. “Is that something your father taught you?”
“Yes,” Michael replied, a small smile touching his lips. “He taught me trees. My mom taught me to bake.”
Sarah’s gaze drifted away, her throat suddenly tight. Michael’s parents meant a lot to him. She swallowed hard, thinking of Emmy. “I feel so guilty that Emmy will never have that again. You know, both her mom and dad under the same roof.”
“You shouldn’t carry that guilt,” Michael told her gently. “It’s obvious how much you love her. You wouldn’t have gotten a divorce if you didn’t believe it was the right thing for you and her.”
The silence stretched between them, and Sarah felt the weight of her admission settling in the small space. She hadn’t meant to reveal so much, but something about Michael’s steady presence made honesty feel safer than small talk.
The fire crackled, filling the quiet with warmth and light. Sarah watched the flames dance behind the glass door of the wood stove, hypnotic in their constant motion. The coffee warmed her hands through the ceramic mug, but it was Michael’s understanding nod that eased the tightness in her chest.
“Emmy’s lucky to have you,” he said simply.
The words hit her unexpectedly hard. Not the hollow reassurances she’d grown used to—you’re better off without him or everything happens for a reason—but something that acknowledged what she’d actually accomplished.
The daily choice to put one foot in front of the other, to keep building a life for her daughter when her own felt like it was held together with duct tape and determination.
“Some days I’m not so sure,” she admitted, surprised by her own honesty.
Michael leaned forward slightly, his brown eyes serious. “The fact that you worry about it tells me you’re doing it right.”
Outside, the wind howled with renewed fury, rattling the windows and making the cabin feel even more like a refuge. Sarah pulled his flannel shirt higher on her lap.
“What about you?” she asked, deflecting attention from herself. “Do you want children?”
The question slipped out before she could stop it, too personal for someone she’d known for only a few days. Heat crept up her neck, and she ducked her head, focusing intently on her coffee.
Michael was quiet for a long moment, long enough that she began to regret asking. When she finally risked a glance at him, his expression was thoughtful rather than uncomfortable.
“I do,” he whispered. “I’ve always imagined teaching a kid to identify trees, showing them how to read the forest. You know, pass on the knowledge that has been handed down from generation to generation.”
There was something wistful in his voice that made Sarah’s heart squeeze. She could picture it easily: Michael’s patient hands guiding small fingers, his calm voice explaining the difference between pine and fir. The image felt dangerously appealing.
“Emmy would love that,” she said before she could stop herself. “She’s always asking questions about everything. Why is the sky blue? How do trees know when to lose their leaves, and where do snowflakes come from?”
“Curious minds are the best kind,” Michael said, his smile genuine. “Smart kids ask the hard questions.”
The wind gusted again, and this time Sarah heard something else…a sharp crack from somewhere outside. Michael’s head turned toward the sound, his body tensing slightly.
“Tree branch,” he said, noting her concerned expression. “The weight of the snow can snap them. Nothing to worry about in here.”
But Sarah noticed how he moved to the window, peering out into the white void. Even through the storm, she could see the protective way he held himself, alert for any threat to their small sanctuary.
The kettle on the stove began to whistle softly. Michael returned to the kitchen area, refilling their mugs with fresh hot water. When he handed her the refill, their fingers brushed again, and that same electric warmth she’d felt when he’d helped with the hand warmer spread up her arm.
This time, neither of them pulled away immediately.
“Sarah,” he said, and her name in his low voice made something flutter in her stomach.
She looked up, meeting his eyes. The cabin suddenly felt very small, very warm, very intimate.
The storm outside had created a pocket of the world that contained only the two of them, and she was acutely aware of every detail—the way his hair had dried slightly unruly from the snow, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the careful way he held himself as if he were afraid of crowding her.
“Yes.”
He opened his mouth to speak, and she held her breath, sure he was going to make some revelation that would explain the way she was drawn to him. “Cookie?”