18. Wren #2
“Orgasms help,” I quoted, throwing his own clinical observation back at him with a grin. “That was the professional opinion of the mountain’s primary caretaker, wasn’t it? I wouldn’t want to ignore expert medical advice.”
Rowan’s eyes darken, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw. “I’m always available for a consultation, Wren Cassidy.”
“Good to know. But first, we need to get back to the lodge. I have a feeling Marge is about to send out a search party, and I really don’t want to explain to Walt why I’m returning from a storm with a seven-foot conservationist and a sudden need for chocolate.”
Rowan nods, his hand sliding down to catch mine. We walk like that, hand in hand, back down the trail, his pace matching mine. Every few minutes, he stops to move a branch out of my path or to check the footing on a particularly muddy slope, his guardian instincts still humming, but directed now.
We reach the lower ridge just as the sun breaks through the clouds, turning the wet leaves into a million tiny mirrors.
The lodge is visible in the distance, a small, stubborn patch of brown wood against the vast green of the Cascades.
It looks smaller than I remember, more fragile, but for the first time since I’ve come home, I don’t feel the urge to look away from it.
“The bridge is still there,” Rowan says, pointing toward the creek. “The water went over it, but the anchors held. You will be able to cross.”
“And you?” I ask, stopping at the edge of the clearing. “Are you coming in? Marge will have coffee. And probably questions.”
Rowan looks at the lodge, then back at the forest. “Not today. I have... territories to monitor. And I suspect I have a great deal of research to do on the human female reproductive system.”
I laugh, a genuine, tired sound that feels like it’s clearing out the last of the storm. “I’ll send you some links. Or better yet, I’ll just tell you. It’s less terrifying when you have a guide.”
He squeezes my hand before letting go. “I’ll find you, Wren. When the world gets too loud.”
I watch him fade back into the trees, the concealment magic slipping over him like a veil until there’s nothing left but the shift of shadows and the sound of the wind.
I stand there for a moment, my hand still warm from his, then I turn and walk back to the lodge.
My back is aching, my boots are ruined, and I’m pretty sure I’ll have to burn my father’s old hiking socks, but as I look at the Cassidy Lodge sign leaning five degrees to the left, I realize I wasn’t in a hurry to fix it anymore.
Some things are better when they’re a little broken.
As soon as I walk into the lobby, I’m hit with the smell of Marge’s bacon and the relentless pinging of the Bigfoot Hotline.
The digital dashboard is a sea of red notifications, a hundred voices from the internet demanding proof of the impossible.
I sit down at the desk and start deleting.
I don’t need the world to see what I found.
I just need to make sure I was ready for the next consultation.
I’m halfway through a particularly unhinged voicemail about a bipedal wolf sighted near the interstate when the front door creaks open.
I expect a guest, or perhaps Marge coming to grill me about where I spent the night, but it’s Walt.
He’s carrying a crate of supplies, his face a map of weathered concern that doesn’t quite hide the knowing glint in his eyes.
He sets the crate down near the desk, the heavy thud echoing in the quiet lobby.
“Bridge held,” he says, wiping his hands on his overalls. “Mostly. Needs some tightening on the north cables, but it’ll stay. You look like you went through the wash on the heavy cycle, Wren.”
“The storm was a bit more enthusiastic than the weather app predicted,” I say, leaning back in the creaky office chair.
I grab the chocolate bar I keep in the top drawer for emergencies—today is a code-red emergency—and snap off a square.
“Rowan helped with the trail shelter. We’re all buttoned up for the season. ”
Walt nods, a slow, deliberate movement. He doesn’t ask for details, and he doesn’t push.
He’s lived on this land long enough to know that the Guardian doesn’t just help with trail maintenance unless something significant has shifted.
“He’s a good man. In his way. Stubborn as an old hemlock, but steady.
My grandfather used to say the mountain only lets people stay if it likes the sound of their heart. Seems it’s getting used to yours.”
I chew the chocolate, the sugar hitting my system like a divine revelation. “I think it’s just tolerating me for the marketing potential, Walt. But I’ll take what I can get.”
Chuckling, he heads into the kitchen, leaving me alone with the humming servers and the fading morning light.
I glance at the hotline again, and one entry catches my eye.
It’s a shot of a massive, blurred shape moving through the trees.
To the internet, it’s another piece of the legend, another blurry Bigfoot for the conspiracy theorists to dissect.
To me, it’s just Rowan, probably on his way to check a beehive or mutter at a particularly offensive clump of moss.
I feel a sudden, sharp pang of something that wasn’t hunger or hormones.
It’s the weight of the secret, yes, but also the lightness of it.
For the first time, the lodge doesn’t feel like a sinking ship I was desperately trying to bail out with a thimble.
It feels like a home that’s being guarded, not just by an ancient forest spirit, but by the choices I’m making to stay.
I close the laptop. The laughter from the hike is still humming in my chest, a private joke shared with the mountain itself.
Standing, I stretch until my spine pops, then go to find Marge.
I’m in the mood for a very large breakfast, and I’m not going to explain why I’m smiling.