Chapter 18
WILLOW
Darkness slams down hard and absolute after that initial pop.
I know something is wrong.
I finish rinsing quickly, heart thudding, then grab my phone and use the flashlight to guide myself out of the shower. It’s still warm inside the cabin for now, but I know that won’t last.
I need to move. Fast.
I dry off, pull on clothes with numb fingers.
Thick tights under my pajama sweatpants.
A thermal.
A sweatshirt.
My windbreaker over everything.
I twist my damp hair into a towel and dry it best I can. Then I braid it quickly, fingers clumsy but practiced.
I hesitate, phone in hand.
Call someone? Or handle it myself?
I decide on the latter.
I can’t ask someone to come out in a storm just because the generator went down.
I pull on a stocking cap with the McCrae logo stitched on the front.
Thatcher—I call him that now at his insistence, he said formality isn’t necessary at the mill, and everyone seems to go by first names—gave me a whole pile of branded gear.
He said everyone gets one.
Like some sort of welcome package.
I was hesitant at first, but I didn’t refuse.
I’m glad I didn’t.
It’s going to be cold out there.
I shove my feet into my nearly worn-out sneakers and step up to the window.
My stomach drops.
There’s at least nine inches of snow on the ground already, the wind howling hard enough to rattle the glass.
The world outside looks white and angry and completely uninterested in my comfort.
I swallow.
Then, I brace myself and open the door.
This is going to suck.
The wind bites through my clothes despite the layers I put on to protect myself, and my feet are freezing inside my thin sneakers.
I have to move.
Standing here panicking isn’t helping anyone.
The cabin is already cooling fast, and whatever popped outside didn’t sound small.
I need to check the generator—see if there’s a switch, a breaker, something I can reset.
I push the door open and step into chaos.
The snow is coming down sideways, sharp and blinding, stinging my face the second I’m outside.
Wind howls through the trees like it’s alive, like it’s hunting. I can barely see my own hands in front of me, but I know where the generator sits—around back, tucked into its little housing.
I move by memory.
My foot catches on something buried under the snow and I go down hard, soaking my pants straight through to the knees.
Cold bites instantly, teeth chattering as I scramble back up, breath coming too fast.
“Okay. Okay,” I whisper to myself. “You’re fine. Just get there.”
I find it.
And my stomach drops straight to my feet.
“Oh shit,” I whimper.
Sparks are spitting out in short, violent bursts. Smoke curls up into the storm, acrid and sharp.
The smell hits me—burning metal, electricity, something wrong.
The generator casing rattles, angry and unstable, like it’s seconds from exploding.
This is bad.
Really bad.
I reach for the panel, fingers trembling, telling myself I just need to open it, just need to look—a large hand clamps down on my shoulder.
Hard.
I’m yanked backward, spun away from the generator, and I scream—full-throated, panicked, the sound ripped out of me before I can stop it.
“Willow! It’s me!”
The voice cuts through the roar of the wind and my fear at the same time.
Two hands grip my shoulders now, steady, unmovable. I look up, heart slamming so hard it hurts.
For one horrible, gut-wrenching moment, I think it’s Dan.
That he found me.
That he dragged himself all this way just to pull me back into the life I barely escaped.
My vision blurs.
But no.
It’s not him.
It’s Thatcher.
Snow-dusted.
Breath steaming in the cold.
Eyes wild and focused and furious in a way that has nothing to do with me and everything to do with keeping me alive.
“Oh—thank God,” I sob, the strength draining out of me all at once.
My knees buckle, and he catches me before I hit the ground.
“Shit,” he mutters, already turning me toward the cabin. “I have to put out the fire. Go. Grab a bag—just essentials.”
He doesn’t ask.
He commands.
And I obey.
Not because I’m afraid of him.
Because I trust him.
I run to do as he says.
Inside, my hands are clumsy, numb with cold and adrenaline as I grab my backpack and shove things into it—toothbrush, clothes, phone charger—anything I can get my hands on.
I don’t have much, and that fact punches me right in the chest.
I sling the bag over my shoulder and rush back to the door and I stop dead.
Because holy crap.
Thatcher is out there in the storm, braced against the wind, hauling an extinguisher from a side compartment I didn’t even know existed.
He pulls the pin and unleashes a cloud of foam like he was born knowing how to do this.
White spray coats the generator, hissing and sputtering as the sparks die down.
Smoke thickens, then fades.
He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t flinch.
He handles it.
Like a man who knows exactly what he’s doing.
Like a damn lumberjack firefighter carved out of the mountain itself.
The fire goes out.
The generator does not come back on.
The wind howls louder now that the danger has passed, like it’s mocking me.
And the realization hits hard and fast.
The generator is dead.
Which means the cabin is dead.
No power. No heat.
No place for me to stay.
“Oh crap,” I whisper.
And for the first time since I ran, I have no idea what happens next.