The Mountain Man Next Door

Chapter 1 - Hannah

The cabin looks like something died in it.

I stand in the doorway, duffel bag still slung over one shoulder, staring at what was supposed to be my escape.

Dust coats every surface thick enough to write my name in.

One window has a crack spider-webbing across the glass.

There's a musky odor that suggests an animal got in here at some point and made itself comfortable.

The listing said "rustic charm."

The listing lied.

I drop my bag on the porch. I'm not bringing it inside until I know what I'm dealing with, and step slowly over the threshold. The floorboards creak under my boots. Everything creaks. The whole structure feels like it's holding its breath, waiting to see if I'll stay or run.

I've been holding my breath for three weeks.

I'm not running.

The main room is small: a kitchen area with a wood-burning stove, a counter that's seen better decades, and a table with two chairs that don't match.

There's a couch that might have been blue once, now faded to something between gray and surrender.

A door to what I assume is the bedroom. Another to what better be a functional bathroom.

I try the light switch by the door.

Nothing.

I flip it up and down three more times like that's going to change anything.

Still nothing.

My phone is still in my pocket. I pull it up, open the email confirmation from the rental company, and scroll through the listing details I memorized two weeks ago when I booked this place.

"Rustic mountain cabin, perfect for a quiet getaway.

Solar power, wood stove heating, all the charm of off-grid living. "

Solar power.

I walk back outside and scan the roofline.

There are no solar panels.

There is nothing.

For a long moment, I just stand there on the porch, hands on my hips, staring at the pine trees stretching up the mountain slope like they're personally mocking me.

I drove six hours to get here. I took two weeks of forced leave from the bank because my manager took one look at me after the robbery and said, "Hannah, you need to get away. You need to breathe."

I researched everything. I planned every detail. I controlled every variable I could possibly control because that's what I do now: I control things, I plan things, I make sure nothing catches me off guard.

And now I'm standing in front of a cabin with no power, no explanation, and a crack in the window that's definitely going to let in whatever wildlife thinks this place is part of the local food chain.

I pull up the property owner's number from my emails.

It rings four times, then goes to voicemail.

"Hi, this is Hannah Valentine. I just arrived at the cabin I rented, and there's no electricity. The listing said solar power. There are no solar panels. Also, there's a crack in the window and it smells like something died in here. Please call me back."

I hang up and immediately feel stupid for how shaky my voice sounded.

I'm fine.

This is fine.

I drove six hours for this. I'm not leaving.

The email mentioned a neighbor. I scroll back through until I find it: "Please note there is one other property nearby, approximately half a mile up the access road. The owner values privacy. Please be respectful of boundaries."

I look up the road.

Half a mile.

I can see thin and gray smoke rising through the trees in that direction, from a chimney probably.

Someone's home.

I hesitate for maybe ten seconds, weighing my options. I can sit here and wait for the property owner to call me back, if they call me back, or I can walk up the road and ask the neighbor if they know what's going on.

I grab my jacket from the car, lock the cabin out of sheer habit even though there's nothing inside worth stealing, and start walking.

The road is barely a road. It's more like a suggestion of where vehicles might go if they're brave enough. Gravel and dirt, rutted from rain and use, winding up through pines that block out half the sky.

It's quiet up here. Not the kind of quiet I'm used to in town, where there's always a car in the distance or someone's TV bleeding through an apartment wall. This is real quiet. The kind that makes you aware of your own breathing.

I haven't been this alone in weeks.

It should feel good.

It doesn't.

I keep walking.

The trees start to thin, and then I see it: a cabin, much sturdier than mine, with smoke curling from a stone chimney.

There's a small garden plot to one side, a shed that looks hand-built, a truck parked near the porch that's seen some years but is clearly still running.

Solar panels line the roof, and there's a neatness to the whole place that suggests someone who knows what they're doing.

I'm halfway across the clearing when the door opens.

A man steps out onto the porch.

A massive man.

He's tall, taller than anyone I've seen in recent memory, and broad in a way that makes the doorway behind him look like it was built too small.

Dark beard, thick and slightly unkempt. A flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing forearms that look like they've done actual labor.

His face is weathered, and there's a scar running down one side of his neck that disappears under his collar.

His eyes are blue. Pale, ice-blue, and currently locked on me with an expression that can only be described as deeply unimpressed.

"You're the neighbor," I say.

It's not a question.

"You're the tourist," he says.

It's definitely an insult.

We stare at each other.

He doesn't move from the porch. I don't move from where I stopped, about ten feet away. There's a dog behind him now: huge, shaggy, with the kind of face that would be friendly if the man holding the door wasn't radiating *go away* like it's a superpower.

"I'm renting the cabin down the road," I say, keeping my voice even. "The one that apparently doesn't have electricity despite the listing claiming it does."

"Not my problem."

"I didn't say it was."

"Then why are you here?"

I cross my arms. "Because the property owner isn't answering, and I thought maybe the neighbor…" I let the word hang there, pointed. "might know if there's a trick to getting the power working. Or if there's a breaker somewhere. Or literally anything useful."

He leans one shoulder against the doorframe, and the movement is so casual it's almost insulting. "There's no trick. There's no power."

"The listing—"

"The listing lied."

I feel my jaw tighten. "So, what, I'm just supposed to—"

"Figure it out," he says, interrupting me. "Or leave."

For a moment, I don't say anything. I just look at him, at this scarred, unfriendly mountain of a man who clearly wants me gone and isn't bothering to pretend otherwise.

I should leave. I should get back in my car, drive down this mountain, find a hotel in Wildwood, and demand a refund.

But I don't.

Because I'm tired of running. I'm tired of being scared. I'm tired of the feeling that the world is too big and too loud and too full of things I can't control.

I came here for quiet. For space. For the chance to feel like I'm the one calling the shots.

And I'm not letting some man, no matter how broad his shoulders are or how unimpressed his face is, tell me I can't.

"I'm staying," I say.

His expression doesn't change. "Suit yourself."

"I will."

"Good."

"Great."

We're still staring at each other.

The dog makes a soft noise behind him, something between a whine and a huff, and the man glances back at it, then back at me.

"Anything else?" he asks.

"Is there somewhere I can get supplies?"

"Wildwood. Forty minutes down the mountain."

"Do they have a hardware store?"

"They have everything you need if you know what you're doing."

The implication is clear: *You don't*.

I smile, all teeth and no warmth. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

He doesn't smile back. "You should go before it gets dark."

"I'll manage."

"I'm sure."

I turn before he can say anything else, before I do something stupid like ask his name or tell him mine. I don't need to know his name. I don't need anything from him except to be left alone, which seems to be exactly what he wants too.

I make it halfway back across the clearing before he calls out.

"There's a bear that comes through here sometimes."

I stop. Turn. "A bear."

"Big one. Don't leave food out."

"Anything else I should know?"

He considers me for a moment, and I can't read his expression at all. "Don't go wandering off-trail after dark. The mountain doesn't care if you're lost."

"I'll keep that in mind."

He nods once, then steps back inside and closes the door.

I stand there for a few seconds longer, staring at the cabin, at the smoke still curling from the chimney, at the dog now visible in the window watching me leave.

Then I turn and walk back down the road.

By the time I get back to my cabin, the sun is starting to dip lower in the sky. The light filters through the trees in long golden shafts, and the temperature is already dropping. I can feel it in the air, the kind of cold that settles in fast once the sun decides to leave.

I prop the front door open to air the place out and start taking stock.

The wood stove looks functional, and there's a stack of firewood on the porch that's dry enough to use.

The kitchen has a manual pump for water.

I test it, and after a few rusty groans, actual water comes out.

Cold, but clean. The bedroom has a bed frame with a mattress that's seen better days but isn't actively falling apart.

The bathroom has a composting toilet and a basin.

It's rustic, but it's not unlivable.

I spend the next hour cleaning: sweeping dust, wiping down surfaces, airing out the musty smell as much as I can.

I find the source of the animal smell, a family of mice had nested in the couch cushions.

I evict them, bag up the nesting material, and make a mental note to buy traps in town tomorrow.

By the time I'm done, the cabin looks less like a crime scene and more like a place a human could theoretically sleep.

I light a fire in the wood stove. It takes a few tries. I'm not great with fires, but eventually it catches, and warmth starts to spread through the small space.

I sit on the porch steps, wrapped in my jacket, and eat a granola bar from my bag.

The sun is almost gone now. The sky is turning that deep, bruised purple that comes right before full dark. The trees are black silhouettes against it, and the air smells like pine and smoke.

It's quiet.

So quiet.

For the first time in three weeks, I don't hear the bank alarm in my head. I don't see the gun. I don't feel the counter pressing into my ribs as I duck down, heart pounding, waiting for the sound of a shot that never came.

I just sit.

And breathe.

And somewhere up the mountain, I imagine the neighbor is doing the same.

I don't know his name.

I don't need to.

But as I sit here in the growing dark, I catch myself wondering what his story is.

Why is he up here? Why did he look at me like I was an intrusion he didn't ask for? Why, for just a second, I thought I saw something in his eyes that looked a lot like the thing I see in mine?

I finish my granola bar, lock the cabin door, and crawl into bed with all my clothes still on.

Tomorrow, I'll go to town. I'll get what I need. I'll make this work.

Tonight, I sleep.

And for the first time in weeks, I don't dream about the gun.