Chapter 5
EMMA
Iwatch the morning light dance across Wyatt's face as he flips pancakes at the stove. Nine days here, and I still can't get enough of just looking at him—the way his large, veiny hands move, how the corner of his mouth twitches up when he feels me watching.
"Something on your mind, baby?" he asks without turning around.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. Even after all we've shared, his ability to read me makes me feel simultaneously exposed and cherished.
"Actually, yes." I fidget with my coffee mug. "Can I ask you something that might be awkward and even judgmental but really not?"
Now he turns, spatula in hand, one eyebrow raised. "Since when do you hesitate to ask me anything?"
"It's about money." I dart my eyes to every single corner of the kitchen because I can't really look at him.
"I mean, you live out here, off-grid, but everything is so well-built and you have solar panels and good equipment and …
I just realized I have no idea how you support yourself.
" I lift both palms and wave. "You know what, you really don't have to answer that. It's just me being curious."
To my surprise, he laughs. "You're worried I'm some kind of mountain bandit? Robbing hikers who wander into my territory?"
"No! No, of course not. I just—"
"I'm teasing you." He slides a perfect stack of pancakes onto my plate, then sits across from me. "It's a fair question. The short answer is crypto."
I blink at him. "Crypto? Like Bitcoin?"
"Among others." He drizzles maple syrup over his stack. "I got in early, invested wisely, cashed out enough to build this place and live comfortably. The rest stays diversified and growing." His eyes meet mine, suddenly serious. "I have more money than I could spend in several lifetimes, Emma."
My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. "What? Seriously?"
"When I left corporate life, I made some smart moves.
Now I check the markets maybe once a month, usually when I head to town for supplies.
" He shrugs as if discussing the weather.
"I've got millions sitting in various accounts and investments.
I could buy you the world's most expensive cameras and it wouldn't make a dent. "
The pancake tastes like sawdust in my suddenly dry mouth. "Why are you telling me this?"
His eyes soften. "Because I saw the worry in your eyes when you asked. Because I want you to know that choosing me" —he pauses, his voice dropping lower— "if you were to choose me, it wouldn't mean struggling financially."
"I wasn't worried about—"
"I know." He reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. "But I want to be clear. I can take care of you, Emma. In every way."
Something blooms in my chest—warm, expansive, terrifying in its intensity. The future suddenly seems filled with possibilities I hadn't dared imagine. It's not the money, no. It's the fact that he actually sees a life with me. That he doesn't think I'm just passing through.
"I don't need to be taken care of," I tell him, though my treacherous heart leaps at his words.
His thumb traces circles on my wrist. "I know that too. But I want to. If you'd let me, I'd like to take care of you every single day of my life."
"Wyatt, I—"
The sound of a vehicle stopping nearby and three sharp knocks at the door shatter our moment. Wyatt frowns, pulling away from me with visible reluctance.
"Stay here," he says, rising to his feet, his shoulder tense.
"No, I'll get it." I'm already moving toward the door, tugging at the hem of Wyatt's flannel shirt that I'm wearing over sleep shorts. "It's probably just a lost hiker like me."
"Baby, let me—"
I pull the door open, blinking in the bright morning sunlight. Two uniformed rangers stand on the porch, their expressions shifting from professional to surprised as they take in my appearance—Wyatt's oversized shirt, my bare legs, my obviously just-woke-up hair.
"Emma Carter?" asks the taller one, checking a photo on his phone.
My stomach drops. "Yes?"
"Bill?" Wyatt appears behind me, his hand coming to rest protectively on my shoulder. "Richard? What's going on?"
The rangers exchange uncomfortable glances.
"Hey, Wyatt," says the one called Bill. "Wish this was a social call."
Before either can elaborate, the rumble of an approaching vehicle cuts through the morning quiet. A truck pulls up beside the rangers' vehicle, and my blood turns to ice as my parents step out.
"Emma!" My mother rushes forward, her face a mask of panic and relief. "Oh my God, it's really you. You're alive!"
My father follows more slowly, his eyes taking in everything—my state of undress, Wyatt's protective stance, the cabin behind us.
"What is this?" I ask, my voice barely audible.
Richard, the shorter ranger, clears his throat. "Your parents filed a missing person report three days ago when you didn't return to campus. Your phone pinged near this area before going offline."
"We've been looking for you, sweetheart," my mother says, reaching for me. I step back instinctively, bumping into Wyatt's solid chest. "When your roommate said you'd gone hiking and never came back—"
"I've been perfectly fine," I say, fighting to keep my voice steady. "I got lost, panicked, and Wyatt helped me."
My father's gaze hardens as he looks at Wyatt. "And you just kept her here for nine days without letting her contact anyone?"
Wyatt's hand tightens slightly on my shoulder. "Emma has been free to leave whenever she wanted. I offered to take her back to town the first morning."
"He did," I say quickly. "I chose to stay."
My mother's eyes widen in horror. "Emma, look at yourself! This man is … he's—"
She gestures helplessly at Wyatt, at his size, his beard, the scar on his face.
"He's scary, honey. Did he threaten you? Make you stay? Did he force himself on you? It's okay. You can tell us."
The accusation ignites something fierce inside me. "No! Wyatt helped me when I was lost and terrified. He's been nothing but kind and respectful."
"Kind?" My father's voice rises. "You've been missing for over a week! We thought you were dead! Or kidnapped!"
"I'm an adult," I say, straightening my spine. "I chose to stay."
Bill shifts uncomfortably. "Wyatt, it's fine. I know you wouldn't—"
"You don't know what he would do." My mother glares at him. "You don't know what he's done to my daughter."
"He hasn't done anything to me!" My voice cracks with emotion.
"I love him!"
The words hang in the air, shocking even me. I've never said them aloud before, never even fully acknowledged them in my own mind until this moment.
Richard and Bill exchange looks.
"Look," Richard says gently, "nobody's accusing anyone of anything. But Emma, your parents have been worried sick. There's been search parties out looking for you."
Guilt washes over me. In my bubble of happiness with Wyatt, I hadn't considered what my disappearance might look like to others.
"I'm sorry," I say, glancing at my parents. "I should have called. My phone died, and I-I lost track of time."
My mother's face softens slightly. "Just come home, sweetheart. Whatever's happening here, we can sort it out later."
I feel Wyatt's body tense behind me. We were just talking about our future together a few minutes ago.
"I'd like a moment alone with Emma," he says, his voice carefully controlled.
My father jabs an accusing finger at him. "Absolutely not."
Bill steps forward. "Mr. Carter, why don't we give them two minutes? We'll be right here."
"Out of the question. Emma, get your things. We're leaving."
I turn to face Wyatt, my back to everyone else. His blue eyes are storm-dark with emotion.
"I'm so sorry for this mess," I whisper, low enough that only he can hear. "I don't want to go.” We step back a little further, inside the doorway.
Wyatt’s jaw tightens. "If you leave with them now, accusing me of nothing, it will blow over.
If you stay..." He swallows hard. "They could make trouble.
Charges. Kidnapping. I don't give a damn what it will do to me, but it will disrupt your life.
You're so close to graduating. You don't need additional stress. "
Horror washes through me because God, I didn't think that far ahead. "You didn't kidnap me!”
"They don't know that." He touches my cheek briefly and smiles sadly. "Go with them, baby. Protect yourself."
Tears burn in my eyes. "Protect you, you mean."
The smallest nod. "I'll be fine, and I'll be here. I'm not going anywhere."
"Emma, now!" My father's voice cuts through our whispered exchange.
I reach up, touching Wyatt's face one last time. "I'll come back."
He smiles again, but it's not the smile I've grown to love. It's the kind of smile that says, 'I don't believe you, but whatever you say.' It's the kind of smile that says goodbye.
Turning away from him feels like tearing out a vital organ. I walk stiffly back inside, gathering my camera bag and my backpack. When I emerge, Wyatt has stepped back outside onto the porch, waiting for me, but his face is stern – an expressionless mask.
"I was lost," I say loudly to the rangers. “This man,” I place my palm firmly on Wyatt’s arm. “Wyatt Stone, saved my life and offered me shelter. I stayed of my own free will. I want that on record."
Richard nods, jotting something in his notebook. Bill just looks sad.
"Take care of yourself, Wyatt," Bill says quietly.
Wyatt doesn't answer, just watches as my father takes my arm and leads me to the truck. I look back once, memorizing the sight of him standing on his porch, tall and solid and devastatingly alone, Cain and Abel standing on either side of him.
"Were you hypnotized? Drugged?" My mother's questions fill the suffocating space of the truck as we wind down the mountain roads. "I've read about these mountain men, how they can manipulate vulnerable young women, how they prey on the weak, the na?ve—“
"Mom, stop." My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears. I am so freaking exhausted. "Wyatt is educated, intelligent, and kind. He helped me when I was lost. Everything else was my choice."
"But sweetheart, you're not yourself. The Emma we know wouldn't just disappear for nine days with some strange, bearded man in the woods."
That's the problem, I think but don't say. The Emma they know isn't the real me. The real me came alive in Wyatt's cabin, in his arms, under his quiet, attentive gaze.
"What about law school?" my father asks from the driver's seat. "Your applications are due next month."
The mention of law school—that predetermined future I've been dreading—sends a fresh wave of pain through me. This is probably why they're worried. Not for my safety but because of my applications. Typical. "I don't want to talk about it right now."
"You've thrown away nine days of study time," he continues as if I hadn't spoken. "You'll need to work twice as hard now to catch up."
I turn toward the window, watching the trees thin out as we descend from the mountains. Each mile takes me farther from Wyatt, from the life I glimpsed in those nine perfect days.
"He has money," my mother says suddenly. "Is that it? Did he promise to take care of you?"
The memory of our interrupted breakfast conversation brings fresh tears to my eyes. I blink them back furiously.
"You don't understand anything," I whisper.
They continue to talk, but I tune them out. They won't notice anyway. In our household, nobody cared about what I thought or what I wanted. It was always about them. I never really had a voice.
Only Wyatt ever listened to me, ever cared about my opinion.
Now the miles grow between us, and the farther I get, the more my heart breaks.
My dorm room feels like a foreign country. So cold and suffocating compared to the cabin. The moment my parents leave—after extracting promises from me to call them twice daily and focus on my studies—I collapse onto my bed, the grief finally overwhelming me.
It comes in waves, physical in its intensity. My chest constricts until breathing becomes an active struggle. My stomach clenches with nausea. My skin feels wrong somehow, too tight, too cold without Wyatt's touch.
I curl into myself, clutching my camera bag. Inside are hundreds of photos—proof that those nine days weren't a dream, that Wyatt and his cabin exist in the real world.
After hours of crying, I drag myself to my desk and connect my camera to my laptop with trembling hands. The photos load slowly—majestic mountain vistas, delicate wildflowers, Cain and Abel, curious wildlife and a handsome Elk looking majestically and empowered right into my lens.
And Wyatt. Of course Wyatt. Wyatt working with focused concentration. Wyatt looking up at the stars with wonder on his face. Wyatt smiling that rare, transformative smile that he seemed to reserve just for me.
I select a dozen images and send them to print. As they emerge from my printer, I arrange them on the floor around me—creating a circle of memories, surrounding myself with all I've lost.
The last photo prints—Wyatt standing on his porch at sunrise, light gilding his profile as he looks out over the mountains. I took it yesterday morning, never imagining it would be my last full day with him.
Something breaks inside me. My legs give out and I collapse to the floor amid the photos, sobs tearing from my throat. I curl around the image of Wyatt, pressing it to my heart as if I could somehow absorb him into myself, keep him with me.
The pain is unbearable—physical, visceral. My perfect life with him feels simultaneously like a distant dream and more real than the room around me. The memory of his touch, his voice calling me "baby," the safety of his arms—it all crashes over me in waves of agonizing loss.
"I'll come back," I whisper to his photograph. "I'll come back to you."
But in this moment, surrounded by images of everything I've lost, those words feel hollow. Campus life stretches before me like a prison sentence, each day taking me further from the person I became in those nine precious days—the real Emma, the one Wyatt saw.
I don't know how to be that person here. I don't know how to exist without him. Not anymore.