Chapter 2
two
. . .
Cole
I leave Holly inside and check the generator. Running clean. Fuel topped off, exhaust clear. Someone’s life depends on it now.
The storm hammers the ridge. Wind shears off the trees and slams into the cabin. Snow piles fast against the north wall, two feet in the last hour.
I latch the generator shed and head back inside.
Holly’s standing by the fire where I left her. Her fingers are still wrapped around that mug, and she’s hunched like she’s trying to take up less space.
Her brown hair is finally drying and curls at the ends. The flames catch the red highlights. The thermals I gave her are baggy, but she’s rolled the sleeves, exposing her wrists. Small hands. No rings.
I turn back to the generator checklist. “Generator’s solid. We’ve got heat and light for as long as the fuel holds.”
She stiffens. “How long will it hold?”
“Three days. The storm won’t last that long.”
Relief flashes across her face, then she buries it in the mug.
I move to the woodpile and stack four logs by the stove for the night. The motion settles me. Task, completion, control.
“You eat dinner?” I ask.
“I had a granola bar. Around four.”
Six hours ago. I swear under my breath, pull a pot from the hook, and set it on the stove top. “Soup. Be ready in twenty minutes.”
She opens her mouth, no doubt to protest.
“I’m making it anyway.” I cut her off before she can argue.
She closes her mouth and nods.
I work in silence. An onion, cloves of garlic, canned broth, and dried herbs from a labeled jar. Pre-chopped vegetables come out of the freezer. I add rice, stir, and cover.
I feel her watching. Know it without turning.
“Can I help?” she asks.
“No.”
“I’m good at chopping.”
“Don’t need chopping.”
“Then I can—”
“Sit.” I gesture toward the chair. “You were driving in a whiteout. You need to warm up. Sit.”
She sits.
Wind rattles the windows. The fire pops. I stir the soup. Rosemary and garlic scents fill the cabin.
“You live here alone?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“Year-round?”
“Yeah.”
“That must be…” She hesitates. “Quiet.”
“That’s the point.”
She doesn’t ask more. Smart woman.
I portion out two bowls when the rice is tender and give her the one with a spoon. She takes it carefully, as if I might change my mind.
“Thank you,” she says.
I take the other bowl to the counter. Standing while I eat makes it easier to move if the fire needs tending.
She eats slowly, taking small, methodical bites. “It’s good. Really good.”
“It’s soup.”
“Still.”
I finish mine, rinse the bowl, and place it in the drying rack. Her bowl’s still half full, but she’s slowing down, her eyelids heavy.
The lights flicker.
She tenses.
“Thunder-snow,” I say. “Electrical charge in the clouds. Power’ll hold.”
“Okay.”
It flickers again. Then goes out.
She gasps.
The generator kicks in three seconds later, and the lights come back, dimmer but steady.
“Told you,” I say.
She exhales. “Right. Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. Just listen.”
I grab the lanterns from the shelf and light two: one for the main room and one for the hallway. Candles come next. I set three on the table and spread them for even light. The cabin softens, shadows pooling in the corners.
“This is normal?” she asks.
“Up here, yeah. The grid goes out during every big storm. Generator’s the backup. Lanterns and candles are the backup to the backup.”
“You’re very prepared.”
“I’m alive.”
She blinks at that. Then nods, like it makes sense.
I check the window. Snow’s still coming down sideways. Visibility is zero. Temperature’s dropping fast, single digits at least.
“How long have you been in Lush Hollow?” she asks.
I turn. She’s watching me like she’s curious. That’s the last thing I want her to be. “Long enough.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the one you’re getting.”
Her mouth quirks. Almost a smile. “Fair.”
I move to the fire, add another log, then adjust the damper. Heat pours off the stove in waves.
“You said you’re new,” I say. “Three months. Where are you from?”
“Spokane.” She sets her bowl on the table, empty now. “I needed a change. Fresh start. Lush Hollow seemed… I don’t know. Real.”
“It’s real. Also small. And everyone knows everything.”
“I noticed.” She tucks a curl behind her ear. “But I like it. People here see each other. Not—” She stops. “Never mind.”
“Not just what?”
She hesitates. “Look past you. Like you’re furniture.”
The words land quietly but heavily. I know that feeling. “You volunteering to be seen?”
“I’d like to be.” Her gaze flicks to mine. “I’m tired of being useful but forgettable.”
There it is. The wound.
I should leave it alone. Not my business.
Instead, I say, “You drove up a mountain in a storm to deliver cookies. That’s not forgettable.”
Her face shifts. Surprise and then gratitude. She stares at her lap. “Doing my job.”
“Your job’s within the town limits. This is past that.”
“Mr. Wilde put you on the list. He must think you need checking on.”
“Eli meddles.”
“Sounds like he cares.”
I grunt. “Same thing.”
She laughs. The sound is soft and unexpected. “Well. You got me anyway.”
Yeah. I did.
The storm roars louder. A branch cracks somewhere outside, sharp as a gunshot. She flinches.
“Just a tree,” I say. “Happens.”
“How do you stay so calm?”
“Practice.”
“Military?”
I pause. Then nod once. “Yeah.”
“What branch?”
“Army. Special operations support.”
“That sounds…intense.”
“It was.”
She tilts her head, assessing me. “Do you miss it?”
“No.” The answer comes fast.
I don’t miss the noise, the orders, and waiting for the next thing to go wrong. But I miss the clarity. Mission. Objective. Execute. Out here, it’s me and the mountain. Sometimes the quiet lets the past creep in.
“What about you?” I redirect, not wanting to talk about myself. “What’d you do in Spokane?”
“Retail management. Home goods store. I was an assistant manager for four years.”
“Why’d you leave?”
She bites her lip. “I kept waiting for them to promote me. They kept hiring from outside. Said I was ‘too valuable in my current role.’ Which means you’re useful where you are, so stay there.”
“That’s garbage.”
“Yeah.” She glances at the fire. “My mom said I was being dramatic when I quit. That I was throwing away stability. My dad...” She pauses. “He remarried when I was thirteen and lives in Florida with his new family now. We exchange Christmas cards. That’s about it.”
“So no one tried to stop you from leaving.”
“No one had a reason to. My coworkers were nice enough, but we weren’t actually friends.
They were people you grab lunch with but who never invite you to their lives outside work.
” She wraps her hands around her mug. “When I told them I was quitting and moving, they said, ‘good for you,’ and that was it. Haven’t heard from any of them since. ”
My jaw tightens. The picture she’s painting… “So you left everything and had nothing holding you there.”
“Exactly. My grandmother died when I was twelve. She was the only person who made me feel seen. Who remembered my favorite cookies. When she died, I lost that. I’ve been looking for it ever since.”
“How’s it working out?”
“Ask me tomorrow.”
Fair.
The wind shifts. Snow pelts the east window now, so hard it sounds like gravel.
She stands. “I should let you sleep. You’ve done plenty.”
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“Just the bedroom.”
“Right.” I stand too. “Door locks. Latch is simple. Bathroom’s stocked with towels and the basics. Anything else, ask.”
“I will.” She picks up the cookie tin from the table and holds it out. “I almost forgot. These are for you.”
I take it. “Thanks.”
“Snickerdoodles. I made them this morning.”
“I’ll eat them tomorrow.”
“They’re good with coffee.”
“Noted.”
She smiles. The warmth of it hits differently than it should.
My ribs tighten.
“Goodnight, Cole,” she says.
“Night.”
She heads toward the hallway, then stops. “The storm. It’ll be clear by tomorrow?”
“By the afternoon, yeah. I’ll get your car running. The sheriff will have the roads open by evening.”
She nods, looking relieved. Another emotion flickers across her face too fast to name.
She disappears into the bedroom. The door clicks shut. The lock slides into place.
Good.
I bank the fire and check the candles, blowing out two and leaving one burning low on the table. The generator hums steadily. The cabin’s warm and secure.
I head toward the ladder to the loft, then stop.
The storage closet door is cracked open. Just an inch. I must’ve knocked it when I grabbed the blankets earlier.
I know what I should do: close it, walk past, and ignore it.
Instead, I open the door fully. The cardboard box sits on the top shelf. Corners battered. Lid taped shut three years ago. Never reopened.
Emma’s ornaments.
Red and gold glass. Wooden stars she carved in high school. The angel topper she insisted on every year. Garland that she strung herself while humming carols off-key.
All of it was packed away the Christmas after the accident.
My teeth clench. I close my eyes.
Then I shove the door closed. Hard. It bounces open an inch.
I leave it.
The box isn’t going anywhere. Neither is the past.
I climb the ladder to the loft and strip down to my boxers and a T-shirt. The bed’s cold as always, so I pull the quilt up and stare at the beams overhead.
Holly’s sleeping in Emma’s guest room. Tomorrow, I’ll send her back down the mountain.
One night. That’s it.
Wind howls. I close my eyes.
I count backward from ten. Usually, it quiets the noise in my head.
Tonight, it doesn’t work. And I already know why.
In the morning, I climb down and rebuild the fire. Add coffee to the percolator. The cabin’s cold enough to see my breath until the stove kicks heat into the room.
The cold has a dry and sharp quality up here, the kind that makes your lungs ache if you breathe too deeply.
I blow on my hands while the kindling catches, watching flames lick around the bark until it crackles and pops, sending sparks up toward the chimney.
The percolator starts its familiar rhythm, and the smell of brewing coffee cuts through the woodsmoke.
The bedroom door’s still closed.
Good. Let her sleep.
I pull on boots and a jacket, then head outside.
The snow has stopped. Three feet are piled in drifts that swallow the porch steps. The sky’s low and gray, but the wind’s dropped. The generator shed is clear. But Holly’s car is buried to the windows.
I dig a path to the car and pop the hood. Same problems. Worse in daylight. An hour later, the repairs are done.
The cabin door opens. Holly steps onto the porch in the same thermals she wore yesterday, my too-big socks, and no coat.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Checking on you.”
“I’m fine. Get back inside.”
“I can help.”
“No.”
“Cole—”
“Inside. Now.”
She frowns but doesn’t move. “I’m not helpless.”
“Didn’t say you were. Said get inside before you lose heat.”
Her chin lifts. Stubborn.
The cold’s already turning her fingers red.
I close the hood and walk toward her with my tools in hand. “You want to help? Stay warm. Don’t make me haul you to the ER with frostbite.”
“I’m fine.”
“Your lips are turning blue.”
She touches them and frowns.
I reach the porch. “Holly.”
“I just wanted to—”
Her boot slips.
Ice under the snow. She goes down hard, headed for the edge of the steps.
I drop the tools and catch her. One arm goes around her waist while the other braces on the porch rail. She slams into me, and I absorb the impact, my boots locked.
She gasps.
“Got you,” I say.
Her fists dig into my jacket. She’s shaking. Cold or adrenaline, maybe both. “I didn’t see the ice.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re okay.”
I lift her. She’s soft in all the right places.
“I’m too heavy,” she protests.
“You’re not.” She feels perfect. I carry her inside and kick the door shut behind me.
“Cole, you don’t have to—”
“Stop talking.”
I set her by the fire, take her cold fingers in mine, and rub them.
“You always this stubborn?” I ask.
“Only when I feel useless.”
“You’re not useless. You’re ignoring common sense.”
“I was outside for two minutes.”
“Long enough.” I let go of her. “Stay. Here.”
I grab a towel from the bathroom and come back. Her hair’s damp from the dripping snow off the roof. I drape the towel over her head and dry the wet strands.
She goes still. “What are you doing?”
“You’re wet. Wet means cold.”
“I can do it myself.”
“I’m doing it.”
I work in sections. Squeeze, blot, move. Her hair’s soft between my fingers, curling slightly as it dries. It smells like my soap. Cedar and a hint of spice. Cinnamon. Vanilla. A scent that’s her.
My movements are slow. I force myself to keep going.
When her hair’s dry enough, I pull the towel away. She looks up at me, eyes wide and cheeks flushed pink from the fire.
I step back. “Better?”
“Yeah.” Her voice is quiet. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now stay put.”
“I will.”
“Say it again so I believe you.”
Her mouth quirks. “I’ll stay put, Cole.”
“Good.”
I move to the kitchen and pour two mugs of coffee. Hand her one.
She wraps both palms around the cup like yesterday. “You’re very good at this.”
“At what?”
“Taking care of people.”
I grunt. “I’m good at keeping people alive. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?”
Yeah. There is.
Because keeping someone alive is about protocols, decisions, and not freezing.
Taking care of them is softer. Harder. More personal.
I stopped doing that when Emma died. Learned that being competent doesn’t matter if you’re not there when it counts.
“Drink your coffee,” I say.
She does.
I stare at the fire and tell myself this is fine. Roads will open this afternoon. She’ll leave.
Then I’ll go back to the quiet.
Where I belong.