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He didn’t say for how long, though. As soon as his truck disappears, I’ll be on my own.

I stare out at the blackening forest and pretend I don’t feel my pulse high up in my throat where I can’t swallow it down.

When we finally reach the cabin, it’s barely more than a shadow among the trees.

Inside, it’s simple, cold, and pitch-black.

“Feel free to make yourself at home,” Gideon says, flipping on a light. He moves quickly with an efficiency that screams he can’t wait to leave, running me through a quick tour: wood stove, generator switch, the stairs to the loft.

“Extra blankets.” He gestures to a rustic pine chest in the living room next to the fireplace. “Water’s good to drink. Phone signal’s spotty, but there’s a radio in the kitchen closet that works if you need anything.”

I park my hands on my hips and survey the small space just as a hard blast of wind slams into the windows, making me forget whatever I was about to say next. The storm is rolling in for real now.

“Thanks for the ride,” I sigh, raising my hand, displaying the room like it’s a prize on a game show. “For everything. Truly. Thank you.”

“No problem. Have a good night.” Gideon moves to the entrance and stands there a second longer, giving nothing away on his face in the dim light. Then he turns the knob and heads for his truck in a blast of snow.

I lock up behind him and hurry to the window. He’s halfway to the driver’s side door when he stops, shrugs out of his coat and comes back up the steps. I unlock and open the door before he can reach the handle. “Did you forget something?”

Without a word he casually settles the shearling jacket over my shoulders and says, “You’re going to stand in the window and watch me drive away in a sweater? It’ll take a little while for this place to warm up.”

“But you’ll freeze out there.”

“I’ve frozen for dumber reasons.” He chuckles, smoothing the collar so it covers my neck.

The coat still holds his heat and smells like pine and soap. It’s so intimate I want to keep it on forever or hand it back immediately. The only thing I manage to force out is, “Thanks again.”

“You got it. Lock up behind me,” and with a nod he’s out the door.

I peer out the front window and watch the truck’s headlights sweep across the trees before disappearing down the mountain, leaving me alone with the wind.

After trying for a half hour to get a text through to Maya, I give up. There’s nothing to do out here. No TV, no music, and there isn’t anything to read except a few old issues of Guns & Ammo and Field & Stream. I decide to keep myself busy by doing what I always do to soothe myself.

The oven works and I have my tools with me. I think I can manage to whip something up. I check the fridge and see that some little cabin angel stocked it with milk, eggs, and butter.

There’s sugar and flour in the cabinet. No canned pumpkin, but there are fresh bananas on the counter. I’m feeling better already and grab my hard case. The pie is in the oven within an hour and I finally start to relax.

I kill time while it’s baking by reading a fascinating article about a multi-week fly-fishing expedition through the remote, bear-filled wilderness of Alaska’s Brooks Range, which only makes this little cabin feel cozier.

When I take the pie out of the oven and set it on the counter, the power goes out.

***

Gideon

The storm hits the second I drop below the ridge. Wind slams the truck sideways, and in the distance, power lines flicker. My brothers are out in this mess. A knot forms in my gut. For a heartbeat I wish I could be with them, but it’s a good thing one of us stayed close to home.

I do what I said I would and check on Mom first. Then I text our family group thread and swing by each cabin that still has someone home. Sierra’s bundled up on Zephyr’s couch reading. Her belly’s so round and low it looks like she’s balancing a watermelon under her sweater.

Eva has the wood stove roaring at Slade’s, and Winter and Lyssa are accounted for. Everyone has heat, water, and a plan if the lines go down completely. I should go back to my place and stay put.

But I can’t shake the image of her face when she joked about streetlights, or the white-knuckled way she clutched the seatbelt. Her vanilla-and-sugar scent lingers in the front seat, haunting me. Lila’s a stranger, a grown woman who got herself all the way to Montana. She should be able to handle a night alone. But that cabin is remote as fuck, and this storm doesn’t care about the brave face she’s putting on. I can’t get over the feeling leaving her was a mistake.

I tell myself I’m heading back because Mom would never forgive me if a guest froze. It’s simply a case of logistics, I lie, taking the turnoff to my place. I stop with the engine still running and the wipers frantically slapping against my windshield.

The smart thing would be to go home, text Mom that Lila’s fine, and let the generator handle the rest. I sit there until the cab fills with cold air and my breath fogs the glass. Then I put it in drive and turn the wrong way. Up. Toward the cabin. Toward whatever it is I’m going to have to explain to myself later.

The truck skids a little on the ice and I curse, guiding it out of a spin before I go off the fucking cliff. This is beyond stupid. I’m risking my neck for a woman who probably thinks “roughing it” means a hotel without room service. I should turn around, should’ve done it ten minutes ago.