Page 10 of Daddy of the Mountain

"You're starin'," he said without looking up.

My face went hot. “I wasn’t,” I mumbled, glancing away.

"Uh-huh." He set the knife down, the soft clink of metal on wood louder than it should’ve been in the quiet. “You hungry?”

Before I could answer, he was already moving toward the stove. The heavy boots he wore barely made a sound on the wooden floor, which seemed impossible given his size. He lifted the lid off a pot and stirred whatever was inside with a long-handled spoon. Steam rose, carrying the scent of something earthy and rich that made my stomach growl.

"Rabbit," he said, answering the question I hadn’t asked. "And some herbs. Not fancy, but it'll stick to your ribs."

"Sounds good." My voice came out softer than I meant it to, almost shy. I hated that. Hated how small I felt around him sometimes, like I didn’t belong in the same space.

He ladled some into a bowl, chipped along the rim, and brought it over to me. His hand brushed mine as I reached for it—not on purpose, just a quick, accidental touch—but it sent a little jolt through me anyway. I kept my eyes on the stew, pretending not to notice.

"Thanks," I said quietly.

"Mm." He grunted, already turning back to the stove.

The first bite was . . . different. Gamey, yes, but not bad. It coated my tongue with warmth that spread down to my stomach, chasing away the last bit of chill in my bones. I ate slowly, trying to make it last.

"You know how to cook," I tried again, aiming for casual.

"Been livin’ off this mountain a long time," he said, his voice quieter than usual. For once, he wasn’t brushing me off completely.

"How do you know what’s safe to eat?"

He looked at me then, really looked, like he was deciding whether or not to bother answering. Finally, he leaned back against the counter, arms crossed. "Trial and error. You learn quick what works. What doesn’t."

"Like those herbs you use?" I pressed.

"Some help with flavor," he admitted. "Others keep you from gettin’ sick. Pine needles’ll fight off scurvy if you steep ‘em right. Birch bark can help with fever."

"Scurvy? What are we, pirates?"

"Could be worse." There was a flicker—just a flicker—of amusement in his eyes. Gone almost as soon as it appeared.

"Still," I said, holding the bowl close to my chest, "it’s impressive. Most people wouldn’t have a clue."

"Most people don’t stick around long enough to learn."

“You know they have a walmart down in the town.”

He smirked. “Not really one for . . . talking.”

Every few bites, I glanced at him, watching the way he moved. There was something careful about him, even in the smallest gestures. Like he was always holding himself back.

"So, how long have you been up here?" I asked after a while.

"Long enough." He didn’t look at me, just added another log to the fire, the sparks flaring briefly before settling again.

"By yourself?"

"Mostly." Short answers, clipped. Like he didn’t want me prying too deep.

"Must get lonely," I said, testing the waters.

"Doesn't bother me." He turned then, fixing me with those dark eyes of his. They weren’t unkind, exactly, just . . . unreadable. Like the snow outside. “Eat your stew.”

I bit my lip, swallowing the retort that bubbled up. Fine. If he wanted silence, he could have it. But that didn’t stop the questions buzzing in my head, louder than ever. Who was he? Why did he stay up here, alone and half-wild? And why, despite his gruffness, did I feel so safe with him?

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