Page 11 of Daddy of the Mountain

The cabin pressed in on me. Four walls, a low ceiling, and the creak of wood under my restless steps when I dared to stand. Every inch was familiar now—the stack of rough-cut logs by the fireplace, the battered tin kettle on the stove, the single chair that groaned under Silas’s weight when he sat. Even the shelves, lined with tools and books too worn to read without squinting, had become part of the scenery.

It had been days now, maybe a week—I wasn’t sure anymore. The snow outside fell in relentless waves, soft and steady, muffling everything. Silas moved around me like one of the shadows cast by the firelight, quiet, deliberate. He didn’t talk much, and when he did, it was all short answers and gruff instructions. Rest your ankle. Stay put. Let me handle it.

Ihatedhim handling everything.

But I couldn’t deny his care. The man had patched me up, fed me, kept me warm. And my ankle? Better every day. Still tender when I pushed too hard, but bearable now. I could stand, even walk a little when he wasn’t looking. He didn’t have to know.

Outside the window, the storm finally loosened its grip. The snow eased into thin streaks, drifting lazily against the glass. Pale light crept through the trees and spilled over the cabin floorboards.

Silas stepped out again early that morning, muttering about kindling or traps. He never explained much, just grabbed his gear and left. The door had closed behind him with a low thud, leaving me alone.

And this time, something shifted.

I stared at the door for a good five minutes. Maybe more. My breath came quick, chest tight with… I don’t know what. Curiosity? Defiance? Both? My pulse thudded hard enough I could feel it in my ankle.

"Just look," I told myself under my breath. "You’re not breaking any rules if you just look."

His coat hung by the door, thick wool, worn soft in some places and scratchy in others. It smelled faintly of pine and smoke—his smell. I slipped it off the hook and swung it over my shoulders. It swallowed me whole, the hem brushing my knees, the sleeves dangling past my hands.

"Perfect," I muttered, tugging the collar closer to my face.

The door gave way easily, barely protesting as I eased it open. Cold air rushed in, sharp and biting, cutting through me like a blade. I sucked in a breath, unprepared for how crisp and clean it tasted. It stung my lungs, but in the best way, waking me up better than any coffee ever had.

One step forward. Then another.

The porch creaked under my weight, the sound startling in the quiet. I hesitated, glancing back over my shoulder, half-expecting to see Silas standing there, arms crossed, scowling. But the cabin was still. Empty.

"Get a grip, Ally," I whispered, shaking my head.

Snow spread out in every direction, untouched and glittering like crushed glass. The forest beyond seemed to lean in close, branches heavy with frost.

The valley stretched out below me, endless and quiet, like something from a dream. I hadn’t expected it to look like this—so vast, so untouched. It was the kind of beauty that made your chest hurt, like you couldn’t take in enough of it no matter how hard you tried. Pines dusted with snow dotted the slopes, their dark green needles poking through the white, and far-off ridges rolled one after another, fading into pale blue shadows.

I pulled Silas’s coat tighter around me, the heavy wool swallowing my frame. My ankle throbbed, a dull, nagging ache, but I ignored it. Just a few more steps, I thought, my boots crunching softly against the snow. I needed to see more. To feel more. The porch was too confining, too small. Out here, the air was sharp and bracing, cutting through the fog in my head. I felt alive again, awake in a way I hadn’t since before all this started.

Testing my weight carefully, I stepped past the edge of the porch, where the snow grew thicker. My breath puffed out in front of me in little clouds as I moved forward, slow and deliberate. The slope dipped gently ahead of me, leading toward the treeline. If I could just reach it, I’d have a better view of the valley, maybe even spot a trail or some sign of where we were.

"Almost there," I murmured under my breath, though no one was listening. Another step, then another. The snow crunched differently here, giving slightly underfoot. I winced as my ankle protested, but I didn’t stop.

And then, just as I reached the first tree—a towering pine draped in frost—I heard it. A low, steady crunch, deliberate and measured, coming up behind me. My stomach dropped. I froze mid-step, heart hammering as I turned.

Silas stood there, arms full of kindling, his broad shoulders cutting an imposing figure against the stark white backdrop. His face was unreadable at first—eyes fixed on me, mouth set in a hard line. The silence between us stretched, thick and heavy, until the disappointment hit me like a punch to the gut.

"Did I say you could be out here?" His voice was quiet and calm, but there was an edge to it, sharp enough to make me flinch. The steel in his words left no room for argument, no space to wiggle my way out of what I’d done.

"I was just—" The excuses tumbled out before I could stop them. "I wasn’t going far. My ankle’s fine. I just needed some fresh—"

"Don’t." He cut me off without raising his voice. The kindling shifted in his arms as he took another step closer, boots crunching against the snow. His eyes pinned me in place, unblinking, unrelenting.

Heat crawled up my neck, pooling in my cheeks. I wanted to argue, to fire back with something sharp and defiant, but the words died on my tongue. Under that gaze, every excuse, every justification I’d rehearsed in my head felt flimsy and childish.

"Get back to the cabin," he said finally, voice low but firm. He didn’t yell. He didn’t need to. The weight of his disapproval hung heavy in the air, pressing down on me harder than any raised voice ever could.

The cabin door groaned on its hinges as I pushed it open, stepping inside and shrugging off his coat. It slipped from my shoulders and landed in a heap by the hearth. I didn’t pick it up. My ankle throbbed, sharp and insistent now, but I kept my chin high, refusing to limp no matter how much it hurt.

He came in after, his presence filling the small room like a storm cloud rolling in. The kindling hit the floor by the hearth with a dull clatter, and then he turned to face me.

"You know better." His voice was low, calm, but there was nothing soft about it. Each word landed heavy, clipped, like stones dropping one by one into a quiet pond. "You’re hurt. Could’ve slipped, done more damage. Or the snow gives way beneath you. Or you get turned around. Get disorientated."

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