Page 13 of Daddy of the Mountain

His shoulders rose with a slow inhale. He shook his head once, then turned toward the stove. The movement dismissed me without saying a word. He crouched by the fire, reaching for the poker to stoke the embers. Metal scraped against metal, loud enough to fill the space between us.

"Because you’re not in the right headspace," he said finally, without turning around. The clank of the poker against the iron stove softened his words, but I heard them clear as day. "And I’m not punishin’ you for the sake of punishin’. I’m keepin’ you safe. That’s all."

"Safe," I repeated under my breath, the word sticking to my ribs like honey. It didn’t sound real coming from him. Didn’t match the picture I’d built of this gruff, untouchable mountain man who lived alone with his ghosts. But there it was, plain as anything. Safe.

"Yeah," he said, standing upright again. He tossed another log into the flames, the wood popping under the heat. "Safe." He turned back to face me, brown eyes darker now in the flickering light. "Not scared. Not humiliated. Safe. Now, let me see that ankle. You’re probably fine, you can probably walk on it. But I want to check."

He crouched in front of me, rough hands steady as he unwound the bandage around my ankle. The firelight threw sharp lines across his face, catching on the curve of his jaw and the furrow of his brow. I wanted to look anywhere else—out the window, at the books stacked against the wall—but his closeness pinned me in place.

"Keep still," he muttered, voice low, like gravel dragging under boots. His fingers brushed my skin, light but deliberate, and I flinched before I could stop myself. He didn’t comment, just kept working, peeling back the fabric until my swollen ankle was bare again.

"Doesn’t hurt that bad," I said, more out of habit than truth. My ankle throbbed, a deep ache radiating up my leg, but saying it aloud felt like giving him one more thing to hold over me.

"Uh-huh." His grunt didn’t even pretend to believe me.

"You call this bedside manner?" I shot back, sharper than I’d intended. His lips twitched, almost a smirk, but it was gone before I could be sure.

"This ain’t a hospital, Ally. You want sweet words and hand-holding, you’re in the wrong place."

I hated how my stomach flipped when he said my name. “Noted,” I said, crossing my arms tighter over my chest. The corner of the chair dug into my back.

He finished tying off the bandage, sitting back on his heels to study his work. For a second, he didn’t move, didn’t say anything, just stared at my ankle like it held the answer to some question he hadn’t asked yet. Then he stood, towering over me again.

"That’ll hold," he said. "Long as you don’t go sneakin’ off again."

"Didn’t sneak," I muttered, knowing full well it wasn’t true. His eyes narrowed, and I squirmed under the weight of his stare. “I was just looking at the view.”

"Don’t test me, Ally." His voice dropped, soft but firm. It sent a shiver down my spine.

"Yeah, yeah," I mumbled, waving a hand like I couldn’t care less. But my pulse jumped when he stepped closer, close enough that I caught the faint scent of pine and smoke clinging to him. My breath hitched, and I hated myself for it.

"Look at me," he said, quiet but commanding.

I dragged my gaze up, slow, defiant, daring him to call me out. His brown eyes locked onto mine, steady as bedrock. No anger there, just . . . intensity. Like he could see straight through all my bravado.

"Next time you pull somethin’ like that," he said, voice low enough to make the hair on my arms stand up, "you’re gonna regret it. Clear?"

"Crystal," I snapped, trying to sound braver than I felt. His mouth curved again, that almost-smile that wasn’t quite kind.

"Good." He turned away, walking back toward the stove with an ease that grated on me.

My cheeks burned hotter than the fire.

Chapter 4

The next day, my ankle definitely felt a little better, and the snow was getting less thick. When I’d first met Silas, I worried that he might be kidnapping me. But the longer I spent with him, the more I felt as though I really could trust him.

“Soon as the weather breaks, and you’re back on your feet, we’ll get you back down to Snowview,” he said. And weirdly, the more he said it, the more I felt as though I was going to miss him.

Today, the cabin smelled like bacon grease and soap. I sat on the stool by the sink, my foot propped up on a stack of towels, swirling a chipped mug through the soapy water. My reflection wobbled in the suds—red hair tied back in a messy knot, cheeks pink from the heat of the fire across the room.

I’d insisted on helping, but that didn’t mean that Silas wasn’t bossing me around.

"Don’t slosh it around too much," Silas said over his shoulder. He was at the stove, spatula in hand, flipping something in a pan. His voice was soft, though still rough as sandpaper.

"Yes, sir," I muttered under my breath, but not quiet enough. He turned his head just slightly, one thick eyebrow lifting, but hedidn’t say anything. Instead, he exhaled sharply—more huff than sigh—and went back to cooking.

I pressed my lips together to keep from smirking. That little flicker of annoyance felt like a win. I could live with that. Better than the cold silence or barked orders from before.

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