Page 3 of Daddy of the Mountain

"Almost got you," he muttered, more to himself than to me.

And then, just as quickly as he’d appeared, the weight of the snow disappeared. My body sagged, limp and useless, as he hoisted me out of the icy tomb. Warmth radiated from him, eventhrough layers of snow-dampened wool. Against the biting cold, it felt like salvation.

The world swayed as he lifted me, my body limp and useless in his arms. I felt the jolt of movement, the shift from cold, unyielding snow to something solid—him. Coarse wool scratched against my cheek, carrying a faint scent of pine and smoke. My head lolled against his chest, and through the thick layers, I could hear it: the steady thump of his heartbeat. Alive. Warm. Real.

I tried to speak, to ask him who he was or how he’d found me, but my throat was raw, my lips frozen shut. A weak rasp was all I managed. He didn’t answer—not a word or even a glance down at me. Instead, he adjusted his grip, one arm bracing under my knees, the other around my back. He carried me like I weighed nothing, like it wasn’t a struggle at all.

The panic still gnawed at the edges of my mind, but relief started to seep in, slow and tentative. Someone had found me. I wasn’t alone anymore.

The wind howled around us, angry and relentless. Snow lashed at my face, sharp and stinging. Branches scraped across his shoulders as we moved, the sound rough and hollow, like brittle bones snapping. I squinted against the storm, trying to make sense of where we were going, but everything blurred together—white, gray, black. His steps were sure, deliberate, even as the ground tilted beneath us. I couldn’t understand how he seemed so unaffected by the chaos raging around us.

My foot throbbed in time with my heartbeat, every pulse sharp and searing. The pain dragged me back into my body, made the cold feel sharper, the air thinner. I opened my mouth again, desperate to say something.Thank you. My name is Alana. Where are we going?But no words came out. Just a low, pitiful moan that made me cringe inwardly.

His arm tightened slightly, pulling me closer to his chest. It wasn’t much, just a small gesture, but it silenced the panic clawing at my ribs. He knew. Somehow, in his silence, he knew. Whether it was fear or gratitude twisting inside me, he didn’t let go. He kept walking, step after step, pushing through the storm like it was nothing more than an inconvenience.

"Stay awake," I thought I heard him mutter, his voice low and gruff, barely audible over the wind. Or maybe I imagined it. All I could do was press my face into his chest, breathing in the scent of damp wool and sweat, and hope he wouldn’t let me slip away.

*

The door banged shut behind us, cutting off the storm like a slammed book. The sudden quiet rang in my ears. I blinked, disoriented by the dim light from a single lantern swinging on a hook near the wall. The air inside was warmer—barely—but it carried the sharp, earthy scent of woodsmoke and something faintly metallic. My head swam.

He didn’t pause. He ducked low, his broad shoulders brushing the edges of the doorway, then crossed to the fire in long, deliberate strides. I caught flashes of the room: a roughly made table, a row of wooden hooks holding coats and gear, a stack of firewood that looked like it had been chopped by someone who didn’t shy away from hard work. Everything felt raw, utilitarian. No wasted space. No frills.

"Down," he said, his voice gruff but steady.

Before I could process the word, he shifted me in his arms, crouching to lay me down on a bundle of blankets near the fire. The movement sent a fresh jolt of pain shooting through my ankle. I sucked in a sharp breath and bit down on a cry, but it forced its way out anyway—a hiss, shaky and involuntary. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes.

"Easy," he muttered, not looking at me. His hands were already moving, pulling another blanket over my legs like it was second nature. Like this wasn’t the first time he’d hauled someone half-dead into this cabin.

"Wait—" I croaked, my voice barely above a whisper. "What—"

"Quiet." It wasn’t harsh, exactly, but there was no wiggle room in that tone. His focus had already shifted. He crouched beside me, one knee planted on the floorboards, and reached for my injured foot.

"Hey—" My protest died as soon as his hands touched me. Gentle. Firm. Too warm against the freezing ache of my skin. He worked quickly, fingers untying the laces of my boot with practiced precision. I flinched when the boot slid free, the motion sending another spark of agony up my leg.

"Broken?" he asked, mostly to himself, his brow furrowed as he studied the swelling. His hands hovered for a moment, then pressed lightly along the bone. I gasped before I could stop myself.

"Sorry," he grunted. Not much sympathy in the word. Just acknowledgment. But his touch softened, thumb trailing just above the worst of the swelling like he could assess the damage without making it worse. His fingers were rough, calloused, but steady. No hesitation. Like he did this all the time. Like he knew exactly how much pressure I could take before it pushed me past the breaking point.

"Who—" I tried again, my voice cracking. "Who are you?"

"Don’t move," he said instead. Again, no wiggle room. He stripped off his gloves, tucking them into his belt, and tore a strip of cloth from somewhere—I couldn’t see where, my vision blurring from the pain.

"Hey," I managed, forcing the word out between shallow breaths. "You could—you could explain what’s going on."

"Later." That one came with a glance. Brief but sharp. His eyes locked on mine, and for a second, the air shifted. Dark. Intense. Like he was sizing me up, deciding if I was worth answering or just another problem to fix. Then his focus snapped back to my foot.

"Unbelievable," I muttered, mostly to myself. But he heard. One corner of his mouth twitched—maybe amusement, maybe irritation. Hard to tell. He wrapped the cloth around my ankle, tight enough to make me wince but not so tight I couldn’t breathe through it.

"Too swollen to splint for now," he said under his breath. His words were clipped, efficient, like narrating the situation helped him stay grounded. Or maybe it was for my benefit. Hard to say.

"Are you a doctor or . . . ?" The question trailed off, half-swallowed by the crackling fire and the tension knotting my chest.

"Not even close." This time, there was a trace of humor in his voice. Dry. Barely there. His hands lingered for half a second longer than necessary, cradling my foot like it might shatter under too much weight. Then he pulled back, sitting back on his heels, eyes still on me. Still assessing.

"That’ll hold for now," he said. And just like that, he stood, towering over me again, his shadow flickering against the walls.

I wanted to sit up, to demand answers, to push back against the quiet control radiating off him like heat from the fire. But my body wouldn’t cooperate. My ankle throbbed in time with my heartbeat, and my chest felt tight—like the panic from earlier was still lurking, waiting for its chance to pounce.

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