Page 4 of Daddy of the Mountain

"Thank you," I said finally, the words barely audible.

He didn’t respond. Didn’t nod, didn’t grunt. Just moved toward the fire, his back to me now, shoulders stiff and hulking in the lantern light.

He crouched in front of the stove, the scrape of metal on metal sharp as he swung open the iron door. The firelight spilled over his hands—big, rough, calloused—and up those forearms corded with muscle. He tossed in a log, and sparks leapt like startled fireflies. The cabin brightened instantly, shadows dancing across the walls.

I could see him better now. Really see him. Broad shoulders that stretched the seams of his flannel shirt. Hair that looked like it hadn’t met a comb in years, tangled and wild, just like the scruff covering his face. Not a beard, exactly. More like a whole forest growing there, untamed. His profile was hard angles, his nose straight but a little too sharp, his jaw set like he’d never once smiled in his life.

He stoked the fire, and the heat pushed against my skin, almost too much but not quite. Outside, the snow hissed softly against the cabin walls. It sounded lonely. Trapped. I shivered, the chill clinging to me from before. Or maybe it wasn’t just the cold.

"Thanks again," I said, my voice small, unsure. It hung there in the room, unanswered. He didn’t even glance back. Just closed the stove door with a solid thunk and stood, wiping his hands on his jeans.

"Right," I muttered under my breath. Still no reaction. Okay then.

Testing my weight, I shifted, trying to sit up straighter. Pain shot through my ankle, sharp enough to make me suck in a breath. But I couldn’t stay here. Couldn’t just… let him take care of everything like I was some helpless lump.

"I should go." The words stumbled out before I could catch them. "Back down the mountain. To my place."

His head turned, slow and deliberate, and those eyes—dark, unreadable—landed on me. They pinned me right where I sat,like he could see through every excuse I was about to throw at him.

"Storm’s still going," he said, his voice low and rough, like gravel, wood-chip, the slow burn of coal .

"Yeah, I mean, I figured," I said quickly, feeling the heat crawl into my cheeks. "But it’s not that far, right? My cottage’s just . . ." I waved vaguely, though I had no clue which direction anything was anymore.

He shook his head. One firm motion. Final.

"No."

That was it. Just one word, clipped and absolute, like he was laying down some kind of law. My mouth opened, then shut again. What was I supposed to say to that?

"Look," I tried, softer this time, trying to keep the wobble out of my voice. "I just—I don’t want to be a burden or anything. I can—"

"You're not movin'," he cut in, arms crossing over his chest. The movement made him seem even bigger somehow, like the whole cabin might shrink around him.

"Okay, but—"

"Don’t argue."

The words weren’t loud, but they didn’t need to be. They landed heavy, final, punching all the air out of my lungs.

My cheeks burned hotter. Not just from embarrassment, though that was definitely part of it. There was something about the way he said it, the way helookedat me, that tangled me up inside. Like he wasn’t just refusing—he wasprotecting. And dammit if that didn’t do something to me.

"Fine," I snapped, because what else was I supposed to say?

"Good. Snow makes the trail impassable. Trees mean rescue choppers can’t land. Your phone still working?"

I nodded.

“Tell your friends and family where you are. Afraid your stuck with me till things improve.”

And just like that, he turned away, moving toward the cabinet like the conversation was already done. I glared at his back, my hands curling into fists in the blanket pooled around me. Part of me wanted to yell, to demand answers, to push back against that quiet authority rolling off him in waves.

But another part—the part still aching, shivering, and alive only because of him—stayed silent.

He moved before I could say anything else, pulling a thick woolen blanket from the back of an armchair near the fire. It was coarse and scratchy where it brushed my chin, but the weight of it settled over me like a promise. My body gave in immediately, muscles loosening without my permission.

"Stay put," he muttered. “Don’t make your leg worse.” He didn’t even glance at me as he strode toward the cabinet by the far wall.

I thought about arguing, maybe throwing out some sarcastic quip to break the tension that seemed carved into this cabin like the grooves in the floorboards. But my throat felt tight, words stuck somewhere behind the lump of panic lingering there. Instead, I watched him move. His shoulders shifted under worn flannel as he rummaged through shelves, pulling out a tin and something metal. The clink of a pot on the stove followed.

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