Page 7 of Daddy of the Mountain

"Stranded where?!"

"Some cabin," I said. "Middle of nowhere. Got caught in a storm, twisted my ankle. This guy found me, carried me here. He’s . . ." I hesitated, glancing at the door like he might barge in any second. "He’s taking care of me. I think."

Pam went quiet for half a beat. Then her voice dropped into something suspiciously close to a purr.

"Taking care of you, huh?"

"Not like that!" I snapped, heat rushing to my face. "He's just—"

"Uh-huh," she cut in, clearly not buying it. "Let me guess. Tall? Broody? Built like a damn lumberjack?"

"Pam . . ."

"Don’t you 'Pam' me! You’re living my dream right now, Ally. Snowstorm, mysterious mountain man? Come on, tell me he’s hot."

"Goodbye, Pam," I said, ready to hang up then and there.

"Wait, wait, wait!" she squealed. "Okay, fine, I’ll stop. But seriously, are you sure you’re okay? Do I need to call someone?"

I glanced at the radio again, its dials catching the dim light. Silas’s coat hung heavy near the door, a quiet reminder of the man who owned it.

"I’m fine," I said softly. "Really. I think I’m gonna be okay. I’ve got two weeks off work. I’m hoping I’ll be able to have at least a little vacation time while I’m here. At least it’s peaceful."

"And this guy . . . what are we working with here? Details, Ally. Height? Beard? Chest situation?"

"Pam," I warned, though I felt heat rising to my cheeks as I pictured him again. "He’s tall. Like, really tall. Dangerous-looking. Built like he chops trees for fun."

"Jesus Christ, girl. Are you sure this isn’t a fever dream?" She laughed, this high-pitched squeal that made me want to hang up right there.

"I mean, yeah, he’s good-looking, but he’s also bossy as hell."

"Good-lookingandbossy? God, you’re killing me." Pam’s voice dropped into something teasing, almost conspiratorial. "Total mountain Daddy energy, or am I reading too much into this?"

"Pam!" My face burned hotter, and I suddenly wished I could crawl under the table. "Can you not?"

"Why not? You’re stuck in a snowstorm with a hot lumberjack who sounds like he’d spank you for misbehaving. If that’s not fate, I don’t know what is."

"Goodbye." I reached for the phone, ready to end the call then and there.

"All right," Pam relented, though she still sounded skeptical. "But promise me you’ll call if you need me."

"Promise."

I hung up, and tucked my phone into my pocket.

My attention drifted to a journal, resting on a desk by the window. My fingers brushed the leather cover. It was rough, like it had seen years of use. I flipped it open, my curiosity outweighing my better judgment.

The handwriting inside was sharp and angular, each stroke deliberate. No wasted space, no messy scribbles. The first few pages were filled with numbers and dates—weather patterns, snowfall measurements, things I couldn’t make sense of. I turned another page and froze.

"February 3rd. Found three hikers near Bear Claw Ridge. Hypothermia was setting in. Got them to the ranger station before nightfall."

Another entry. Another rescue. This one detailed pulling a woman out of a ravine after she slipped on ice. Each story was written like a report: matter-of-fact, no embellishments. Just the facts.

So Silashaddone this before. Saved people. Over and over again. My chest tightened as I ran my fingers over the ink, feeling the weight of every word. This wasn’t a hobby for him. This was his life.

I leaned forward, scanning the next page. Something about snares—sketches of loops and knots, instructions on which trees were best for setting them. Then a page covered edge to edge with narrow sketches of animal tracks, their shapes labeled in neat block letters. Deer, rabbit, fox. There were notes on herbs too—"good for fever" next to one plant, "poison" scrawled under another.

My mind wandered to my cubicle back home. Beige walls, fluorescent lights. The only mountain there was the mountain of emails I couldn’t care less about. I’d spent so much time chasing promotions, deadlines, numbers on a spreadsheet that would all blur together in a year. Meaningless. Compared to this—a life carved out of raw wilderness—it all seemed so small.

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