Page 14 of Daddy of the Mountain

"Here." I held out the first plate, dripping slightly despite my best efforts. He reached for it, arm brushing mine for half a second. Warmth prickled along my skin, unexpected, and I pulled back too fast, splashing water onto my lap. "Crap," I hissed, grabbing a nearby towel.

"Careful," he said, low and gruff, glancing at me sideways. There was something unreadable in his face, but he turned back to the stove before I could figure it out.

By the time we finished, the space between us felt . . . easier. Not friendly, exactly, but less sharp-edged. The kind of quiet you don’t mind sitting in, even if you’re not sure why.

"Time to rest your ankle," he said once the dishes were done. He grabbed his knife and a chunk of wood from the windowsill, pulling up a chair by the table. No argument this time—just a quick nod in my direction, like he’d already decided we were done talking for now.

"Bossy," I said lightly, testing the waters.

"Stubborn," he shot back without looking up, his pocketknife flashing silver in the firelight. But there was no bite to it. His lips twitched, almost smiling. Almost.

“You, uh, made a lot of noise in the night.”

My cheeks flushed pink. “Yeah, I have nightmares.”

“Sound scary.”

“Yeah. I always have the same one.”

“Every night?”

I nodded.

“That must suck.”

“Yep. Still. Nothing I can do about it.”

I let myself relax against the blankets on the bed, dragging one across my lap for warmth. The fire popped softly, filling the room with a golden glow.

This wasn’t exactly how I’d expected to be spending my vacation. Still, I had a feeling that my therapist might approve. I felt more stress-free than I had in years.

My eyes wandered to the shelves above the fireplace—mostly tools and knickknacks, but there were books too. I leaned forward, squinting. One of them had a worn green cover, corners curled like leaves pressed too long in a book.

"Mind if I . . . ?" I asked, pointing at the shelf. He glanced up briefly, then shrugged.

"Knock yourself out."

It wasn’t much of an invitation, but I took it anyway. Hobbling over, I pulled the paperback free, dust puffing into the air. It wasn’t what I expected. No romance, no thrillers. Just writing about wildlife and mountains—the kind of thing you’d find in a visitor center, probably. Still, it was better than staring at the walls.

"Interesting taste," I said as I settled back down, cracking the spine open. He didn’t respond, just kept whittling, curls of wood piling on the table like fallen feathers.

"Alright," I started, clearing my throat. The words felt strange in my mouth—scientific and dry—but they filled the silence. "‘Northern spotted owls tend to roost in old-growth forests, favoring dense canopies and abundant prey.’"

"Mm," came his noncommittal grunt. But his hand paused, knife hovering mid-cut.

My voice softened as I read, falling into the rhythm of it. "‘Their feathers provide natural camouflage, allowing them to blend seamlessly into the bark of towering Douglas firs.’"

"True," he murmured, barely audible. His knife moved again, slower this time, deliberate. He wasn’t looking at me, but I couldfeel him listening. Something about it made my chest tighten, like I’d stumbled onto a secret without meaning to.

"Do you see them a lot?" I asked, pretending to skim the next page while watching him out of the corner of my eye. “Owls?”

"Sometimes." His answer was clipped, but not dismissive. His shoulders eased, just slightly, as if the topic itself brought him some kind of peace. "Mostly hear ‘em at dusk. They stay quiet otherwise."

"Smart birds. No backchat," I said, flipping to another essay. His lip twitched again, almost a smile. Almost.

Silas stood by the stove, his back to me, shoulders broad and rigid as always. I heard the scrape of a tin on wood, then the soft clink of something stirring.

A delicious smell filled the space. Sweet and spicy and . . . chocolatey.

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