Page 5 of Daddy of the Mountain

The scent hit me first—sharp and herbal, earthy in a way that felt foreign and familiar all at once. Tea, maybe? My stomach growled faintly in response, though I wasn’t sure if it wanted food or just the warmth of whatever he was making.

When he turned back, his hands were steady, one holding a steaming mug. He didn’t hesitate, crossing the room in a few long strides and crouching to press it into my hands. His fingers brushed mine briefly—rough, calloused. I flinched, not because it hurt, but because I hadn’t expected it.

"Drink," he said simply. That single word left no room for argument.

The heat seeped into my palms through the ceramic, chasing away the chill that refused to leave my bones. I brought it to my lips cautiously, the steam warming my face. The first sip burned a little, but the taste was surprisingly smooth, with hints of pine and something floral I couldn’t name.

"Thanks," I mumbled, my voice barely audible even to myself. “What is this, herbal?”

He nodded. “Flowers. Herbs from near the cabin. Foraged in spring.”

Spring was a while ago. So did he live here all the time? Alone?

I stared at him over the rim of the mug, trying to piece him together in my head. This man who had pulled me out of the snow like it was nothing. Who now hovered in his silent, gruff way, making sure I didn’t keel over or freeze to death.

"Who are you?" The question formed in my throat but never made it out. My tongue betrayed me, tied up in knots of fear and exhaustion.

Instead, I kept staring. Watching the way his hands worked—efficient, deliberate. The way he didn’t fidget or hesitate, every movement purposeful. There was something calming about it, even if he still scared the hell out of me. Not in a danger kind of way, though. More like . . . like standing too close to the edge of a cliff and knowing the drop might be breathtaking if you weren’t so afraid of falling.

"How’s your foot?" he asked suddenly, breaking the silence without turning around.

"Still attached," I said, hoping humor might mask how unsteady I sounded. It didn’t.

"Good." He glanced over his shoulder then, just briefly, his gaze sharp and assessing. It pinned me in place more effectively than any avalanche could have. "Keep it that way."

"Wasn’t planning on losing it," I muttered, but he’d already turned back, busying himself with another log for the fire.

“My name’s Silas,” he said, all of a sudden, as though he hadn’t really meant to say it.

“Silas. I’m Alana.”

He didn’t reply.

The flames roared to life as he fed them, their glow painting his features in sharper relief.

I took another sip of the tea, the warmth spreading deeper now, dulling the ache in my chest. For the first time since the snow swallowed me whole, the panic coiled inside started to loosen. Just a little. Enough to let my shoulders sink into the blankets, enough to let my breath even out.

"Rest," he said, his voice softer this time, almost gentle.

"Bossy," I murmured, but the fight in me was gone. The mug slipped from my hands, and I barely registered him catching it before it fell.

My eyes drifted shut, the edges of the room blurring. I thought I saw him stand there for a moment, watching me, but maybe I imagined it. Maybe it was the firelight or the exhaustion playing tricks on me.

Either way, I felt it—the quiet, steady presence of him. Like a wall between me and everything I feared.

Chapter 2

The nightmare was always the same. I’d been having the same one every night for the past five years. The details were different, but the story was basically the same.

I was chased through a mirror maze by a monster I never saw. I could smell it, sense it, hear it, but every time it was about to catch me, I woke with a start.

This morning, waking was like swimming up from the bottom of a deep pool. It took me a moment for the adrenaline to wash away before I could where I was—and what had happened.

Then it all came rushing back. The snow. The avalanche. The man who I’d thought was a bear.

The fire was nothing more than glowing embers now, the kind that looked hot but gave off no real heat. The cabin was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that creeps under your skin. I shifted under the blanket, and cold air rushed in at the edges, biting at me. My ankle throbbed, a low, steady ache that matched the beat of my pulse.

I stretched a little, testing the stiffness in my body, and then it hit me—Silas. He wasn’t there. No shadow by the stove, no lowgrumble of his voice bossing me around, telling me to stay put or rest. Just empty space. The whistle of wind snuck through the cracks in the cabin walls, thin as a well-sharpened knife.

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