Page 23 of Rescue in Misty Mountain

I take a deep breath as I walk the dirt path to Gage’s cabin. The air is cool against my skin, the sky painted in watercolor streaks—that golden hour glow that makes everything seem a little softer.

After making another trip to town to check on my car—which is “close, but not quite done”—I made my way back to the cabin, but I took myself for a walk to think. I worry about getting in Gage’s way. He’s never made me feel like a burden, but I don’t want to be one all the same.

Still, I know what’s really going on, why I’m really dragging my feet.

I don’t know where things stand between Gage and me, and it’s driving me crazy.

I knock lightly on the screen door, heart fluttering like I’m sixteen and showing up to pick up my date for the night.

The door opens a few seconds later, and there he is.

Gage Holloway. All six-foot-four of him. Shirt rumpled, hair tousled like he’s been running his hands through it, and that scar on his jaw catching the last of the day’s light. He looks at me with those storm-gray eyes—quiet, unreadable—and his face softens.

He arches an eyebrow. “You know, you don’t have to knock on the door.”

“It feels rude to just barge in. You could have been… naked.” I point at his wet hair.

His lips curve into a smirk. “And you wouldn’t like that?”

“Oh…” My cheeks burn hot. “Out of the way. I’m here to see Whiskey.”

“He’s in my chair. Again. He refuses to move.”

“That sounds about right.”

The cabin is warm. Cedar and smoke linger in the air, mixed with something faintly sweet. Not cologne. Not cleaning supplies. Just… him.

Whiskey is curled dead-center in the worn armchair, purring like the spoiled prince he is on his flannel throne.

“You okay?” Gage asks, voice low.

I turn to him. “Yeah. Just… long day. My car isn’t done yet.”

He nods toward the kitchen. “You hungry?”

“I could eat.”

“I’ve got leftover stew. And pie.”

“Pie?”

“Blackberry. My neighbor left me one to thank me for fixing her fence.”

I smile. “You should do more chores for her if she’s going to show up with pie.”

While he heats up dinner, I sink onto the couch, tucking my feet under me. I hear the hum of the stove, the clink of silverware, the small sounds of comfort. Of something settling.

“This is nice,” I say after a minute.

He glances over his shoulder. “The quiet?”

“All of it.”

I don’t say the rest—that this is the steadiest I’ve felt in months. Maybe in my whole life.

That I didn’t realize how dramatic and loud my old life used to be.

We eat in front of the fireplace. Deep bowls of thick stew, warm bread with butter, and the pie, which is so delicious I want to cry.

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