Page 1 of The Mountain Man's Prize

one

Lila

My lungs burnlike I've swallowed fire. The rain lashes my face in cold, stinging sheets, each drop another tiny needle of ice against my skin. I've been walking—stumbling, really—for what feels like hours, but the trees never thin, the storm never breaks, and all I've earned for my trouble is mud-soaked jeans and a rising panic that feels like hands around my throat.

Another crack of lightning splits the sky, illuminating the forest in a stark, blue-white flash. For one heartbeat, I see everything—the skeletal fingers of branches clawing at the clouds, the slick carpet of dead leaves beneath my feet, the endless maze of trees stretching in every direction. Then darkness swallows it all again, and I'm left more blind than before.

"Keep moving," I whisper, my voice thin and useless against the howl of the wind. "Just keep moving, Lila."

I shouldn't be here. I should be back in my cramped apartment, curled up with a book and a cup of tea, not lost in some godforsaken wilderness during the storm of the century. All because I thought a weekend hiking trip would "clear my head." What a joke. Twenty-three years of city living didn't prepare me for this.

My foot catches on an exposed root, and I go down hard, my palms scraping against rocks and soggy earth. The impact knocks what little breath I have from my lungs. For a moment, I just lie there, rain pummeling my back, mud seeping through my clothes. Maybe this is it. Maybe I should just stay down.

No. Not like this.

I push myself up, ignoring the fresh sting in my hands and the ache in my knees. My backpack feels heavier with each step, waterlogged and dragging me down. I should have left it behind an hour ago, but some stubborn part of me refuses to surrender even this small piece of security.

The wind shifts, driving the rain sideways into my face. I turn away, using my arm as a shield, but it does little good. My hair plasters against my cheeks and neck, a tangled mess that drips icy rivers down my spine. I'm shivering so hard now that my teeth chatter, each breath a visible cloud that's torn away instantly by the gale.

"Please," I whisper, though I'm not sure who I'm talking to. God? The universe? The indifferent trees? "Please, I don't want to die out here."

Time blurs. One foot in front of the other. Breathe in, breathe out. My thoughts fray at the edges, coherence slipping away with my body heat. I try to remember what I know about hypothermia. Confusion is a symptom, isn't it? And so is the strange, distant feeling washing over me, like I'm watching myself from above.

The rain and wind have become almost familiar now, white noise filling my head. Maybe that's why I almost miss it—a different kind of darkness ahead, a gap in the endless pattern of trees. I blink water from my eyes, squinting. Is my mind playing tricks?

No. There's something there.

I change direction, moving toward this new mystery. The trees thin slightly, and I realize I'm approaching the edge of a clearing. My heart beats faster, hope a dangerous, fragile thing in my chest.

When I see it, I almost sob with relief. A cabin. Small but solid, nestled against the trees on the far side of the clearing. And there—a warm glow of light from a window.

"Thank you," I gasp, a prayer to whatever force guided me here.

The clearing offers no shelter from the storm. If anything, the rain falls harder here, with no canopy to break its force. But I barely feel it now. My focus narrows to that rectangle of golden light, a beacon pulling me forward.

My legs are numb, each step uncertain. The ground beneath me has turned to a slick mire that tries to claim my boots. Twice I nearly fall, catching myself at the last moment. The cabin seems both impossibly close and endlessly far, growing larger in my vision but never quite reachable.

Until suddenly, I'm there. Standing before a wooden porch, three steps leading up to a door. The light I saw comes from a lantern hanging beside it, swinging wildly in the wind. The glass is smudged, but the flame inside burns steady, impossibly bright against the storm's darkness.

I drag myself up the steps, each one a mountain to climb. The porch offers a moment's reprieve from the rain, though the wind still whips around me, stealing what little warmth I might have generated from the effort of walking.

My fist feels like a block of ice as I raise it to knock. The sound is pathetically weak, lost in a fresh rumble of thunder. I try again, putting every ounce of remaining strength into it. This time, the hollow thud echoes, audible even through the storm's rage.

Please be home. Please be home. Please.

I sway on my feet, darkness creeping in at the edges of my vision. I'm going to pass out.Not now! Not when I'm so close!

The door swings open with a suddenness that makes me flinch, spilling warm light and the scent of woodsmoke into the night. I blink, my eyes struggling to adjust after so long in darkness.

A massive silhouette fills the doorway—a man, taller and broader than seems possible. He's backlit by firelight, his features lost in shadow, but I feel the weight of his gaze on me.

"Help," I try to say, but my lips have gone numb, and the word comes out slurred. "Please."

I take one shaky step forward, reaching out blindly. As I do, he shifts, and for the first time, I see his eyes. Blue—a startling, impossible blue, like the heart of a flame. But it's not their color that catches my fading consciousness.

It's the way they look at me.

Not with surprise or concern or wariness.

---