Page 7 of S'more Mountain Man

"Is this you?" she asked, lifting the frame.

I crossed the room in three strides, taking it from her hands more roughly than intended. "Yes."

Surprise flashed across her face, followed quickly by understanding. "Sorry. I shouldn't have—"

"It's fine." I set the photo face-down on the shelf. "You should get some rest. I'll get you some blankets."

I climbed back to the loft, grateful for the moment of separation. This woman—this stranger—was getting under my skin in ways I didn't want to examine. Her chatter, her resilience, the way she kept looking at me like I was some kind of wilderness savior rather than a man who'd chosen isolation for very specific reasons.

When I returned with bedding, she was standing by the window, watching the storm lash the trees. The last of the evening light caught in her damp hair, turning it to liquid copper in places. My flannel shirt hung off one shoulder, revealing the delicate line of her collarbone.

"Here," I said, voice rougher than intended.

She turned, accepted the blankets with a soft "thanks," and set about making up the couch. I retreated to the opposite end of the cabin, giving her space to settle.

"I'm sorry about the photo," she said quietly. "I didn't mean to pry."

"You didn't know."

"Still."

A beat of silence, filled only by the sound of rain against the roof.

"It was my crew," I found myself saying. "Before the Pine Ridge fire."

She nodded, not asking the obvious follow-up question. Instead, she said, "I have one like that. My dad and me at the observatory, about a month before he had his heart attack. Can't look at it, can't bring myself to put it away."

Something shifted between us then—a recognition of shared grief, though the specifics remained unspoken.

"Anyway," she said, breaking the moment, "I should turn in. Big day tomorrow, what with tire fixing and camp rescuing."

"Right."

She settled onto the couch, pulling the blankets up despite the lingering heat. "Night, Leif," she murmured. "Thanks for rescuing me."

"Get some rest, Skye."

I sat in the armchair opposite, pretending to read by the light of the single lamp while the storm continued outside. Within minutes, her breathing had deepened and slowed. I allowed myself to look at her then—really look. The sweep of dark lashes against her cheek. The slight part of her lips. The tumble of hair across my pillow.

Something shifted in my chest, an unfamiliar tightness that had nothing to do with the weather and everything to do with the woman asleep on my couch. She looked impossibly soft, impossibly out of place among my spartan furnishings. Like a bright bird that had flown into my world by mistake—vibrant, delicate, meant for somewhere else entirely.

I rose quietly and moved to the window, staring out at the rain-lashed forest. Beyond these walls lay twenty thousand acres of wilderness, and I knew every ridge and valley intimately. This space, this solitude, had been my sanctuary since I'd walked away from the fire service. No complications. No responsibilities beyond my own survival. No one to protect but myself.

Now, with a single lost hiker, that carefully constructed isolation had been breached. And the most troubling part wasn't her presence in my cabin—it was the realization that it didn't feel like the intrusion it should have.

I glanced back at her sleeping form, watched the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. Tomorrow, I told myself firmly. Tomorrow I'd fix her tire, point her toward her camp, and return to my solitude.

Simple, right?

Chapter Three

“So, your plan is to grow peppers, build knives, and stay hot in the forest?”

Skye

Sunlight stabbed through my eyelids like a laser pointer aimed directly at my brain. I groaned and rolled over, burying my face in something that smelled like cedar musk. Not my pillow. Definitely not my bed.

Memory flooded back in a rush. Lost in woods. Rain. Mud puddles. Fabio suddenly appearing with an axe. Wait.

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