Page 16 of Trapped with the Mountain Man

He studies me for a few seconds and then goes back to eating his breakfast. And that’s it. This man really has no idea who I am. Thank God.

Unfortunately, that isn’t my only problem. If some news outlet picked up the story, it won’t be long before I have to deal with them. Every time I am hounded by the press for a follow-up story, it’s like reliving the aftermath of the shooting all over again. I feel the physical pain of everything that happened, from the bullet itself to all the anxiety and depression that followed.

The media had been relentless in their pursuit. By the time I was out of surgery a few hours after the shooting, they were already finding ways to sneak into my hospital room. An officer was eventually stationed outside my room to keep them at bay. It barely started to taper off in time for the trial, and then started anew with the first testimony. Afterward, it took months for things to quiet down again. I’m not sure what awaits me when I leave this cabin. I guess the months of avoiding those requests for follow-up pieces are about to catch up with me.

And Hunter will know my secret.

Chapter 10

Hunter

Abby’s been tense ever since breakfast. I can’t tell if it’s because I asked about her teaching job or because Ryan mentioned on the radio that her family was concerned about her. Either way, Abby has entered a fugue state of something I can only describe as ‘rage cleaning.’ She’s taking out her anxiety on every splatter of grease on the stove, every drop of hard water on the faucet, and every dust bunny cowering in a corner. I like to think I keep the place relatively clean – not immaculate by any means, but tidy – so I honestly don’t know how she’s finding so many things to clean.

I don’t think she even heard me when I told her that she doesn’t need to do any of that. When I tried to help, she practically shoved me out of the way.

Once the kitchen is sparkling clean, she surveys the cabin for her next target. I watch with equal parts concern and amusement as she marches over to the desk near the front door. It’s an old-fashioned oak beast, heavy as shit and scratched up around the corners. I think of it as the gatekeeper of the cabin. If lost hikers are intent on waiting inside for a ride back to town, I pull up a couple of chairs and make them wait at the desk. The cabin may belong to the Forest Service, but I’ve come to regard it as my home. Letting anyone inside feels like an intrusion.

The top of the desk is covered by an old map of the district, topped with a heavy sheet of glass. Abby sprays a coat of cleaner over it then wipes it away in large, circular strokes. I watch from the bed, enjoying the view as she bends forward over the desk to reach the far corner with her back to me. She rubs the rag over it until it literally squeaks with cleanliness. When she’s done, she stands up and admires her work.

“Hey, will you show me where we are on this map?” Abby asks, glancing back at me. She smiles a little when she realizes that I have been watching her clean.

I hop off the bed and make my way across the room, pulling out the desk chair for her to sit in. Standing beside her, we both hunch over the map to look at all the tiny veins and tinier words. When we do, her shoulder brushes my chest. She doesn’t adjust or pull away, so I don’t bother to either.

“Right here,” I say, tapping the exact spot where the cabin sits. “And this is the shelter where you were.”

Abby’s finger roams near mine, finally landing on a big dot not far away. “So, this is where I picked up the trail near Fontana Dam?”

I nod, and her shoulders droop slightly when she measures the distance between the big dot and my finger, which is still on the shelter where I found her.

“How long were you stuck in that shelter?”

“Almost a full day.”

“Well, you made pretty good time in the first few days then. If the storm didn’t hit, you’d probably be somewhere around here right now.” I stretch the truth a little, but it seems to perk her up, so I don’t feel too bad about it. Honestly, most inexperienced hikers slow down after the first couple of days. The weight of their pack and the blisters on their feet start to catch up with them. “How far were you planning to go?”

“I was hoping to make it to I-40. I had a shuttle scheduled to pick me up there. But I was sort of hoping to get there ahead of schedule and do a day hike to the waterfall before I met up with the highway,” she shrugs.

“Really?” It accidentally comes out as a laugh.

Abby stares daggers at me before biting back. “Why is that funny?”

“It’s not,” I say. “It’s just very…practical…of you. A lot of people come out here and think they’ll make it end-to-end in four months. People don’t realize how hard it is to be out on the trail for a week, let alone months.”

Her face relaxes a little. “Have you ever done it?”

“Yeah, once. Took me closer to five months though, and the second half was absolute hell.” I stiffen up just thinking about it, and about what happened when I got back from that hike. When I look over at Abby, her shoulders are pulled inward again as she stares down at the tiny square of the map that she hoped to cover. “Think you’ll give it another shot once the weather clears up?”

Her shrug is microscopic. “Maybe one day I’ll come back and try it again. But if we make it back to town before my flight on Sunday, I’ll probably be on it.”

The thought of her leaving stirs something up inside me. Something I don’t particularly like.

It’s been a long time since I was stuck inside the cabin like this. Usually, even my days off are spent outside mending fences, fixing signs, clearing trails – working on whatever needs to be done. I like the work. I like the feeling of earning a hearty meal and a hot shower at the end of the day. It’s more satisfying that way. It teaches you to appreciate the things you’ve got.

Admittedly, I’d be going stir-crazy by now if Abby wasn’t here. Of course, I’d never admit that to her.

The rage cleaning subsides eventually. Abby plops down on the bed and flips through the pages of the Western novel I gave her, pausing to read the more ridiculous passages aloud. A little later, she fights with me about the right way to fold a t-shirt. Her method, she argues, makes the shirts stand upright so they’re easier to pick out in the drawer. She makes me give her one of my t-shirts and stands over the dresser, smoothing and folding it endlessly. When she’s done, she delicately stands it upright, where it remains without any assistance. Abby beams up at me.

I tell her to give me her shirt and I’ll show her how much easier it is to just throw it into the drawer. She rolls her eyes and tucks the neatly folded shirt in my dresser drawer beside the sea of unfolded ones.

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