Page 3 of Silent Mountain Man
At breakfast, I'll need to explain the power situation. The generator works, but we need to conserve fuel. The water pump requires electricity, so we'll need to be careful there too.
More words to write. More silent conversations to have with a woman who lives by talking.
Morning comes with gray light filtering through snow-covered windows. I'm at the stove making coffee when she stirs, her hair a tangle around her face. For a moment, she looks confused, then her eyes find me and remember.
"Morning," she says, voice raspy with sleep.
I nod, pouring coffee into two mugs. I rarely use the second one.
She accepts it gratefully, her fingers brushing mine in the handoff. The contact is brief but startling, a reminder of how long it's been since I've touched another person. I pull back too quickly, coffee sloshing over the rim.
"Sorry," she says, though it was my fault.
I shake my head, grabbing my notebook.
Power limited. Generator for essentials. Need to conserve water.
She reads it, nodding. "Got it. I won't take long showers or anything." Then she smiles, and it transforms her face, crinkling the corners of her eyes. "Not that I was expecting a spa experience."
I turn away, focusing on the practical. There's wood to chop, water to bring in, a generator to check. Routine will keep me anchored while this bright, talking woman disrupts everything else.
When I step outside, the cold hits like a freight train. The storm has paused, but the sky promises more. I work quickly,methodically, the ax swinging in practiced arcs. Physical labor quiets my mind, lets me forget there's a stranger in my space.
Until I feel eyes on me.
Dawn stands in the doorway, watching. She's wrapped herself in the blanket from the couch, her breath clouding in the frigid air.
"Need help?" she asks.
I shake my head. Her hands look soft, unworked. City hands.
"I'm not completely useless, you know." There's a challenge in her voice. "I can carry wood or something."
To appease her, I nod toward the smaller logs I've already split. She brightens, dropping the blanket inside before carefully stacking wood in her arms. As she turns, I notice she's using her body like a photographer would, distributing weight evenly, protecting her hands.
We work in silence—me splitting, her carrying—until the woodpile by the door is stocked. It's efficient in a way I didn't expect. When she reaches for a particularly large piece, the sleeve of her borrowed sweater rides up, revealing a small tattoo on her wrist—a camera. It surprises me, this permanent mark on someone who seems so wishywashy.
***
Inside, she's rubbing her hands together, cheeks flushed from cold and exertion.
"That should keep us warm, right?" she asks.
I nod, reaching for the notebook again.
More coming tonight. Radio says worst storm in decade.
Her eyes widen slightly. "Guess I picked the wrong week for adventure photography."
If I could speak easily, I might tell her there's no right time to wander off-trail in these mountains. Instead, I just raise an eyebrow.
She laughs suddenly. "Your face says it all. 'Stupid city girl, getting lost in my mountains.'"
It's so close to what I was thinking that I almost smile. Almost.
"So," she says, settling at the small table, "you live here year-round?"
I nod.
