Page 1 of Snug with the Mountain Man
Chapter one
Maisie
The mountain road twists tighter the closer I get to Pine Hollow. Birch and spruce crowd the shoulder, their leaves flashing gold and orange in the late light. When I roll down the window, the air smells like woodsmoke and apples, sharp enough to sting my nose.
I told myself I wouldn’t be back here after college. I had plans, a big-city job, a fresh start, and a future all mapped out. Except the job never came, the start fizzled, and the future looks like a blank page. So here I am, hauling my life in the back of a hatchback, driving toward the only place that’s ever felt steady.
My grandmother’s cabin.
The porch sags at one corner. The brass knob sticks before it turns, same as always. Inside, the air is stale from being shut up all summer. I set my suitcase on the couch, open the windows, and breathe until the must fades. The fireplace has a stack of kindling tucked behind the screen. The kitchen has mismatched mugs and an old kettle. The bedroom still has the quilt my grandmother pieced from old shirts.
It’s all the same, which is comforting and a little heartbreaking, because I’m not.
The fridge is empty, so I head down into town before the grocery store closes.
Pine Hollow looks different in the way small towns always do—some shops swapped, and there’s fresh paint in places, but the bones are the same. The lampposts wear fall ribbons, orange and gold. The bakery has a chalkboard sign out front that reads"Pumpkin Knots Today"in loopy chalk. People linger in line, cheeks pink, breath visible in the cool air.
Dottie’s General Store smells like cedar and coffee, like I remember. The bell above the door jingles, and Dottie looks up from behind the counter. Her readers perch low on her nose, but her eyes sharpen the second they land on me.
“Well,” she says, sliding her glasses up into her hair. “Look what the cat dragged back.”
“Hi, Dottie.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
She comes around the counter and hugs me until my ribs creak. “You get taller, or am I shrinking faster than I thought?”
“Both.”
She holds me at arm’s length, studies my face like she’s looking for cracks. “You here for the weekend or for real?”
“For now.”
She nods like she already knew the answer. “Good. You look tired. The mountain will fix that.” She pats my cheek once and waves me toward the aisles. “Grab what you need. Cider’s not on sale but worth every penny.”
I push a basket down the narrow rows, grabbing what I need for tonight and the next day. I’ll come back once I have a better idea of what I need and want. Dottie sneaks a bag of cookies into my basket when she thinks I’m not looking.
Back at the counter, she rings me up, then leans in with a look I remember from childhood, the one that meant she was about to slip a little advice into the bag with the bread.
“Don’t hole yourself up too long, Maisie. Cabin’s good for thinking, but people are better.”
I nod, throat tight. “Thanks, Dottie.”
By the time I make it back up the ridge, the sky has gone slate gray. Clouds roll low, heavy. The cabin waits, lights warm against the trees. I carry in the groceries, put everything away, and strike a match to the fireplace. The wood catches quickly, filling the room with the sweet scent of smoke and the steady crackle of flames.
I make tea, eat an apple standing at the counter, and listen to the silence press in. No traffic. No phones buzzing. No one is expecting answers.
The power flickers once while I’m brushing my teeth. Then again, while I’m pulling back the quilt on the bed. I tell myself the lines are old up here, nothing to worry about, and slide under the covers anyway.
The wind picks up, rattling the porch boards. Rain spits against the window. The fire dies down in the other room, leaving only the smell of woodsmoke.
I close my eyes. For the first time in years, there’s no city noise, no deadlines, no buzzing neon outside the glass. Just the mountain. Just me. Just the space to figure out what’s next.
And even though I swore I wouldn’t come back, even though I don’t have a plan, I breathe easier here than I have in a long time.
Chapter two
Ford
Maisie Carter is holding a hammer like it’s a damn microphone.
