Page 64 of Ghost of Talon Mountain
"I'll take it," I say.
Barrett grins. "Good. Because I already submitted the paperwork."
On day five, Barrett shows us a cabin available on the north ridge. Wildlife Protection property, available for lease month-to-month.
It's small—one bedroom, main room with a wood stove, tiny kitchen and bathroom. But it has walls and windows and a door that locks.
Not a survival shelter. A home.
"It's perfect," Chris says, standing in the middle of the empty main room. "When can I move in?"
"Barrett said as soon as you want." I walk to the window, look out at the forest. "There's another cabin about a mile east if you want space?—"
He comes up behind me, his arms wrapping around my waist. "Or you could just stay here. With me."
My pulse kicks up. "Chris?—"
"I know it's fast. I know we've only known each other two weeks. But I spent a year alone on this mountain, and the only time I felt alive was when you showed up and turned everything upside down." His breath is warm against my neck. "Stay with me, Sierra."
I turn in his arms, look up at him. "What if I'm terrible to live with? What if I hog the covers and leave dishes in the sink?"
"Then I'll steal the covers back and do the dishes." His smile is soft. "I don't care about any of that. I just care about you."
"I leave my work stuff everywhere. Papers, laptops, coffee cups."
"I'll build you a desk."
"I talk to myself when I'm analyzing data."
"I'll listen."
"Chris." My voice cracks. "What if this doesn't work? What if we're just running on adrenaline and proximity and once things settle down?—"
He kisses me. Slow, deep, thorough—his hands cupping my face like I'm something precious.
When he pulls back, his eyes are serious. "Then we'll figure it out. Together. But I'm not afraid of this, Sierra. For the first time in a year, I'm not afraid of anything."
I stand on my toes, kiss him back. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Okay. I'll stay."
His smile transforms his whole face—eyes crinkling, dimple appearing in his left cheek, genuine happiness radiating from him.
"Let's go get furniture," he says.
We spend the afternoon in town, buying basics—a bed frame, a table, chairs, kitchen supplies. Bryn insists on coming with us, adding bedding and towels and kitchen gadgets to the cart. The owner of the general mercantile store throws in a discount when she recognizes Chris, says she's glad he's back.
By evening, the cabin looks livable. We set up the bed, stock the kitchen, and build a fire in the wood stove.
That night, Bryn insists we come to Caleb's for dinner. His cabin is warm and surprisingly refined—restored antiques, hand-crafted furniture, nothing like the rough mountain man cabin I expected. It's also packed with people who came to see Chris. Townspeople who heard the rumors and want to see the ghost for themselves, neighbors who knew Bryn and are curious about her brother, people offering welcome-backs and handshakes.
Caleb himself is quiet but welcoming, standing back and letting Bryn orchestrate while he watches Chris with assessing eyes.
Chris handles it with grace, answering questions, accepting welcome-backs, letting people see that he's real. That he's staying.
I help Bryn in the kitchen, and she leans close. "He's different with you."
