Page 3 of Timber Ridge

“Then let’s go.” He takes off at a double-time pace.

I race down the dock to grab my duffle and rush behind him along the wooden walkway that seems to go on forever.

“How far does this go?” I call out as I race to catch up.

“It connects most of the houses in town. It’s our version of a superhighway, but built for ATV’s, snowmobiles, and foot traffic.”

“That’s awesome.”

“It’s convenient.”

Rain falls from the sky, and I pull my jacket tighter, cursing myself for not dressing warmer. I should have splurged on the higher-rated down coat, but all my research suggested that what I bought was appropriate. I suppose they didn’t consider I was from Phoenix, which often has temperatures equaling the fiery pits of hell.

We walk for what seems like an eternity, but likely only ten minutes.

“We’re here,” he says as he stops before a log cabin.

I take a moment to absorb the sight: weathered wood logs forming the walls, a pitched roof covered with green shingles or maybe moss. There’s a small porch adorned with a set of antlers over the door. Off to the side is a quaint water pump, which I find oddly charming. It would look adorable with a pot of flowers planted beneath it. The cabin is nestled in a small clearing, surrounded by towering trees that create a picturesque backdrop. I’m awestruck by how perfect it is.

“Let me show you the inside.” Kane pushes open the unlocked door and leads me into the one-room cabin.

“Cozy,” I say, trying to mask my disappointment. Inside, the reality is far from the fairytale image I had conjured. There are no rocking chairs flanking a stone fireplace. No quilts hanging on the walls. It's more utilitarian than charming. The room is sparse, with just a bed, a table, and chairs. The far wall is lined with shelves, and below them is something that resembles a sink. This isn't the retreat I had envisioned. It's a stark reminder of the bare-bones functionality required to live here. I look back at the door.

“No locks?”

“Not necessary,” he says. “You’ll find you have everything you need. There are battery-operated lanterns around the room.” He points out three. “You’ll need to start a fire.” He nods toward a wood stove in the corner, which looks like it belongs in a museum.

“Right.” I stare at it, willing it to ignite by sheer force of will.

Kane sighs and moves past me. “The first one is on me.” He expertly stacks the kindling and wood, lights it, and for a moment, there’s the comforting crackle of flame—then smoke billows out, surrounding us in a choking fog.

“Awesome,” I cough, waving my hands futilely.

“Damned flue.” He gives the stovepipe a rattle, there’s a clank, and suddenly, bits of charred who-knows-what rain down, but the smoke clears.

“Thank you,” I manage between coughs.

“Don’t burn the place down. It’s been in the family for a hundred years.”

I want to point out that I wasn’t the one who nearly set years of history ablaze just now, but I keep quiet.

“My sister Eliza should’ve mentioned that it’s a dry cabin with no running water. There’s a water pump just outside to the right, and you’ll find the outhouse by the forest’s edge straight ahead,” he says.

I pause, taken aback. Eliza said it was a rustic cabin but had all the amenities I’d need. “Outhouse?” I took it for granted that all the amenities I needed included running water and a bathroom.

One of his eyebrows lifts, and I notice how his eyes are not quite blue or gray. They are the color of the storm churning outside, beautiful but dangerous.

“Welcome to the wild. Cell phone service is not good. It’s spotty at best. Food is in the kitchen.” He nods at the far end of the cabin before striding toward the door.

The food turns out to be jars lining the shelves, the contents looking back at me like pickled science experiments. My stomach churns at labels proudly proclaiming Squirrel Stew and Beaver Bolognese.

“Is there anything here that wasn’t living in my yard last week?” I call after him.

“Check the bottom shelf,” he shouts back, his voice fading with distance.

Relief floods me as I see more recognizable fare, such as salmon and fruit compote, lined up five jars deep.

The door slams shut as the wind lashes against the small windowpanes, leaving me with the echo of its bang. I stand alone, center stage in a one-woman play called Timber Takes the Tundra.

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