Page 6 of Timber Ridge

I finish up with the dishes, dry my hands, and glance back at my sister, who’s now gently rocking in her chair. “Let’s keep it just us,” I add, more to myself than to her, a quiet commitment to trust the family I have in place.

With a parting hug, Hailey and I put on our coats and walk outside. I secure the chicks and Hailey into the ATV I left for Eliza to use that morning. Hers is in the shop, making getting around difficult when you’re pregnant. The town isn’t car friendly. ATVs and snowmobiles reign here, and my Polaris four-seater has been a lifesaver over the years.

The rain has dwindled to a mist that barely whispers against our faces as we wave to Eliza’s silhouette in the window and start up the mountain. The vehicle’s lights cut through the dark, and as we ascend, my thoughts drift back to Timber, and I wonder how she is getting along on her first night in town.

Chapter Three

TIMBER

After setting down the postcard, a fleeting shiver reminds me of the practicalities of frontier life. My socked feet curl against the cool wooden floor as I reach for the battery-operated lantern, its switch sounding with a soft click. Instantly, a warm light floods the room, pushing the darkness into the corners where shadows linger.

Despite the unease of solitude, a grin crosses my lips. The lantern brings modern comfort to the rustic space. It’s a blend of old and new here, much like the postcard’s history meeting my present. The lantern has a socket—a small yet significant amenity. I rummage through my bag, retrieving my phone cord. While a phone call might be optimistic with the spotty service, I can at least set an alarm. I pull out my phone, seeing the battery’s charge holding on, though the signal is barely a whisper of a bar.

With day turning to night, it's time to prioritize sustenance over sentiment and cell phones. Kane left a fire smoldering in the wood stove, a welcome luxury I’m not keen to squander. I kneel before it and wonder if all I’m supposed to do is add a log? Surely it can’t be much different from the firepit in Mom’s backyard. Once lit, all it requires is consistent feeding. The logical choice is to add a piece of wood and pray that it coaxes the fire back to life. When I do, the fire grows and heat seeps into the room, making up for the lack of amenities. Maybe Eliza is right after all. Perhaps this is all I need.

I’m convinced of that until my stomach grumbles with a complaint that it, too, needs feeding, so I search for something to cook with. The lantern light guides me to a cupboard, filled with mismatched items, each with its own story. My fingers close around a plate, its porcelain edge chipped—a slight imperfection that hints at a long history. I wonder about the meals it has held, the laughter or conversations it has witnessed, all here in the quiet seclusion of the cabin.

I locate a pot next, its bottom blackened from the many fires it has sat above. I realize that all my cooking here will depend on the wood stove, a challenge I accept with a mix of apprehension and excitement. There’s a romance to the idea of this cabin, this simplified way of life that I will experience. Love it or hate it, it’s what I have for the next eight weeks, and I can do anything for that long.

With a sigh, I place the chipped plate on the countertop alongside a small jar of salmon—less daunting, more familiar than squirrel or beaver. Beside it, I place single serving jars of preserved vegetables and a fruit compote, their colors vibrant even in the lantern’s artificial glow. It’s a balanced meal—simple, yet nourishing.

I set a small pot for the vegetables and salmon on top of the stove, the heat welcoming and ready. Once cooked, the salmon will be warmed through and the vegetables tender. This is cooking stripped back to its essence. I glance at the plate again. Its chip is now a feature I admire. It’s a mark of endurance and resilience—qualities I hope to embody here.

At the small table, I eat and look around the cabin. The wood stove is the heart of the cabin and sits in the corner, its matte black surface a stark contrast against the warm glow of the flames within. A pile of wood is stacked neatly beside it. Everything here has a purpose. The plate in my hand is not just a container for food but a piece of the cabin’s soul, and now, a part of my story, too.

After finishing, I spy a plastic bin tucked beneath the sink. It seems like the likely candidate for water collection. This task, in theory, should be simple, but in practice, it seems like an initiation into a life I’ve only read about in adventure novels.

I don my jacket and tug my hood over my head. With the bin in hand, I step outside and into the dwindling rain. The cool air is a brisk reminder of my new reality. The water pump stands a few yards away, looking like a relic from a bygone era. I approach it with a mix of determination and the kind of trepidation one might experience when meeting a legend. The pump handle is foreign, but water gushes out in a rhythmic beat soon enough, a sound oddly satisfying.

Water sloshes over the rim as I carry the bin back inside. I tread carefully to avoid more spills. This simple act is so different from turning on a tap, and it leaves me feeling accomplished and utterly out of my element. But I’m here to embrace it all—each small victory and every new challenge.

I heat the water on the stovetop, carefully pouring it into the tub to wash the dishes. Each plate and cup is like a small victory as I scrub them clean. Even a simple task like washing dishes becomes complicated without plumbing.

With the night deepening, I cast a wary glance toward the outhouse. The wooden structure stands ominously in the darkness, its weathered door hinting at untold secrets. I imagine what horrors might await me behind that door—spiders, ghosts, or perhaps something even more sinister. As I gather my courage, the realization hits me that living here will be full of unexpected challenges.

I grab a lantern as I step outside. Shadows stretch and play tricks on my eyes. The rain has stopped, and the cool, moist air of the night is scented with pine and damp soil. It fills my senses, leaving me exhilarated and slightly on edge. Droplets fall rhythmically from the pine needles, punctuating the stillness. The forest seems to hold its breath, observing me. My boots press into the soft earth, the quiet so complete around me that each step echoes between the trees. I’m wrapped in solitude, yet the rustle of leaves and the soft creaks tell me I’m far from being alone.

I reach the outhouse door and pull it open with a trembling hand, half expecting a rush of nightmarish critters to burst forth. Instead, I’m met with the startling civility of cleanliness. The toilet paper is stacked with military precision, and a box of wipes sits next to a bottle of hand sanitizer. On the wall is a poster of a squirrel with its eyes covered as if to say, “No peeking!” It’s absurd, it’s hilarious, and for a moment, I forget to be afraid.

With a sigh of relief, I do what nature demands while trying to ignore the chorus of ‘what-ifs’ my mind comes up with. Something at that moment releases a haunting screech into the night, and I’m convinced it’s the dinner bell for every creature with teeth or claws.

I finish up, shaking slightly as I pull my pants up and slather my hands in sanitizer. I’m ready to bolt when another shriek pierces the air, sending a shiver down my spine. Is it an owl, some small furry woodland creature, or something scarier? I’m trapped in the tiniest room of my life, and suddenly, it’s a fortress against the vast, unknown wilderness.

What will I face on the other side of the door? A bear? A pack of wolves? Should I go or stay? I chastise myself for my fear of the unknown and for even thinking for a second that I could sleep in the outhouse. With a deep breath, I fling the door open and practically leap out. The darkness has transformed every bush into a lurking predator, every innocent shadow into a hungry hunter. My mind is a Hollywood director of horror films, casting each rustling leaf as a potential ravenous beast.

Heart sprinting, I sprint too. The 20-yard dash back to the cabin is like a marathon through a gauntlet of imagined monsters. I burst through the door, half expecting applause for escaping the clutches of the night, but I’m met with only the crackling of the fire.

Slamming the door shut, I lean against it, panting and laughing at my wild imagination. As the adrenaline fades and I settle into the cabin’s embrace, my phone, which had struggled to cling to a solitary bar of signal earlier, lights up with the arrival of a message. Surprise washes over me. Messages are rare for me in my usual world. I’d expect them to be non-existent here.

I cross the room, wondering who texted. Back at school, my phone is purely practical—always a colleague asking for a favor, a last-minute substitution, or a reminder about a deadline. Social invites, the kind that hint at inclusion and camaraderie, like happy hours or a Bunco night, never show up on my screen. Those are for the tenured teachers who have firmly established their place within the faculty’s inner circles. There would be no calls from my best friend because that was always Mom, and she’s no longer here. When she passed, it was like losing a piece of myself. It would have been different if she’d passed after a long illness. I would have been almost happy in that scenario to not see her suffer, but Mom was healthy and vibrant when she was struck by a car on a morning run. That’s what makes it so much harder. Mom had so much life left in her.

I swipe the screen and find a message from Eliza telling me she’ll pick me up at nine to show me around.

I text back, but the message fails to send because my whisper of a bar has turned to none. I set the phone down, and my attention shifts to the duffle bag lying open. It’s time to make this space mine.

I work quickly, pulling out the essentials. First, my Kindle. Its library of unread books is a lifeline, a comfort I’m not willing to do without.

Next comes the hefty bag of Jelly Belly candies, a colorful splash against the cabin’s muted tones. I hope they’ll last the duration of my stay, but my sweet tooth might have other plans. I think about May’s comment and laugh. You don’t maintain a sturdy frame like mine without a few indulgences.

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