Page 1 of Mountain Protector

CHAPTER 1

LARK

I knew I made the right decision moving here.

My dad wasn’t as sure. Overprotective to the nth degree, when I told him I was buying a log cabin in the woods of Vermont, he immediately came up with reasons why it was a bad idea.

It was too far from the company offices in Montpelier. In the winter, the winding roads could be treacherous. Owning a home was so much more work than the neat little condo I’d lived in for years.

And the biggest one, the one Dad really got hung up on—it’s not safe.

It was during one of our weekly dinners when I first broached the topic, telling him my plans for moving out of the city.

Well. City is a generous term for Montpelier. Compared to places like Boston and New York City and even Burlington, it would be considered tiny. But it was still more city than I wanted.

After spending my entire life in Montpelier, except for four years of college at Columbia, I ached for something different. Something quieter. More isolated. A place where I could sit out on my porch and watch nature without any interruptions. Where I could hike into the woods or go cross-country skiing only steps from my front door.

And once the realtor brought me here, to this adorable cabin on two acres of land just south of Morristown, I fell in love.

My dad? Not so much.

As I showed him the listing, he listened to me rattle on about inspections and surveys and all the things I’d do if the seller accepted the offer I was about to make. Knowing he’d be concerned about the financial aspects of it, I outlined the benefits of owning a house with land instead of a condo, and how much the value of the property would go up over the next ten years.

I still remember the way his expression sobered as I went on, and when I finally wound down, he hesitated for several long seconds before saying in that apologeticyou’re not going to like what I have to say but I love you, so I’m saying it anywaytone, “Lark, baby, I just don’t know if that’s a good idea. It doesn’t sound safe.”

After thirty-four years of dealing with my dad’s brand of overprotectiveness, I didn’t get mad. Or defensive. I just replied calmly, “I’ve been living on my own for over a decade. And you know I don’t make decisions without thoroughly investigating them first. This is what I want, and I’m confident I can make it work. I hope you’ll support me, but I’m doing this. If not thishouse, another. I want a different life than I have in Montpelier.”

He might be overprotective, but he’s not unreasonable. So he gradually came around—not exactly happy about my decision, but not unhappy, either.

It probably helped that I had a security system installed as soon as I moved in. And I made sure to show him the chains for my tires, the emergency kit I kept in the trunk, and reassured him that if the weather was really bad, I’d work from home rather than make the forty-minute drive to the office.

In the six months I’ve lived in my little cabin, the commute hasn’t bothered me much. In the morning, I listen to an audiobook or podcast, drink my coffee, and take some time to run through my itinerary for the day. And on the way home, I take my time with it—stopping at farm stands and taking little detours to explore parts of Vermont I still don’t know.

And my dad admitted itisnice here. Surrounded by trees, the nearest neighbor a quarter mile away, there’s a peace I never got back in Montpelier. While we sat out on the porch, watching the sun dip below the treeline, he said, “I can see why you like it here, Lark. I’ll still worry about you, but I get it. And I really hope this place brings you joy.”

It has. It does.

And as I look out the kitchen window at the snowflakes just starting to fall, a delicate crystalline white against the darkening sky, my chest swells with happiness.

Thisis what I’ve been waiting for. The advent of my favorite season. Less than two weeks until Thanksgiving,snow is late coming this year, but I’m hoping this is just the start of much more to come. I don’t just want a white Christmas; I want snow for the entire holiday season.

I’ve always loved winter in Vermont—the fluffy drifts of snow along the roads, the blankets of shimmering white draped across the trees, and that perfect stillness when you step outside just after a snowstorm.

It’s special. Magical.

And I’m so excited to make the most of it here. To decorate the porch with white twinkle lights and hang cheery red ribbons on the windows, and maybe even buy a set of those sweet birch reindeer to put by the door.

Once the snow is thick enough, I’ll break out the snowshoes I bought in anticipation of the winter. I’ll trek through the woods and hang little homemade bird feeders and bring a batch of fresh-baked cookies to my closest neighbor. And if the weather gets bad enough for the roads to become impassable, I’ll work remotely, like I promised my dad I would, tucked safely in my cabin with the fire going and a mug of hot chocolate beside me.

As I finish washing the dishes from dinner—grilled cheese and tomato soup, my favorite—my phone chimes with an incoming text. Quickly drying my hands, I grab it off the butcher block island and look at the screen, smiling to see Kate’s name splashed across it.

Hey you! Haven’t heard from you in ages. How’s the house? Seen any bears yet? Deer? Moose?

I grin at the screen. Kate’s the opposite of me; she loves cities and skyscrapers and wants nothing to dowith nature. Her idea of roughing it is a weekend in the Catskills at a luxury resort. Since we met in college, she’s come to visit a few times, but she was more interested in trying the local ice cream and cheese and craft beer than exploring nature.

Heading into the living room, I plop down on the couch and hit the remote for the fireplace, sighing with pleasure as the flames leap to life almost immediately. Changing the fireplace from wood to gas was one of the first changes I made, and I think so far, my favorite.

Glancing back at my phone, I quickly send a reply.

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