Page 3 of A Snowstorm & A Stronghorn

“No,” I mutter, shaking my head. “Keep moving forward.”

I push on, each step a battle against the driving snow and my own fatigue. As I trudge ahead, I try to rationalize the experience, chalking up the strange sensation to a combination of fatigue and cold. Maybe it was just a moment of delirium brought on by my desperate situation.

Still, a small part of me wonders if I’ve stumbled upon something more, something beyond my understanding. For now, survival takes precedence over mysteries, and I force myself to focus on the path ahead, leaving the mystery behind me in the storm.

The forest around me grows denser, the trees pressing closer. Gnarled branches intertwine overhead, forming a lattice that offers fleeting refuge from the howling wind. Yet even this meager shelter can’t fully protect me. Icy flakes still find their way through gaps in the canopy, dusting my hair and eyelashes with delicate crystals.

“Come on, Fiona,” I say, my breath forming small clouds in the frigid air. “Just a little farther.”

My boots crunch through the snow, each step a monumental effort. My legs feel leaden, muscles protesting with every movement. Fatigue seeps into my very marrow, a bone-deep enervation that makes even lifting my feet a Herculean task.

I pause, leaning against a rough-barked trunk for support. I take a moment to catch my breath. In the eerie stillness of the snow-muffled forest, I can hear the rapid thudding of my heart, an indication of how hard I’m pushing myself.

“Mom would have a fit if she could see me now.” I chuckle weakly, the memory of Mom’s protective nature bringing a bittersweet smile to my chapped lips.

Shaking off the melancholy threatening to overwhelm me, I push away from the tree. My muscles scream in protest as I force myself to keep moving, each dragging step carrying me deeper into the heart of this winter-locked woodland.

“Come on, Fiona,” I whisper, channeling my mother’s encouragement. “You can do this. Just a little farther.”

How much farther? The question nags at me, growing louder with each labored breath. My vision blurs, the world narrowingto a tunnel of white and dark shadows. My legs tremble, threatening to give out entirely.

Just as I’m about to collapse, a new sound cuts through the howling wind. Footsteps. The distinct crunch of boots on snow.

I strain my ears, convinced I must be imagining things, but no—there it is again. Closer this time.

“Hello?” I call out, my voice weak and raspy. “Is someone there?”

A massive figure emerges from the swirling snow. Tall and broad-shouldered, wrapped in a heavy coat with a fur-lined hood. For a moment, my addled brain conjures images of the abominable snowman, and I almost laugh at the absurdity of it.

The figure approaches quickly, covering ground with long strides. Before I can react, strong arms scoop me up as if I weigh nothing at all. The world tilts alarmingly, and I find myself cradled against a broad chest.

“It’s all right,” says a deep voice. “I’ve got you.”

Relief floods through me, chasing away the last of my strength. As the stranger begins to move, carrying me effortlessly through the snow, my eyelids grow heavy. The gentle swaying motion lulls me, and I feel myself slipping away.

“Thank you,” I manage to whisper before darkness claims me.

Chapter 2

I WAKE WITH A START, my eyelids flying open to an unfamiliar ceiling of rough-hewn logs. The scent of pine and wood smoke fills my nostrils as I blink, trying to orient myself. My body aches, a dull throb pulsing through my limbs as memories of the crash and stumbling through the snow flood back.

Slowly, I turn my head, taking in my surroundings. I’m lying on a plush couch, covered in a thick, hand-knitted blanket. The room is warm and cozy, filled with rustic furniture that looks like it was crafted by skilled hands. A fire crackles in a stone hearth, casting flickering shadows across the walls.

Movement catches my eye, and I stiffen as I spot a massive figure hunched over a workbench in the corner. My rescuer, I assume, though his size is alarming. He’s easily seven feet tall, broad-shouldered and built like a linebacker. A scarf obscures the lower half of his face, and a hood is pulled low, leaving only his eyes visible.

I try to sit up, wincing as pain shoots through my ribs. The movement draws his attention, and he turns, those eyes—a warm amber color—fixing on me. I freeze, unsure whether to be grateful or terrified.

“You’re awake,” he says, and his voice is so deep I feel a faint reverberation from it. “How do you feel?”

I swallow hard, my throat dry. “Like I got hit by a truck,” I croak out. “Where am I?”

He approaches slowly, as if trying not to startle a wild animal. In his massive hands, he carries a steaming mug. “My cabin,” he says simply. “I found you in the snow. You’re safe here.”

I eye the mug warily as he holds it out. “It’s just tea,” he adds. “For the pain.”

Hesitantly, I reach out and take it, the warmth seeping into my cold fingers. The aroma is herbal and soothing. I take a small sip, surprised by the pleasant taste.

“Thank you,” I say, studying him over the rim of the mug, “For the tea and for saving me. I’m Fiona.”

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