Page 13 of Stranded with the Mountain Man

The simple question knocks the breath from my lungs.Was it? At twenty-one, with a full scholarship to my dream program and Rosco talking about settling down with the MC, the choice had seemed clear.Now, with twelve years of hindsight, I'm no longer certain.

"It wasn't that simple," I say finally."Nothing ever is."

He studies me for a long moment, and I feel stripped bare beneath his gaze."No," he agrees quietly. "It isn't."

Bear whines, sensing the tension between us.Rosco breaks eye contact first, reaching down to scratch the dog's head.

"Come on," he says. "I've got stew going back at the cabin."

The abrupt subject change is jarring, but I recognize his retreat.Some things haven't changed. Rosco still pulls back when emotions get too raw, still armors himself against vulnerability.

"You cook now?" I ask, allowing him the distance."But you've had us feeding on sandwiches all week."

"The sandwiches were easy. But if you must know, I live alone on a mountain. It was learn or starve."

"Fair point."

We resume walking, the mood between us shifted but not entirelyuncomfortable.When we reach the cabin, Rosco holds the door for me, his hand briefly settling on the small of myback as Ipass.The casual touch sends warmth radiating through mybody.It's not lost on me how attuned I still am tohim.

Inside, the rich aroma of simmering stew fills the air, making my stomach growlappreciatively.Rosco hangs my field pack on a hook by the door and heads to the kitchen, leaving me to remove my muddyboots.

"Make yourself useful and set the table," he calls over hisshoulder."Bowls are in the cabinet above thesink."

As I move around his kitchen, finding bowls and spoons, I realize with a start that this is the most normal I've felt inyears.Not Dr. Wilson with grants to write and deadlines to meet, not the ambitious botanist with something to prove, just Deena, setting the table while someone she cares about makesdinner.

The thought is as terrifying as it iscomforting.

Because despite everything, the years, the hurt, the walls we've both built, I still care about RoscoStone.And that's the most dangerous realization ofall.

I'm up to my elbows in soapy water when Rosco appears beside me, dish towel in hand.We've fallen into an unspoken routine these past four days--he cooks, I clean.It works, in the strange bubble of domesticity we've created.

"You don't have to do that," I say as he picks up a wet bowl from the drying rack."I can handle the dishes."

"I know." He dries the bowl with methodical precision."But it goes faster with two."

I can't argue with that logic, so I return to scrubbing the pot that held our leftover stew from last night.The wind has picked up outside, whistling around the cabin's corners and making the fire in the hearth flicker.Another storm is moving in, which means the roads will stay impassable even longer.

I should be more upset about this.Instead, I find myself oddly content.

"I checked on your house today," Rosco says, breaking the comfortable silence."While you were organizing your samples."

I pause, hands stilling in the water."How bad is it?"

"Bad." He doesn't sugarcoat it."The entire east wall is compromised.An insurance adjuster made it up there this morning, according to Earl at the general store.Said it's structural damage, beyond simple repair."

I expected this, but hearing it confirmed still feels like a blow."So I'm essentially homeless."

"For now." Rosco takes another dish from the rack."What will you do?"

It's a loaded question. Stay in Serenity Hollow?Return to Atlanta? Rebuild? Sell?

"I don't know," I admit. "Insurance should cover most of it, but construction would take months.I only have a six-month sabbatical."

"You could extend it." His voice is carefully neutral."Or commute from Riversend until it's livable."

"Maybe." I hand him the clean pot."Or I could just cut my losses, sell the land, and go back to Atlanta where I belong."

His hands pause briefly in their drying."Is that where you belong?"

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