Page 18 of Stranded with the Mountain Man

Outside, the air bites with early spring chill, mist clinging to the trees and obscuring the valley below.I head straight for my workshop, the one place on this property that's still entirely mine, untouched by memories of what Deena and I once were.

The familiar scent of sawdust and varnish greets me as I flip on the lights.Half-finished pieces stand in various stages of completion--a rocking chair with cherry inlays for Mrs. Havers down in town, a set of maple end tables for Earl's daughter'swedding gift,and my latest project, tucked beneath a drop cloth in the corner.

I uncover it, running my hand over the smooth walnut surface.A crib. Not commissioned by anyone, just something that came to me in the quiet hours, my hands working the wood while my mind drifted to possibilities I've long since abandoned.

This is what I do now. I build things meant to last.Things that stay.

Not like people. Not like Deena.

I grab my tools and lose myself in the rhythm of sanding, the repetitive motion soothing in its simplicity.No complications. No conflicting emotions.Just wood and skill and time.

But even here, she creeps in.The curve of the headboard reminds me of her smile.The careful joinery makes me think of how perfectly her body still fits against mine, like two pieces designed to connect.

"Fuck," I mutter, setting the sandpaper aside before I ruin the finish with too much pressure.I've gone soft in my isolation, letting myself get tangled up in feelings I'd buried years ago.

The door creaks open, and I tense, knowing without turning who it is.Nobody else would dare.

"So this is where you hide." Deena's voice is soft, still rough with sleep.

I don't turn. "Not hiding. Working."

"At five in the morning?"

"Best time for it."

I hear her step inside, closing the door against the morning chill.The space suddenly feels too small with her in it, my sanctuary invaded.

"This is incredible, Ross." Genuine awe colors her tone as she moves deeper into the workshop."You made all these?"

"That's generally what woodworking means." I finally turn, and immediately regret it.

She's wearing my flannel shirt over her sleep shorts, hair a wild tangle of curls, glasses perched on her nose.Her feet are bare despite the cold, and she's clutching a steaming mug of coffee.

My coffee. In my shirt. In my space.

"You brought me a peace offering?" I nod at the mug, aiming for gruff indifference and missing by a mile.

"Actually, it's mine. I just followed the smell of sawdust." She smiles, taking a sip."But I can share if you're nice."

"I'm never nice."

"Liar." She approaches slowly, like I'm some wild animal that might bolt.Her eyes catch on the half-finished crib, widening slightly."This is beautiful. Who's it for?"

"No one," I answer too quickly."Just practicing techniques."

She traces the curved edge with gentle fingers, and I feel the touch like it's on my own skin."It's exquisite. The detail work here--" She indicates the hand-carved leaves and vines along the rails."That's mountain laurel, isn't it?And trillium?"

Of course she'd recognize the plants.The same ones she used to sketch in her notebooks, the ones that grow on our ridge.

"Just patterns," I lie.

Her eyes meet mine, too perceptive by half."This isn't 'just' anything, Ross."

I take the mug from her hands, needing something to do that doesn't involve touching her.The coffee is too sweet, just like she always made it, but I drink it anyway.

"About last night--" she starts.

"Don't." I set the mug down on my workbench."It happened. It was a mistake.Let's move on."

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