Page 3 of Stranded with the Mountain Man

I switch to option two, stepping back into the deluge to assess the fallen branch.It's exactly as immovable as it looked from the car.

That leaves option four, the one I've been avoiding: Seek shelter elsewhere.

In a town this small, there are limited possibilities.The nearest hotel is thirty minutes away in good weather.Most of my childhood friends have long since moved away.My parents relocated to Florida years ago.

Which leaves only one viable option, the person whose property borders Millie's at the far edge.

The only person in Serenity Hollow who probably hatesme.But who I heard from Aunt Millie in great detail before she passed had move back a few yearsago.

I fight the idea, but another glance at the house, where I can now see part of the ceiling has indeed collapsed through the window, solidifies mydecision.Pride isn't worth pneumonia or possibly being crushed in mysleep.

I pull my emergency backpack from the trunk, and zip the lavender quilt insideit.At least I'll have something dry to changeinto.

The walk is going to bemiserable.Three miles of mountain road in a thunderstorm, atnight.But I know these woods, or I usedto.And I know exactly where I'm going, even if it's the last place I want tobe.

I lock the car, take a deep breath, and start walking toward the path that will lead me up the mountain to the only shelter available withinmiles.

To Rosco Stone's cabin.

By the time I've hiked a mile, I'm questioning every life decision that led me to thismoment.

The rain shows no sign of letting up, turning the dirt path into a muddy creek that pulls at my boots with everystep.My jacket, a lightweight, allegedly waterproof shell perfect for Atlanta drizzle, surrendered to the mountain downpour twenty minutesago.I'm soaked through, my curls plastered to my scalp, my glasses so water-streaked they're practicallyuseless.

Lightning cracks open the sky above me, illuminating the path ahead momentarily before plunging me back intodarkness.I count, the way my father taught me. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, before thundercrashes.Two miles away. The storm is gettingcloser.

"Just keep walking," I mutter through chatteringteeth."One foot in front of theother."

I try to distract myself by cataloging the flora I can make out in my phone's flashlightbeam.Oak. Hickory. Mountainlaurel.The familiar exercise is comforting, scientific names creating order inchaos.

Quercus montana. Carya ovata. Kalmia latifolia.

A flash of movement catches my eye of something large darting between trees to myleft.I freeze, beam pointed shakily in thatdirection.Probably just a deer, I tellmyself.Or a very large, possibly hungry,raccoon.

When nothing else moves, I continue upward, pacequickening.The path steepens, my legs burning with theeffort.I'd forgotten how much more intense these mountain trails are compared to my casual walks through Atlanta'sPiedmont Park.

Another fork in the trail, and Ihesitate.It's been twelve years since I regularly hiked thesewoods.Left leads deeper into the forest; right should take me toward Rosco's property if he even still lives in the sameplace.

I choose right, hoping muscle memory serves me better than my fading mentalmap.

Twenty minutes later, I'm rewarded by the outline of a structure through thetrees.Not the small, rustic cabin I remember, but something larger, moresubstantial.I pause, wondering if I've taken a wrong turn and ended up at someone else'sproperty.

But this is definitely the right location, the same ridge overlooking the valley below, though I can barely make out the view through thestorm.This must be Rosco's place, just significantly upgraded from the hunting cabin heinherited.

As I approach, I note the upgraded craftsmanship. There are hand-hewn logs, a wide covered porch, and windows that reflect my flashlightbeam.It's beautiful in a rugged, deliberately isolatedway.Like its owner used tobe.

No lights are visible inside. Either he's asleep, not home, or no longer liveshere.

None of these options improves my currentsituation.

The porch steps creak under my weight as I climb them, legs trembling with cold andexertion.I hesitate before knocking, suddenly aware of how I must look. I look down at my soaked clothes. A drowned rat is probably a generousdescription.And what will I say? Sorry for breaking your heart and leaving town without a proper goodbye twelve yearsago.Mind if I use yourcouch?

Before I can overthink further, I rap firmly on thedoor.Noresponse.

I knock again, louder this time, almostpounding."Hello? Anyone home? I needhelp!"

Still nothing. I try the doorknob. Locked, ofcourse.

Desperation makes me bold. I move to the nearest window, cupping my hands around my eyes to peerinside.Dark, but I can make out the shapes of furniture, a stone fireplace, what looks like a well-equippedkitchen.Definitely notabandoned.

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