Page 11 of Curvy Girl and the Mountain Man Wolf
"Absolutely not," Lois and I say in unison. The thought of leaving the child alone in the cabin while we hike up the mountain is unacceptable to both of us, it seems.
"You're coming with us, sweetie," Lois says firmly. "We'll all go together."
Lily sighs but doesn't argue. I find myself impressed by the easy authority Lois has with her daughter—gentle but firm, never raised voices or threats, just the clear expectation of obedience.
"I'll find some extra gear for both of you," I say, standing to clear the plates. "The snow will be deep in places."
Lois rises to help, gathering the empty juice glasses. "Thank you. For all of this."
Her gratitude makes me uncomfortable. I'm not doing this out of kindness or generosity. I'm doing it because my wolf won't let me do otherwise. Because something in me recognized her the moment she appeared on my doorstep, snow in her hair and desperation in her eyes.
Because, against all logic and self-preservation, a part of me wants her to stay.
I move away from the table, away from her, busying myself with gathering winter gear. Extra socks, hats, gloves. My smallest pair of snow boots might work for Lois with thick socks. Lily will have to make do with her own boots, but I find a pair of gaiters that can be adjusted to keep the snow out.
"These should help," I say, placing the items on the table. "Layer up. It's cold out there."
Lois examines the boots with a raised eyebrow. "These are going to swallow me whole."
"Better too big than too small," I reply. "Wear two pairs of socks."
She nods, gathering the items and taking them to Lily. I watch them prepare, Lois patiently helping her daughter layer up, explaining why each piece is important.
"Have you always lived alone up here?" Lily asks suddenly, looking up at me as Lois ties her boot laces.
"Lily," Lois admonishes gently. "What did we say about personal questions?"
"It's okay," I say, surprising myself. "No, not always. Just the last eight years."
"That's longer than I've been alive," Lily says, eyes wide. "Don't you get lonely?"
The question is simple, direct, and cuts to the heart of something I've refused to overthink. Do I get lonely? Yes, of course. I'm still human, at least partly. But loneliness is the price of safety—theirs and mine.
"Sometimes," I admit. "But I have the forest. The mountains. It's peaceful."
"And the wolf," Lily adds, nodding sagely. "You have the wolf too."
Lois glances up sharply at that, her eyes meeting mine over Lily's head. There's a question there, an insight trying to form. I look away first.
"Let's get going," I say, grabbing my coat from its hook by the door. "The hike will take about an hour each way, and we want to be back before dark."
The sunshine is blinding when we step outside, the fresh snow reflecting light in all directions. Lily gasps in delight, and even Lois makes a small sound of appreciation. The world is transformed, pristine white blanket covering everything, icicles hanging from the eaves like crystal daggers.
"It's like a fairy tale," Lily breathes, her eyes wide as she takes in the scene.
I hadn't thought of it that way before. To me, the snow has always been practical. It shows tracks, muffles sound, preserves meat when needed. But seeing it through the child's eyes, I canalmost remember the wonder I felt the first time I saw fresh snow as a boy.
"Stay close," I say, starting up the path that leads behind the cabin. "The trail gets steep in places."
Lois takes Lily's hand, and they follow me single file. The snow is deep, but I break trail for them, my greater weight and height making it easier for me to forge a path. Even so, I can hear Lois's breathing quicken as we climb, can smell the slight tang of her sweat despite the cold air.
"We can rest if you need to," I offer after about twenty minutes of steady climbing.
"I'm okay," she says, but I can hear the strain in her voice. Lily seems to be faring better, bouncing through the snow in my footprints with a child's resilience.
I slow my pace slightly, making it easier for Lois to keep up. We climb in silence for another fifteen minutes before reaching a small clearing near the ridge top. From here, the view stretches for miles—snow-covered mountains in all directions, valleys filled with pine and spruce, the occasional glint of a frozen lake.
"Oh," Lois says softly, coming to stand beside me. "It's beautiful."
