Page 4 of Stone Cold Mountain Man
I roll my shoulders, pushing the thought away. This is my leap, not theirs.
“Alright, Dottie,” I say, plucking her from the cupholder. “Time to see what we’re working with.”
The porch groans as I climb the steps. I fit the key into the lock, twist, but nothing happens. I jiggle it, shove, muttering a few colorful words under my breath as I do so. Finally, I plant my shoulder against the door and shove as hard as I can. It gives with a squeal that sounds like it hasn’t been opened since the 90s.
A wave of damp, musty air rolls over me. I gag dramatically, then take a bracing breath through my mouth.
“Fresh mountain scent, my ass,” I tell Dottie.
Inside, the decor is a time capsule from 1993. The curtains are a faded floral, the furniture a mash-up of plaid and faux leather, and a crocheted blanket that lays across the back of a sofa has seen better—no, all—days. Somewhere behind a cabinet door, something small scurries.
“Oh, great,” I sigh. “We’ve got a roommate.”
I set Dottie on the warped kitchen counter and turn in a slow circle, cataloging everything wrong: sagging shelves, a wood stove that looks one good sneeze away from collapsing, wallpaper yellowed with age.
Then I take another lap, deliberately changing my gaze.
This time see the potential.
If I squint, the dingy corner by the fireplace could become a reading nook—one of those Pinterest-worthy ones with a cozy chair and a stack of spicy books that will keep me warm on long winter nights. The big window over the sink frames a view that makes me forget about the cracked linoleum for a heartbeat: layers of green rolling into blue-gray peaks, the sky still streaked with light. There’s a little nook in the corner that looks like aperfect spot for a crafting table. Or a writing desk if I ever get brave enough to put words on paper.
“There,” I tell Dottie, I hold her up for a better view. “See? Potential. We just have to squint.”
Her plump leaves seem unimpressed.
“Don’t give me that look,” I tell her, placing her in the center of the kitchen island. “I know you’re internally rolling your eyes, but this is what I do, remember? I find the silver lining. Even when it’s covered in mildew.”
I cross to the fireplace and kneel to inspect it. The stone hearth is solid enough, though someone left behind a sad little pile of ash and an ancient poker. With some elbow grease, a few throw pillows, and maybe a scented candle or twelve, this could actually feel like a place worth staying.
A breeze sneaks through the gaps around the front door, lifting a strand of hair off my cheek. I hug my arms around myself, taking in the silence—the real kind, not the kind that hums with traffic or neighbors arguing through thin apartment walls. Just the mountain and all its creatures, settling in for the night.
I should be nervous. I should be thinking about the man who yanked my Jeep out of the ditch and looked at me like I was the world’s most inconvenient trespasser. Instead, I feel…steadier. For once I’m not worried about what other people will be thinking of me. There isn’t anyone here to judge.
Well, maybe except for Dottie.
This cabin is rough, sure. But so am I, in all the ways that made me pack up and leave my old life behind. I’m taking a chance on myself. And if I fail, then at least on my death bed, I will look back to this moment and tell myself at least I tried.
I move Dottie again, trying to find the perfect spot for her. I decide on the windowsill, where the last sunrays catch her waxy leaves.
“Give me a month,” I tell her. “Maybe two. I’ll turn this place around and make it a home for us.”
She stays silent, which I choose to take as agreement instead of leafy skepticism.
I take one more spin around the room, cataloging the work ahead: curtains to replace, cupboards to scrub, a suspicious stain on the ceiling to investigate later. The list is long, but for once, it doesn’t scare me.
I can already see it—warm light spilling across wooden floors, a kettle whistling, me curled up with a book while snow falls outside.
Home.
Or at least, something that could be.
4
Wade
Two weeks.
That’s how long the mountain’s been testing me with—her.
