Page 3 of Wild for the Mountain Man
“I’ll get her bags,” I say, because it’s easier to be useful than it is to stand in the doorway and watch something I can’t hold.
Her duffel’s heavier than it looks. She lets me take it without protest, which is new. The kid who left this town would’ve insisted. The woman who came back knows when to let someone help.
Inside, the house is warm and familiar. Dave hollers from the kitchen and bangs a lid. The chili smells like cumin and tomatoes – great comfort food.
I set her suitcase in the spare room and catch my reflection in the window — flannel, hair turning gray, and lines around my eyes the mountain gave me for being hers this long.
You’re not young anymore. Stop being an idiot.
“Wade?” Lilah’s voice floats down the hall, soft. “Thank you.”
I turn. She’s in the doorway, hair pulled over one shoulder, hands folded like she’s not sure what to do with them. I feel the moment tip, like a canoe when someone shifts their weight at the wrong time.
“Anytime,” I say, because it’s true. But maybe in a way, it shouldn’t be.
She steps closer. The closeness makes me feel like I just got exposed by a sun ray. “I might need a guide for a day or two. If you’re free. I have locations in mind.”
Work subject. That feels better and safer. I can put both hands on that. “You planning the ridge above Eagle Run? Snow’ll lock that out soon.”
“I was hoping tomorrow for the overlook. Then the creek. Then …”
“The elk flats,” I finish for her, because of course she wants the flats. “Sunrise. You’ll freeze if you don’t pack right.”
She brightens. “I can handle cold.”
“You said that when you were fourteen and stole your dad’s socks and got blisters anyway.”
She laughs and concedes I’m right.
“You remember that, Wade?”
I remember everything. The day she and Caleb built a snow fort that leaned like it was sighing. The scraped knee she refused to cry about. The first time she asked me a question about camera lenses like she wanted to borrow my eyes.
“I remember when people borrow gear and forget to return it,” I say lightly. “Bring gloves. Real ones. I’ve got spares if you don’t.”
She nods, serious again. “Thank you.”
Dave calls us to the kitchen and we go. I take the seat I always take. Lilah sits across from me and lifts her spoon, blowing at the steam. The room is filled with easy talk. Early snows and whether the high school’s going to make the playoffs. I’m aware of every accidental brush of her knee against the table leg like I’m a compass and she’s north.
When she tells Dave how surprised she was to run into me on the road, he grins and aims his spoon like a pointer. “He’s a good one to run into. Always shows up when a person needs him.”
There’s a truth in that I should be proud of. Instead I feel confined.
After dinner, I help with dishes because I always do. Lilah dries. Our hands bump once. I move slower than I need to. The window over the sink frames the last of the light leaking out of the day. When my phone buzzes on the counter, I force myself to step away to read the message.
Caleb:Practice ran long. Be home by eight. Hungry.
I smile. My boy eats like a bear in spring.
Me:I’ll throw something on. Watch for possible black ice by the turn.
I pocket the phone and look up to find Lilah studying me. I don’t know what she sees and I’m not sure I want to know.
“Tomorrow?” she asks, setting down the towel.
“Before dawn.” I keep my voice even. “Dress warm. Meet me at the trailhead. I’ll text you the pin. Give me your number.”
“Okay.” She rattles off her cell phone number and I put it in my contact.
