Page 9 of Wild for the Mountain Man
He clears his throat first. “You hungry? I packed something simple.”
“What’s simple?”
He opens his pack: two biscuits wrapped in a clean towel, still warm. I take a biscuit, tear it in half. “You make a good guide.”
He looks at me, measuring the weight of that word. “I like being yourguide.”
Something about the way he says it makes me pause — like the word “guide” just learned how to mean something else. Or, maybe I’m only hopeful it does. I want to ask why, but he’s already pouring coffee from the same dented thermos. The steam fogs between us, fragrant with vanilla — something he must have added on purpose. We eat on a log, the creek flowing softly below where we sit.
“Wade?”
He hums in reply.
“Do you ever wish you’d done something else? Gone somewhere?”
He studies the current. “Once. I almost left. The mountain made sure I stayed.”
“How?”
“By reminding me I hadn’t learned everything yet.”
I nod, even though I’m not sure I understand. The words settle in the same place the snowflakes did yesterday — light at first, then deeper when you let them. Wade speaks in sentences that are almost like riddles. I guess if I think about it, he always has.
When the cups are empty, he stands and offers his hand. I take it. His grip is warm.
“Let’s head down before it ices,” he says.
We walk side by side along the creek, boots crunching in perfect time.
I tell myself it’s just gratitude I’m feeling. Simply admiration for his knowledge of the terrain. But when he glances at me — just a look, nothing more — I feel the truth press closer. Whatever this is, it’s starting to grow deeper roots. The question is: how deep will they go?
Chapter 6
Wade
The day never warmed. Even now, near dusk, the cold hangs around like a guest who’s not sure he’s still wanted.
I finished my afternoon hike group two hours ago, dropped the gear at the shop, and promised Ray I’d look at the busted ATV clutch tomorrow. Now the truck hums up the long grade toward home, the heater clicking faintly.
Caleb’s at emergency responder training, which means the house will be quiet for a while. Quiet is usually what I want. Tonight it feels like a room missing its center.
When I pull up to the cabin and the wifi kicks in, my phone buzzes with a new message:
Lilah:You were right about the creek. Sending proof.
The image loads and I exhale through a smile I don’t mean to have. The frame is wide, the curve of water caught betweensnow-bright banks. At the far edge—two boot prints side by side before the reflection begins. Ours.
I type,Nice composition,then delete it. Too technical. I type again.
Me:Didn’t think you’d catch the footprints before they filled in.
Lilah:Some things deserve to be remembered.
She has a way of saying things that make me think she’s got a double meaning behind the words. I’d almost bet that’s the case.
I hang my jacket by the door, load up the fireplace with wood and get the fire going. I should make dinner, pay bills, do anything ordinary. Instead I pour a glass of bourbon and step out onto the porch admiring the stars.
I think about this morning … her laugh when the raven crossed the sun, the way she saidI see everything right now.People say that sort of thing and don’t mean it. She did.
