Page 7 of Brewing with the Mountain Man
"Go ahead."
I wait for her to ask for my identification, but she doesn’t.
She retrieves her radio from the bathroom, and I listen to her make contact with her dispatcher while I start cooking. She sounds professional, calm, giving her general location in careful terms. Just says she's "sheltering with a local" until the storm passes.
I'm not sure if I'm grateful or insulted that she's not mentioning me specifically.
Probably a little of both.
I cook while she deals with dispatch. Deer sausage from last winter's hunt, wild rice, root vegetables I grew and stored. Simple food, but good. The kind of meal that sticks to your ribs on a cold night. A meal I haven't cooked for anyone but myself in over a decade.
“Smells good,” she says, coming back to the fire. “Can I help?”
“No.” I don't look at her. “You're a guest.”
“I’m not really a guest. I'm more of a…” she trails off.
“Hostage to the weather?” I suggest.
“I was going to say 'unexpected visitor.’”
“Same thing.”
I hear her huff out a breath that might be a laugh. “I’m not sure what I expected. But you’re not it.”
“Maybe you expected an axe murderer?” I finally look at her. “Or a mountain man who eats trespassers?”
“Maybe the second one.” She's definitely smiling now. “You did run away from me pretty fast. Made me think you had something to hide. Any body parts in the refrigerator?”
“Human body parts?”
She nods with a half-smile.
“Nope. Only animal.” I turn back to the stove. “But I do have something to hide. My peace and quiet. And you were threatening both.”
"By trying to talk to you about permits?"
"By being here at all."
It comes out more honest than I wanted.
"I'm sorry," she says quietly. "For intruding, at least."
I dish up two plates, forcing myself to turn around and meet her eyes.
"Not your fault," I reply. "You were just doing your job. And well, the storm doesn't care about property lines or permits. Just happened."
I hand her a plate, and our fingers brush. It's barely contact, but I feel it like a spark of static.
We eat at the small table I built, Bear settling on the floor between us. The silence is awkward at first, loaded with something I’m not used to.
“How long did it take you to build this cabin?” she asks, stabbing a carrot with her fork.
“A year, give or take, working alone. Another six to eight months to get the systems right—solar panels, water collection, the root cellar. And then fill it with furniture.”
I follow her gaze around the room.
“Been improving it ever since. There’s always something to fix or upgrade.”
