Page 2 of Snowed-in With The Mountain Man
"Always," I say simply, because there isn't another answer. Not for her.
After we hang up, I stare at my phone for a long moment, trying to process what just happened. Stella's coming home. With her daughter. Without her husband, apparently.
Something's very wrong.
I rejoin the Sullivans, my mind already miles away from deer and rifles and disappointed clients.
"Everything okay?" Tyler asks, more perceptive than his father.
"Family emergency," I say, not bothering to elaborate. "We need to head back."
Sullivan's face darkens. "We paid for a full day. Still have hours of daylight left."
I nod, keeping my expression professional. "You'll receive a partial refund. I can recommend another guide if you want to come back tomorrow."
"This is unacceptable," Sullivan starts, but I cut him off with a look that silences him immediately.
"Family emergency," I repeat, slower this time. "Non-negotiable."
We hike back to the truck in tense silence. I drive them to their resort faster than is strictly safe, offer a terse apology, and leave them at the entrance without waiting for a response.
Let them leave a bad review. Let them complain to the tourism board. None of it matters.
Stella needs me.
I race home, taking mountain curves too fast, mind spinning with questions. Why now? What happened? Where's her husband?
The cabin comes into view as I crest the final hill. My sanctuary. Three bedrooms, a massive great room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the valley, a kitchen I rarely use. Too much space for one man, but I built it with vague dreams of someday filling it with the sound of a family.
With her.
I park and hurry inside, suddenly seeing the space through her eyes. Hunting trophies on the walls. Utilitarian furniture. Dishes in the sink from breakfast.
I spend the next two hours in a cleaning frenzy, making the guest bedroom ready, putting fresh sheets on the bed, running the vacuum. I clear out space in the closet, empty a drawer in the bathroom vanity. I even find an old stuffed bear in the attic that used to belong to Jax as a kid, dusting it off for Chellie.
When the cabin is as presentable as it's going to get, I shower, changing into clean jeans and a flannel shirt. I'm toweling my hair dry when headlights sweep across the front windows.
My heart pounds against my ribs so hard it hurts.
I open the door before she can knock, and the sight of her sucker punches me right in the gut.
Stella stands on my porch in the fading winter light, dark circles under her eyes, her normally vibrant face pale and drawn. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she's wearing an oversized sweater that makes her look smaller than I remember.
But it's still her. Still the only woman I've ever loved.
"Hi," she says, voice small and uncertain.
"Hi yourself." I step back, opening the door wider. "Come in before you freeze."
She hesitates. "Chellie's asleep in the car. I didn't want to wake her until..."
Until she knew for sure I meant what I said. Until she confirmed it wasn't an imposition.
"I'll get her," I offer, already moving past her toward the car.
I open the back door quietly, and there she is. A tiny dark-haired girl strapped into a car seat, head lolled to the side in sleep. Chellie. The physical manifestation of everything I lost, everything I never had a chance to build with Stella.
My chest constricts as I carefully unbuckle her, lifting her into my arms with a gentleness I usually reserve for wounded animals. She stirs slightly, mumbling something unintelligible before settling against my chest, trusting and warm.
