Page 6 of Snowbound
Are thosetracksin the snow… or is my imagination just going feral?
I peer into the woods and realize, first of all, there’s not nearly enough snow for there to be any actual tracks. And second… if thereweretracks, where would they even be coming from? The sky? Unless we’ve had an alien invasion overnight, I think I’m good.
Maybe it’s just a squirrel looking for his lost nut. I snicker into my coffee.Lost nut?God, I’m twelve. Jake would just fix me with that withering stare, the one that could curdle milk, and mutter that I needed to grow up.
Well fuck him and his stupid pink-pantied mistress.
“Maybeyouneed to grow the fuck up,” I mutter under my breath to absolutely no one because, of course, I’m alone in this fucking cabin. Alone because only cowards cheat on their wives.
God, even saying that out loud sounds pathetic.
I shake my head, pour my second cup of coffee, and lean back against the counter, wrapping my hands around the mug like it’s something alive and warm that might comfort me back into being human.
It feels like a hug in a mug. I’m halfway into a smile when something flickers in my peripheral vision.
I turn my head toward the little entryway. I guess you could call it a porch, though “porch” feels too generous for the scrap of wood planks only big enough to hold one chair. In the summer, I’d probably drag a blanket out there and curl up on that rocking chair with a book. It’s adorable.
But right now?
Right now, I’m staring at a stack of firewood that Iswearwasn’t there last night. Piled all the way to the roof. Was I just not paying attention?
Wouldn’t I havenoticedthat?
My phone buzzes…again.God, why does Jake decide now’s the time to actually pay attention to me?
I ignore the persistent buzzing and stare back at the woodpile.
And if someone brought it, wouldn’t I have heard them stacking it?
Interesting.
I didn’t put that wood there. Because if it had just been sitting around, it would be damp from all the snow they’ve been getting for weeks… right?
“Cool, cool,” I mutter under my breath. “Not creepy at all.”
Right. Definitely just the wind. The wind that stacked my wood. Or maybe it’s my very particular landlord, the same one who stocked my fridge, deciding I needed fuel for the fireplace.
And yet… my skin prickles under my sweater, this instinctive whisper running along my spine.
The heat in here is garbage. I’m going to have to start a fire before I freeze.
I scoop an armful of logs inside and drop them next to the fireplace. Outside, the snow is already erasing any tracks, if there were any, which is somehow worse.
Woman versus wood and fire.
There’s something about French press coffee and the scent of real burning wood that gets under my skin in the best way.
My family used to camp when I was a kid. I can still remember Owen showing me how to build a fire.
I swallow hard.No. I don’t want to think about Owen. Not here, not now. Not when my heart’s already cracked and bleeding, and I’m supposed to be writing a love story.
But the memory sneaks in anyway.
You’ve gotta start slow, right?His voice in my ear, in that Irish brogue. His strong, capable hands, stacking the kindling. He’d light the match and shield it with his palm before sliding it underneath.
Owen waskindof like my big brother… until he wasn’t.
I shake the memory off and go through every step he taught me until the fire is burning hot, the heat finally crawling back into my fingers.
