Page 12 of Mountain Daddy
Just once.
Outside the storm’s howling picks up. The windows rattle and we all turn to face them. The lights flicker and my heart catches in my throat.
“Daddy,” Elsie’s voice shakes as she takes my hand.
I give it a squeeze, opening my mouth to offer her reassurance, but then…
Everything goes dark.
FOUR
WELLS
The lights click off with a soft snap, plunging us into darkness.
For one solid second, nobody breathes.
Then Elsie squeaks, “Daddy?”
“I’ve got you, bug.” My voice stays calm, steady, even though my pulse kicks up hard. “We’re okay. Just a power blip.”
Another flicker. Another pop. The stove goes quiet.
Not a blip.
Outage.
The storm is too loud outside. Too forceful. Something happened.
I run my hand along the counter until I find the small flashlight I keep clipped to the toaster. The beam cuts through the dark, and I crouch in front of Elsie.
“Hey,” I murmur, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Let’s get you cozy, yeah? Celia’s gonna take you to bed.”
Celia is already beside her, calm as a steady flame. She’s good like that. Good at absorbing panic and giving back warmth.
“What about you?” she asks quietly.
“I’ll be right back. I need to take a look outside. Might just be the generator line.”
Her eyes flash with worry, but she nods, touching my forearm lightly. “Be careful.”
I shouldn’t feel that touch everywhere. Not right now. Not when there’s work to do.
I press a kiss to Elsie’s head. “Brush teeth, story, snuggle. Same as always.”
She nods bravely and slips her small hand into Celia’s.
I watch them disappear up the hallway before I grab my coat and step out into the storm.
The wind slams into me like a wall. Snow pelts sideways, blinding, icy, fierce. I hunch forward and force myself toward the tree line behind the cabin where the generator feeds into the main panel.
When I get there, my stomach drops.
A massive spruce has come down across the back fence, dragging the line with it. The weight of the branches snapped the connection clean in two. The generator itself is intact—but the line is done for.
“Dammit.”
I kneel, scraping snow away with my gloves. A repair is possible, but not fun. Not fast. Not safe in a blizzard. But we need heat. We need light. And I refuse to let my kid and the woman I’m trying not to want freeze.
