Total pages in book: 126
Estimated words: 119746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 599(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Relief floods through me at the sight, though I know better than to let my guard down. We’re not safe yet. Not until we’re inside those walls, with the doors barred and the fire lit.
“Thank god,” Cole mutters beside me, giving voice to what we’re all feeling.
We move across the valley floor with renewed purpose, fatigue temporarily forgotten in the promise of shelter. The snow is falling heavier now, driven by gusts that cut through layers of clothing to chill the skin beneath. The cabin remains our beacon, a dark silhouette against the whiteout conditions surrounding it.
As we approach, I scan the structure for signs of damage or unwelcome visitors, human squatters or otherwise. The windows are intact, shutters secured against the weather. The door stands firm, no tracks in the snow to suggest recent entry.
“Get the horses into the lean-to and rugged up,” I direct Eli and Cole. “Red, help me get the door open and start a fire.”
For once, Red complies without comment, following me to the cabin’s entrance. We don’t bother locking it. As much as I don’t want strangers squatting here, it seems cruel to lock it up when someone in the area might need to take shelter. I put my hand on the frosted knob and it turns with resistance, metal stiff with disuse and cold. Once inside, Red gets to making the fire in the hearth while I scout the place for mice. I only find dust.
It’s not a huge cabin, but it feels like a second home. Downstairs there’s a kitchen, dining area, living room and bathroom with a compost toilet (you used to have to travel outside to the outhouse, which is still there), then there’s the stairs leading up to a loft that’s divided by a partition, a single bed in each section.
Dinner is a quiet affair—canned stew heated over the stove, hardtack biscuits, some hot chocolate. Red and Cole make use of an old bottle of rye, but I forgo it. No one speaks much beyond practical necessities. The events in the tunnel, the punishing ride through worsening conditions, the isolation of our situation—it all weighs on us differently, but it weighs nonetheless.
Eventually Eli goes out to feed the horses, while Red and Cole drink their rye by the fire. Hank stays by the window, looking outside as if he’s waiting for someone to drop by, someone he doesn’t want to see.
Aubrey sits across from me at the rough-hewn table, steam from her mug of hot chocolate curling around her face like mist. In the wavering lamplight, shadows dance across her features, softening them, making her look younger, more vulnerable. It’s an illusion, I know. There’s nothing vulnerable about Aubrey Wells.
Unless she’s coming on my tongue.
“So, this is your family cabin?” she asks, breaking the silence that has settled over the room.
I nod, setting down my empty bowl. “Built by my grandfather after the war. Used to be our hunting lodge, long ago, back when the ranch ran cattle all the way up to the tree line.”
“You spent a lot of time here as a kid?”
“Summers mostly. My father would bring me up for weeks at a time.” The memories rise—summer storms, not unlike this one, the cabin a haven of warmth and safety while thunder shook the mountains. My father’s quiet voice explaining how to read the weather, the wildlife, the land. “It was…different then.”
“How so?”
I meet her gaze, weighing how much to say. “Simpler. Before the ranch hit hard times. Before my father died and left me with debts I’m still paying off.”
It’s more than I intended to reveal, but something about her steady gaze pulls the truth from me. Not the whole truth—never that—but more than I’m usually comfortable sharing.
“Is that what this job is about?” she asks quietly. “The money?”
When isn’t it? But not enough to risk these people’s lives. Not enough to risk hers.
“It started that way,” I admit. “Now…I’m not sure.”
Something shifts in her expression—surprise, perhaps, at my honesty. Or maybe she’s just seeing through the layers of bullshit I’ve constructed over the years, the hardened exterior I’ve cultivated to survive in Marcus’s world.
Either way, it’s unsettling.
The moment stretches between us, taut with unspoken questions. Then Cole yawns loudly, breaking the tension.
“Sleeping arrangements?” he asks, already eyeing the steep staircase that leads to the loft above.
“Loft only has two single beds,” I reply, grateful for the change of subject. “Bit cramped, but it’ll do if you spread the sleeping bags out on the rug. Aubrey gets one of them beds, though.”
“I’ll sleep down here,” Aubrey says quickly, already getting to her feet. “More room that way.”
“Not a good idea,” I say. “Heat rises. Loft will be warmer.”
She shakes her head, stubborn, and grabs her sleeping bag from the packs we hauled in from Angus and starts unrolling it. “I’ll be fine by the fire. Besides, someone should keep it stoked through the night.”