Nicole’s heart tripped over itself. She couldn’t help the laugh that escaped. “Good, because I liked it, too.”
For a moment, they just sat there, quietly sipping coffee while the golden morning light filled the cabin.
“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “you’re kind of a natural caretaker.”
He arched a brow. “Caretaker? Sounds like a handyman for the garden.”
“A protector,” she explained. “Not just your chosen profession, but in everyday life.”
“You think?”
“You made me feel safe last night, despite the fact that a major and probably very dangerous storm was raging.”
“This place is solid.”
“You’re solid,” she corrected, making him give in to a smile. “You just…take care of people without making a big deal about it.”
Cameron ducked his head, clearly pleased. “Maybe more than people would like me to.”
She frowned, not sure if she followed.
“I’ve been accused of smothering,” he explained as he finished his coffee and stood. “But mostly by my sister. Oh, and don’t forget you have one very important thing to do before you can officially leave the Powder Keg.”
Nicole tilted her head. “I do?”
He nodded toward the far wall, where a massive wooden support beam stretched across the room. As she got closer, she realized the wood was covered with names—scratched, burned, and Sharpied into history.
“Oh, the whiteout wall,” she realized, laughing as she bent to read a few. “‘Shredzilla 2010’…‘Powder Hounds Rule’…Wow, some of these are ancient.”
“I told you, it’s a rule,” Cameron said proudly. “Anyone who’s ever been snowed in here has to sign the Whiteout Wall. It’s like the Keg’s history book.”
Nicole ran her fingers over the rough wood, smiling at the quirky nicknames and doodles. A tiny snowman drawn in blue ink. A jagged heart with initials inside. Then she froze.
“No way,” she whispered as a thousand goosebumps danced up her arms.
“What?” Cameron came over, peering over her shoulder.
She pointed to a neat, careful carving near the base of the beam.
Flying Jack Kessler 1982
“That’s my dad!” she said, her voice a mix of disbelief and delight. “Oh, my gosh, he was, what? Seventeen? He must’ve been here with his friends.”
Cameron laughed. “Makes sense. The locals all know about this place. And honestly, the Keg probably hasn’t changed a whole lot since then.”
Nicole traced the letters with a light touch, unexpectedly emotional. It felt like she was standing in her father’s footsteps, like a bridge between the girl she’d been before her accident and the woman she was becoming now.
“He would love this,” she murmured. “Skiing has always been our thing, even when I swore I hated it. Being here…it feels like I’m getting that piece of us back. Thank you.”
Impulsively, she hugged him, and he held her tightly, neither of them caring about the bulky ski thermals.
When she pulled back, he handed her a Sharpie. “Your turn. Leave your mark.”
Grinning through tears, Nicole carefully wroteNicole Kesslerand the year just below her father’s name. And she snapped a picture with her phone because Dad wouldlovethis.
After that, they geared up, tugging on boots and zipping coats. As Cameron tightened his gloves, he glanced at her.
“So, what’s your plan for the day?”
