Thatcher
Thewomandoesn'tlistenworth a damn.
I tell her to stay close, and she keeps stopping to swing that ridiculous metal wand like we're on a tropical beach instead of in the middle of a snow squall.
By the time we reach the ridge cut, the wind's turned mean. Snow stings my face like thrown sand, hissing through the pines like static. She's half my size, all bright colors and stubborn energy, and she shouldn't be out here alone in this. Her jacket's good quality but not meant for this—not for the kind of cold that creeps under your layers and settles in your bones.
"Almost there," I say over the wind.
She peers up at me through fogged goggles, her nose already pink. "You always rescue strange women in blizzards?"
"Only the ones trespassing on my property."
Her laugh is quick and light, carried off by the gusts before it can settle. "Lucky me."
Yeah. Lucky her. Lucky me too, maybe.
The snow's coming sideways now, and I can feel the temperature dropping further, bringing that bone-deep cold that means we're in for a long blow. I position myself on the windward side of her, blocking what I can.
The cabin crouches where the trees thicken again—half stone, half timber, chimney smoking with the promise of warmth inside. I shoulder the door open, gesture her inside. She hesitates just long enough to stomp snow from her boots before stepping over the threshold and exhaling a low, awed sound.
"Oh my god, it's warm."
It's a simple place. One big room with a woodstove radiating heat in waves, a workbench scarred with use, and a bed tucked behind a hanging quilt stitched in a pattern of evergreens. Shelves are lined with salvaged pieces, including copper fittings green with patina, bolts sorted by size, and the curved brass of an old lantern that still holds a stub of candle.
The air inside smells like woodsmoke and coffee grounds, leather and machine oil—the particular scent of a place where someone works with their hands.
"It’s cozy," she says, brushing snow from her hat. Melting flakes drip onto the floorboards, darkening the wood.
Cozy? She makes it sound like a country cottage from a Jane Austen movie.I close the door before she sees my mouth twitch, throwing the bolt against the wind. "You can warm up there." I nod to the stove.
She crouches beside it, rubbing her hands together, gaze darting everywhere. Her cheeks are red from cold, her curls escaping their braid in wild corkscrews. "You make all this?"
"Most of it."
Her eyes catch on the stack of rail spikes on the bench, each one worn smooth by decades of weather. "You're…what, a blacksmith?"
"Metal salvager." I hang my coat on the peg, step out of my boots. Snow falls from them in clumps that'll melt into puddles by morning. "Old machinery, train parts, whatever's left behind."
She nods appreciatively. “So, we’re both into metal.” The smile she gives me could melt the frost off the windows. "I'm Gia, by the way.”
I nod once. "Thatcher."
"Thatcher." She tries it out, like she's testing the balance of it on her tongue. "So you live here full-time? Just you and the ghosts of the railroad?"
"Just me." I busy myself with the kettle, because looking at her feels too easy. The metal's still warm from sitting near the stove. "The ghosts keep to themselves."
She wanders closer, touching the rim of an old lantern with careful fingers, tracing the curve of a polished gear. Her nails are painted a chipped red that matches her jacket. "You know, I think you might be the first real mountain man I've met. I mean, the legend said—"
I cut her a glance. "Legend?"
"Christmas Eve train wreck. The lost gold shipment. My grandpa talked about it all the time." Her eyes shine like the brass she's been hunting. "You've heard it, right?"
"I suppose everyone around here has."
She tilts her head, studying me. "Do you think it's true?"
I pour water into the kettle, set it on the stove where it immediately begins to tick with heat. "I think the mountain is good at keeping its secrets.”
