I went back up the mountain.
Back to the cabin. Back to my routines. Back to the silence I told myself I wanted.
It’s not the same.
The couch is the worst. Every time I look at it, I see her curled against me, laughing at some dumb story, or falling asleep with her hand fisted in my shirt like I was the only solid thing in the room. The bed is worse. The mug she used is still by the sink. I washed it, but it still feels…hers.
I work.
I chop wood. Fix fences. Oil harnesses. Run maintenance rides when the weather’s clear. I keep the horses’ routines steady, because they deserve that.
The whole time, it feels like I’m moving through a copy of my life that doesn’t quite fit.
At night, the stove ticks and the cabin creaks and the wind drags its fingers through the pines. Used to be that was enough. Used to be I’d sit in my chair, drink something hot, watch the fire, and tell myself quiet was a reward.
Now it sounds like everything I didn’t say.
Ivy’s voice hangs around the edges of the room. You’re a coward. If you’d just told me you needed time… I would’ve worked with that.
I try to tell myself I did the right thing. That she’s better off in Saint Pierce, throwing herself into her new job, not worrying about whether the mountain got enough snowpack or if I slept last night.
It works for about three seconds at a time.
On the fourth day after Christmas, my phone rings.
I almost don’t answer. Most calls this time of year are either the sheriff asking about road conditions or the mayor asking if I’ll do one last sleigh loop for someone’s New Year’s proposal.
But the screen saysRUINin all caps, which means I either pick up or he drives up here and kicks my door in.
I thumb the screen. “Hey.”
“Look who remembers how to use a phone,” my brother says, his voice edged with static and Texas. “Merry late Christmas, jackass.”
“Same to you,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “How’s the Lone Star State?”
“Hotter than your stove and twice as loud,” he says. “Figured I’d see if the mountain had eaten you. Again.”
“Still here,” I say.
“That doesn’t sound like bragging anymore,” he notes.
I grunt.
He hears it.
“So,” Ruin says. “I got a half-coherent call from Lolly on Christmas Eve. Something about you, a storm, a girl, and the mayor’s bells. Want to explain?”
Traitor, I think about Lolly, who absolutely promised she wouldn’t gossip. “Not much to explain.”
“Bullshit,” he says immediately. “Start talking.”
I stare at the stove for a second, watching the flames lick at the logs. If there’s anyone who gets it, it’s Ruin. He’s seen me at myworst. We bled in the same sand. Sat in the same VA waiting room that smelled like bleach and fear. He knows the nights I don’t talk about.
“There was a woman,” I say finally. “Marketing. PR. Came up to do some campaign for the Jubilee. Fell into my sleigh, broke a runner, got snowed in at the cabin for a couple nights.”
“Rom-com setup,” he says. “I approve.”
I ignore that. “We talked. A lot. She got me to…open up. About things I haven’t talked about in a long time.”
