That’s what I told myself when I booked the trip. A month away from Charleston. A month away from my job, my friends’ pity, and my ex’s new girlfriend, who is apparently an influencer with perfect hair and a dog that has its own Instagram.
A month in the mountains to breathe, write, and remember what my life feels like when it isn’t being measured in deadlines and likes and whether I’m “wife material” because I enjoy dessert and have thighs that touch.
I pull into a parking spot in front ofThe Timber Creek Mercantile—a rustic building that looks like it’s been there since the invention of gossip. The bell above the door jingles when I step inside, and warm air hits me like a hug.
I pause.
The inside is everything you’d expect from a small-town shop: shelves stacked with local jam, hand-knit scarves, homemade candles, and a suspicious amount of carved wooden bears. There’s a basket of free candy by the register like they’re trying to lure me into a false sense of security.
Behind the counter is a woman in her sixties with silver hair piled in a messy bun and reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. She looks up from a crossword puzzle and smiles like she knows my middle name.
“Well,” she says, dragging the word out like taffy. “You must be the new one.”
I blink. “The… new one?”
“Honey, we haven’t had anyone new in Timber Creek since Brad Holloway got veneers. And that was a wholething.” Her gaze flicks over my coat, my boots, my cheeks pink from cold. “You got city written all over you.”
“I’m Mila.” I lift a hand like I’m introducing myself at an awkward work mixer. “I’m renting the… uh… Bluebird cabin? For a month?”
Her eyes light up. “Oh! You’re Ruthie’s guest.”
“Ruthie?”
“Ruthie Bluebird.” She says it like it should make sense. “Cabin’s named after her, too. She built it with her husband back when folks still used horses for errands. You must be the writer.”
My stomach tightens. “How did you?—”
“Because nobody comes to Timber Creek for fun unless they’re escaping something or chasing someone.” She smiles sweetly. “And Ruthie told me. She tells me everything.”
Of course she does.
I offer a polite smile that probably looks more like I’m trying not to panic. “I’m not escaping. I’m just… taking a break.”
“That’s what escaping looks like, sweetheart.” She slides a key across the counter with a little tag that saysBLUEBIRD CABINin cheerful letters. “I’m June, by the way.”
“Mila,” I repeat, because apparently my brain is a goldfish today.
June leans forward. “Now, you listen to me. That cabin road gets slick after dark. The mountain doesn’t care how confident you feel. If you get in trouble, you call Haven 7.”
“Haven… seven?” I ask.
June points toward a bulletin board covered in flyers. One of them has a bold title:
HAVEN 7 MOUNTAIN RESCUE — Wedding Cake Mountain Station
Need help? Call. Don’t be stubborn.
There’s a photo beneath it—three rugged men in rescue gear standing in front of a snow-covered building. They look like they wrestle blizzards for cardio. The middle one has his arms crossed, his jaw set like he’s personally offended by the camera.
Something in my chest does a small, ridiculous flip.
I clear my throat and look away like I didn’t just react to a piece of paper. “Are they… like… park rangers?”
June laughs. “Oh, honey. No. They’re the ones you call when the park rangers callthem.”
My nerves spike. “Is it dangerous?”
“It’s the mountains.” June shrugs, like that explains everything. “Some folks don’t respect ‘em. Some folks think they’re invincible. And some folks just get unlucky.”
