Not just for her.
For both of us.
Chapter Three
Trista
Bythetimewereach the base of the trail, the sun has dipped below the ridge line, leaving everything bathed in purple twilight. My legs ache in that satisfying way that comes from real physical work. My shoulders feel lighter, like setting down more than just a pack.
Duke walks me to my car, parked alone in the small gravel lot. Dust motes dance in the last rays of light filtering through the trees.
“Thank you,” I say. “Again. I know I keep saying it, but—”
“You don’t have to keep thanking me.”
“I want to.”
He nods, hands in his pockets, looking relaxed. There’s something in the way he’s standing, the way he’s looking at me, that makes my stomach flutter.
“You got a place to stay tonight?” he asks.
“A motel about thirty miles out. I passed it on the way in.”
He glances at the darkening sky, then at the winding road that leads away from the mountain. “That’s a winding road. Narrow. Lots of switchbacks. Not great in the dark if you’re not familiar with it, and you’ve had a long day.”
I know what he’s implying, but I wait for him to say it. Want to hear him offer.
“I’ve got a cabin not far from here,” he continues. “There’s a guest room. You’re welcome to it if you’d rather not drive tired on an unfamiliar road.”
The offer is practical. Sensible. Safety-minded. And yet there’s something in the way he’s looking at me that makes it feel like more. Like he’s offering something beyond just a bed for the night.
Nate’s voice echoes again.Take chances. Stop overthinking. Live a little.
“Okay,” I say. “Yeah. That would be good. Thank you.”
His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes warms. “We can actually walk there from here. That’s one of the reasons I know this area so well. It’s home.”
The cabin is exactly what I expected and nothing like it at the same time.
It sits on a gentle slope about ten minutes from the trailhead, tucked into the trees where the forest starts to thin. Wood and stone construction, simple lines, clean angles. A wide porch that wraps around the front, worn smooth by weather and use. Solar panels on the roof. A stone chimney rising from one side, smoke curling lazily into the evening air.
Inside, it’s warm and lived-in without being cluttered. There are exposed beams overhead, and a wood stove in the corner. The furniture is big and looks comfortable, especially the deep couch with blankets draped over the back. A bookshelf is stacked with dozens of paperbacks, spines creased from reading. And maps line the walls, with trails marked in red ink.
It feels like him. Solid. Intentional. No wasted space. Everything serves a purpose.
“Guest room’s through there,” Duke says, nodding toward a door. “And there’s an attached bathroom. Make yourself at home.”
I set my pack down, suddenly aware of how dusty and sweaty I am. How the day clings to my skin. “Do you mind if I shower?”
“Go ahead. I’ll make dinner.”
The shower is hot and perfect. I stay under the spray longer than I probably should, letting the heat work into my sore muscles, washing away the day’s grit and fear. When I finally step out, I feel almost human again.
I dress in clean clothes, jeans and a soft sweater, and follow the smell of cooking into the kitchen.
Duke stands at the stove, stirring something in a cast iron pan. He’s changed too, traded his work clothes for worn jeans and a flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal those forearms again. His hair is damp, so he must have showered in another bathroom. The knowledge that we were both naked at the same time makes my cheeks flush.
“Smells good,” I say.
