I don’t pull away. I don’t move. But in the quiet, frosted room, the distance between us is wider than the mountain pass.
NINE
The Plan and the Truth
BELLA
Logbook Entry —WYATT— February 15 (Day 10)
The pass is opening tomorrow morning. Road crews are working the summit gates. Supply trucks should be up by noon. The storm is over. The work is done. Bella’s rental is clear. She’s leaving.
The sudden stillnessbeside me is colder than the mountain wind leaking through the windowpane.
I lie on the mattress, the heavy quilt pulled to my chin, staring at the ceiling. The silence in Wyatt’s bedroom is absolute. Only minutes ago, my skin was hot, my chest pressed against his, the heat of our breathing thick in the winter dark. Now, the silver light of dawn creeping across the pine floorboards reveals the change.
Wyatt is a shadow beside me. He lies flat on his back, his arms straight at his sides, his gaze locked on the ceiling. The tenderness that filled the room during the storm has vanished.His shoulders are rigid, a wall of muscle and bone that might as well be solid granite.
My whispered words hang in the freezing air between us.
I’m really sorry, but I have to sell.
He doesn’t turn his head. He doesn’t pull the blanket away. He simply exists in a state of suspension, his chest rising and falling in slow, mechanical cycles.
“The wind is dropping.” His voice is a gravel-quiet rumble, devoid of the grit and warmth from last night. It’s the voice of a man reading a chart. “The storm is over.”
I roll onto my side, the quilt rustling. I reach out, my fingers hovering an inch from his bare shoulder. I want to press my palm to his skin, to feel the steady thud of his heart and find the man who held me in the dark. But the distance is already too wide. I drop my hand back to the mattress.
“Wyatt.”
He slides out of the bed, the mattress shifting under his weight. He doesn’t look at me as he pulls on his jeans, the denim stiff and cold in the dawn air. He reaches for his flannel shirt from the chair, slipping his arms into the sleeves and buttoning it with jerky movements.
He faces the door, his back to me. “The runs need shoveling before the ice sets. I’ll be in the clinic.”
The door clicks shut behind him. The sound is small, but it echoes in the empty room.
I pull my knees to my chest, burying my face in the wool of the sweater. The scent of him is still on the fabric—pine shavings,antiseptic, and the clean musk of his skin. My throat locks. I swallow the ache, forcing my eyes open.
Get up. List the tasks. Keep moving.
I shouldn’t have said that. It was cruel. But honest. Painfully honest.
The floorboards bite at my bare feet as I slide out of bed. I dress quickly, pulling on my thermal leggings, my thick wool socks, and my boots. My fingers are stiff, the laces difficult to tie.
When I walk into the clinic corridor, the emergency lights are off. The main generator hums in the background, a steady vibration through the soles of my boots. The clinic smells of wet dog, bleach, and copper.
Atlas stands near the back door. He isn’t lying on his side, his joints locked in pain. He’s upright, his tail low but wagging as I approach. His ears perk, and he lets out a quiet huff, nudging his nose against my thigh.
I kneel on the cold floor, wrapping my arms around his neck. His coat is thick and warm, and he presses his weight into my chest. He doesn’t limp as he shifts his paws.
He’s having a good day.
Relief should wash over me, but instead, a cold finger of dread traces my ribs. Hope in this place is a dangerous currency.
If Atlas recovers, if the clinic thrives, if Wyatt looks at me with that raw hunger again... it makes the exit plan harder. It makes the risk of staying real. And staying means waiting for the other shoe to drop. It means waiting for the day I wake up and find another person I love has slipped away in the dark, leaving me to pick up the pieces.
“He’s moving well today.” Jason stands in the doorway to the runs, a metal scoop shovel in his hand. His canvas coat is zipped to his chin, his knit cap pulled low over his forehead.
I stand, wiping a strand of hair from my face. “His legs aren’t stiff. The cold didn’t lock him up.”
