She’d have to wait it out. Doing
so in her car, though, especially since she was running low on gas, didn’t seem
like the best alternative when there was another one perched right in front of
her. The flickering light of what turned out to be the fire going in this cabin
had beckoned. So she’d abandoned her car and headed out into the knee-high
snow.
By the time she’d gotten to the front porch, her hands felt
almost numb from the cold and she was shivering from the icy flakes bombarding
her. Pounding on the door yielded no response, but when she’d tried the latch
she found it open. There was a God.
Stumbling inside, she’d fumbled along the wooden wall for a
light switch, but hadn’t found one and had finally given up, lurching toward
the fire going in the fireplace, sputtering but still alive.
She supposed the owner of this cabin must be somewhere
around here. Fires didn’t light themselves. But she couldn’t worry about that
now.
Dropping her canvas bag on the floor, she kicked off her
boots, and shivering, curled up into a ball on the threadbare rug in front of
the fireplace, hugging her knees. Her teeth were chattering and her clothes
soaking wet. But she was grateful at least to be somewhere she could wait out
the storm.
The banging of the cabin door against the wooden wall a
minute later startled her out of the beginning of a daydream in which she was
warm and dry. She jumped up. “What the—?”
“Who are you?” someone, something, bellowed at her out of
the darkness and the gust of frigid wind that accompanied the open door. The
door slammed shut with the same force it had opened and he—she guessed it was a
he, not an it—advanced until he was within the scanty light of the fire.
“Who are you?” he asked again, not quite as loud, which,
frankly, she appreciated since the mere sight of him was terrifying enough.
Bundled up in some floor-length fur coat, a hood all but obscuring his face,
the guy looked to be about ten feet tall. She didn’t need any overwhelming
audio.
“I’m, ah, I mean my name is, ah, Clarie Lewis,” she
stammered. “I stopped here to get out of the storm. I couldn’t drive through it
anymore.”
“So you thought that gave you a right to barge onto private
property?”
“I didn’t—”
“Save me the excuses. Get out.”
The order was delivered with such finality that for a moment
she was just plain flabbergasted. But then all the frustration of the day, the
wrong turns, the trudge through the freezing snow, the ice seeping through her
new boots, came crashing down on her and she surged to her feet.
“Now, wait a minute. You can’t kick me out of here. There’s
a friggin’ avalanche out there.”
“It’s some snow,” he said derisively.
On her feet, she saw he wasn’t quite the giant she had first
thought. Six three or four, tops. But a lot bigger, of course, than her own
five feet six. Hard to tell with the parka still on, but she bet he outweighed
her by a hundred pounds as well.
“And you can spare me your indignation. Please. It’s my
cabin. Or does private property mean nothing to your type?”
She didn’t venture a guess at his categorization of her
type. Maybe he thought she was a hippie backpacking through the mountains. She
didn’t have a clue.
“I own this space. The warmth of that fire.”
Gesturing to the howling clatter beyond the cabin window, he then pointed a
gloved hand toward his chest. “The protection from that wind. Mine .”
She shivered as he pulled his gloves off and threw them on a
nearby chair.
“If you want to share any of it, you’ll have to make it
worth my while. What do you have to bargain with?” he asked nonchalantly.
“Bargain with? Of all the insulting—”
Mid-indignant exclamation, it dawned on her that she was
alone with this…this mountain man, in the middle of a monumental snow storm.
Forget about no protection from the elements. She had no protection from him.
And he’d suddenly
so in her car, though, especially since she was running low on gas, didn’t seem
like the best alternative when there was another one perched right in front of
her. The flickering light of what turned out to be the fire going in this cabin
had beckoned. So she’d abandoned her car and headed out into the knee-high
snow.
By the time she’d gotten to the front porch, her hands felt
almost numb from the cold and she was shivering from the icy flakes bombarding
her. Pounding on the door yielded no response, but when she’d tried the latch
she found it open. There was a God.
Stumbling inside, she’d fumbled along the wooden wall for a
light switch, but hadn’t found one and had finally given up, lurching toward
the fire going in the fireplace, sputtering but still alive.
She supposed the owner of this cabin must be somewhere
around here. Fires didn’t light themselves. But she couldn’t worry about that
now.
Dropping her canvas bag on the floor, she kicked off her
boots, and shivering, curled up into a ball on the threadbare rug in front of
the fireplace, hugging her knees. Her teeth were chattering and her clothes
soaking wet. But she was grateful at least to be somewhere she could wait out
the storm.
The banging of the cabin door against the wooden wall a
minute later startled her out of the beginning of a daydream in which she was
warm and dry. She jumped up. “What the—?”
“Who are you?” someone, something, bellowed at her out of
the darkness and the gust of frigid wind that accompanied the open door. The
door slammed shut with the same force it had opened and he—she guessed it was a
he, not an it—advanced until he was within the scanty light of the fire.
“Who are you?” he asked again, not quite as loud, which,
frankly, she appreciated since the mere sight of him was terrifying enough.
Bundled up in some floor-length fur coat, a hood all but obscuring his face,
the guy looked to be about ten feet tall. She didn’t need any overwhelming
audio.
“I’m, ah, I mean my name is, ah, Clarie Lewis,” she
stammered. “I stopped here to get out of the storm. I couldn’t drive through it
anymore.”
“So you thought that gave you a right to barge onto private
property?”
“I didn’t—”
“Save me the excuses. Get out.”
The order was delivered with such finality that for a moment
she was just plain flabbergasted. But then all the frustration of the day, the
wrong turns, the trudge through the freezing snow, the ice seeping through her
new boots, came crashing down on her and she surged to her feet.
“Now, wait a minute. You can’t kick me out of here. There’s
a friggin’ avalanche out there.”
“It’s some snow,” he said derisively.
On her feet, she saw he wasn’t quite the giant she had first
thought. Six three or four, tops. But a lot bigger, of course, than her own
five feet six. Hard to tell with the parka still on, but she bet he outweighed
her by a hundred pounds as well.
“And you can spare me your indignation. Please. It’s my
cabin. Or does private property mean nothing to your type?”
She didn’t venture a guess at his categorization of her
type. Maybe he thought she was a hippie backpacking through the mountains. She
didn’t have a clue.
“I own this space. The warmth of that fire.”
Gesturing to the howling clatter beyond the cabin window, he then pointed a
gloved hand toward his chest. “The protection from that wind. Mine .”
She shivered as he pulled his gloves off and threw them on a
nearby chair.
“If you want to share any of it, you’ll have to make it
worth my while. What do you have to bargain with?” he asked nonchalantly.
“Bargain with? Of all the insulting—”
Mid-indignant exclamation, it dawned on her that she was
alone with this…this mountain man, in the middle of a monumental snow storm.
Forget about no protection from the elements. She had no protection from him.
And he’d suddenly
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