Page 2 of Silent Mountain Man (Cold Mountain Nights #4)

two

Gunnar

I knew someone was outside before the knock came.

The woods speak to those who listen—a different rhythm when something disturbs their peace. Today it was footsteps, too light for a deer, too heavy for a fox. Human.

It's been two years, four months, and sixteen days since another person stood in this cabin. Now there's a woman on my couch, her bright yellow jacket hanging by my door, her expensive camera on my table.

Dawn. A fitting name for someone so colorful in my grayscale world.

She's finally quiet, asleep on the couch I never use.

It took hours. Every silence I cultivated, she filled—words pouring out like she'd drown without them.

Stories about her "followers," whatever that means.

Complaints about the cold. Questions I answered on paper because my throat closes when I try to form words that don't matter.

The doctors called it selective mutism, a psychological response to trauma. "It will pass," they said. It didn't. After the IED, after watching my team disappear in fire and smoke, words became sharp things in my throat. Unnecessary things.

So I left. Found this place where silence is the natural state, where no one expects explanations.

Until now.

Through the bedroom wall, I hear her shift on the couch, murmuring something in her sleep. God, she even talks when shes asleep. She doesn't belong here with her delicate hands and city clothes, with her constant need to document and share.

Three days of this. Her talking. Me not answering.

I should be more annoyed than I am.

The truth is, the sound of another human voice in this cabin isn't as jarring as I expected. Her voice has a rhythm to it, rising and falling like the creek behind the cabin in spring.

I run my fingers over the notebook on my bedside table. Twenty-three words today, more than I've written to another person in months. Not that I had much choice.

Storm warning. Roads closed. Radio says 3 days. Dangerous. Stay. Gunnar.

My name looks strange written down. She repeated it when I showed her, like she was tasting it. "Gunnar," she said, and for a moment, I remembered who I was before. Lieutenant Gunnar Robertson, communications specialist. The irony isn't lost on me.

I close my eyes, but sleep doesn't come. The storm rattles the windows, a familiar sound that usually lulls me to sleep. Tonight, I'm listening for something else—the soft breathing of the woman on my couch, the occasional rustle as she turns.

At breakfast, I'll need to explain the power situation. The generator works, but we need to conserve fuel. The water pump requires electricity, so we'll need to be careful there too.

More words to write. More silent conversations to have with a woman who lives by talking.

Morning comes with gray light filtering through snow-covered windows. I'm at the stove making coffee when she stirs, her hair a tangle around her face. For a moment, she looks confused, then her eyes find me and remember.

"Morning," she says, voice raspy with sleep.

I nod, pouring coffee into two mugs. I rarely use the second one.

She accepts it gratefully, her fingers brushing mine in the handoff. The contact is brief but startling, a reminder of how long it's been since I've touched another person. I pull back too quickly, coffee sloshing over the rim.

"Sorry," she says, though it was my fault.

I shake my head, grabbing my notebook.

Power limited. Generator for essentials. Need to conserve water.

She reads it, nodding. "Got it. I won't take long showers or anything." Then she smiles, and it transforms her face, crinkling the corners of her eyes. "Not that I was expecting a spa experience."

I turn away, focusing on the practical. There's wood to chop, water to bring in, a generator to check. Routine will keep me anchored while this bright, talking woman disrupts everything else.

When I step outside, the cold hits like a freight train. The storm has paused, but the sky promises more. I work quickly, methodically, the ax swinging in practiced arcs. Physical labor quiets my mind, lets me forget there's a stranger in my space.

Until I feel eyes on me.

Dawn stands in the doorway, watching. She's wrapped herself in the blanket from the couch, her breath clouding in the frigid air.

"Need help?" she asks.

I shake my head. Her hands look soft, unworked. City hands.

"I'm not completely useless, you know." There's a challenge in her voice. "I can carry wood or something."

To appease her, I nod toward the smaller logs I've already split. She brightens, dropping the blanket inside before carefully stacking wood in her arms. As she turns, I notice she's using her body like a photographer would, distributing weight evenly, protecting her hands.

We work in silence—me splitting, her carrying—until the woodpile by the door is stocked.

It's efficient in a way I didn't expect.

When she reaches for a particularly large piece, the sleeve of her borrowed sweater rides up, revealing a small tattoo on her wrist—a camera.

It surprises me, this permanent mark on someone who seems so wishywashy.

***

Inside, she's rubbing her hands together, cheeks flushed from cold and exertion.

"That should keep us warm, right?" she asks.

I nod, reaching for the notebook again.

More coming tonight. Radio says worst storm in decade.

Her eyes widen slightly. "Guess I picked the wrong week for adventure photography."

If I could speak easily, I might tell her there's no right time to wander off-trail in these mountains. Instead, I just raise an eyebrow.

She laughs suddenly. "Your face says it all. 'Stupid city girl, getting lost in my mountains.'"

It's so close to what I was thinking that I almost smile. Almost.

"So," she says, settling at the small table, "you live here year-round?"

I nod.

"Alone?"

Another nod.

"By choice?"

I hesitate, then nod again, more slowly.

She studies me, head tilted. "You don't talk at all?"

I reach for the notebook.

When necessary.

"Is it... can you? Or do you choose not to?"

The question is intrusive, personal. I should be annoyed, but there's no judgment in her eyes, just curiosity. My pen hovers over the paper. Finally, I write:

Can. Choose not to.

She accepts this with a nod, not pushing further. "Thanks for letting me stay. I know it's not what you signed up for, having some random person invade your space."

The acknowledgment surprises me. She talks constantly but seems to understand what this intrusion means. I find myself writing again.

It's fine. Safer here.

And strangely, as the day progresses into another silent evening, with her curled on one end of the couch and me on the other, the silence between her bursts of commentary feels less like an invasion and more like an unexpected change in weather. Unwelcome, perhaps, but not entirely without merit.

The storm returns full force as night deepens, howling around the cabin's edges, rattling the windows in their frames. Dawn jumps at a particularly loud gust, then laughs nervously.

"Not used to the mountain's soundtrack," she explains.

I reach for the notebook.

Cabin's solid. Built it myself.

Her eyes widen. "You built this? The whole thing?"

I nod.

"That's..." She looks around with new appreciation. "That's amazing."

It's not, really. It's just wood and nails and necessity. But her admiration feels strangely warming, like standing near the stove on a cold morning.

As she drifts to sleep on the couch, I realize I've written more today than in the past month. Twenty-three words yesterday. Thirty-four today. Small conversations scratched on paper, building something I can't name.

The walls of my sanctuary feel different tonight. Less like a fortress. More like a shelter.

For both of us.