Page 3 of Silent Mountain Man (Cold Mountain Nights #4)

three

Dawn

Day two in the silent cabin, and I'm talking less.

It's strange how quickly we adapt. Already, I'm learning to read Gunnar's expressions—the slight furrow between his brows when he's thinking, the almost imperceptible nod that means yes, the way his eyes soften slightly when he's not annoyed.

We've fallen into a rhythm. Coffee in the morning, shared in silence. Work around the cabin, me helping where I can. Meals prepared side by side, him doing most of the cooking while I wash dishes afterward.

All without words. Well, without his words. I still talk, but less than yesterday. Less than I normally would.

"So that's your camera?" I ask, pointing to the professional-grade equipment on a shelf I hadn't noticed before. It's dusty, unused.

Gunnar glances up from the book he's reading, then nods.

"You're a photographer too?" I can't keep the surprise from my voice.

He shrugs, then gets up, reaching for the camera. He hands it to me, along with a battered leather portfolio I hadn't noticed.

Inside are photographs that make my breath catch. Black and white landscapes, mostly—mountains in all seasons, dramatic skies, closeups of frost patterns and water droplets on spiderwebs. No people. No posed shots. Just raw nature, captured with an eye that sees what others miss.

"These are incredible," I whisper, turning pages reverently. "You have a gift."

He shakes his head, but I catch the hint of pride in his eyes.

"No, really. I have half a million followers, and I've never captured anything this..." I search for the word. "Authentic."

Gunnar watches me, his expression unreadable. Then he reaches for his notebook.

Why take pictures if not to show the truth?

The question hits me like a physical blow. Why indeed? When was the last time I showed the truth on my feeds? The real Dawn, not the curated version?

"It's not that simple," I try to explain. "People don't want the truth. They want beauty, aspiration. They want—"

Lies?

"No!" I protest, but it feels hollow. "Not lies. Just... the best version."

He studies me, then writes again.

What's your best version?

I laugh uncomfortably. "The one that pays the bills."

But the question lingers as the day progresses. What is my best version? The one with perfect lighting and carefully selected backgrounds? The one who never shows the shadows under her eyes or admits to being afraid?

The power flickers in the afternoon as the storm intensifies again. Gunnar immediately goes to check the generator, coming back with snow in his hair and a worried expression.

"That bad?" I ask.

He grabs his notebook.

Fuel low. Need to conserve. Might lose power tonight.

I nod, trying to hide my unease. "We'll manage."

We spend the next hour preparing—filling containers with water, gathering extra blankets and candles. Working together, we create a nest of cushions and blankets near the woodstove, the warmest spot in the cabin.

"Just in case," I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel.

As dusk approaches, the wind picks up, howling around the cabin like a living thing. The lights flicker once, twice, then go out completely. In the sudden darkness, I hear Gunnar moving confidently, striking a match to light the oil lamp he'd prepared.

The golden light casts long shadows across his face, highlighting cheekbones and the strong line of his jaw above his beard. For the first time, I notice a scar running along his hairline, partially hidden by dark hair.

"Were you in the military?" I ask suddenly, the question appearing from nowhere.

He stills, then gives a short nod.

"Is that why..." I gesture vaguely at him, at his silence.

His jaw tightens, and I immediately regret asking. "I'm sorry. That's none of my business."

But he's reaching for the notebook, writing by lamplight.

IED explosion. Two years ago. Lost my team. Words stopped coming after.

I read it twice, the simple sentence containing so much pain. "I'm so sorry," I whisper, knowing how inadequate it sounds.

He shrugs, a gesture that seems to say both "it happened" and "I don't want to talk about it further."

"Thank you for telling me," I add quietly.

We sit in silence then, real silence, with me not trying to fill it with chatter. The wind and the crackling fire speak for us. I watch the flames, thinking about Gunnar's photographs, his silent way of communicating beauty, and my own endless stream of carefully crafted content.

"I'm tired of performing," I admit suddenly. "Every moment, every trip, every meal. It's all content. Sometimes I can't even enjoy something without thinking about how to package it for strangers."

Gunnar looks at me, really looks at me, in a way that makes me feel seen. He writes again.

Why do you share so much with strangers?

It's the same question I asked myself earlier. "I don't know anymore," I confess. "It started as a way to connect, to share beauty. Now it's just..." I trail off, not wanting to admit how empty it sometimes feels.

But not the real you.

"No," I whisper. "Not the real me."

He nods, understanding in his eyes. Then he writes something else.

Cold tonight. Sleep by fire.

The change of subject is abrupt but welcome.

I help him arrange the blankets and pillows we'd prepared, creating a makeshift bed large enough for us both, though with plenty of space between.

As the cabin grows colder everywhere except near the stove, we settle in, backs against the couch, staring into the flames.

The silence between us feels comfortable now, not empty but full of unspoken understanding.

Sometime in the night, I wake to find the fire has died down. The cold has crept closer, and I've unconsciously moved toward the only other source of warmth—Gunnar. My head is almost on his shoulder, my body drawn to his massive frame like a moth to flame.

I should move away, maintain the polite distance we've established.

Instead, I find myself studying his profile in the dim light from the dying embers.

He's impossibly large next to me, a mountain of a man even at rest. The strong line of his nose, the fullness of his lower lip beneath his beard, the powerful rise and fall of his broad chest. His arm alone is thicker than both of mine, corded with muscle and decorated with tattoos.

He must sense my gaze because his eyes open, meeting mine. For a long moment, we just look at each other, something unspoken passing between us. I feel small beside him, but not fragile, but protected .

I don't move away. Neither does he.

His presence beside me is like a fortress against the cold—steady, reliable, immovable.

Outside, the storm rages on, but in this small circle of warmth, we've found a different kind of shelter.

One built not of wood and nails, but of his quiet strength, my surrendered chatter, and this unexpected understanding growing between us.