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

four

Gunnar

Dawn is still asleep when I wake, her body curled toward mine, one hand tucked under her cheek. In sleep, she looks younger, the constant animation of her face stilled into peaceful lines.

I ease away carefully, not wanting to wake her. Last night was... different. The power outage forced a new kind of proximity, yes, but there was something else. A shift in the space between us.

She asked about the military. About my silence. No one has asked directly in a long time. Most people either ignore it or talk around it, uncomfortable with what they perceive as disability.

Dawn just looked at me with those clear eyes and waited for whatever answer I chose to give.

Fifty-seven words yesterday. A record.

The generator needs checking. Outside, the storm has lessened, but the snow is piled high against the cabin walls. The world is white and silent, transformed. I dig a path to the generator, clear the snow from its housing, and check the fuel. Enough for a few hours if we're careful.

When I return, Dawn is awake, rekindling the fire with surprising competence. She looks up at my entrance, a smile transforming her face.

"Power?" she asks simply.

I hold up three fingers. Three hours, maybe.

She nods, understanding without words. "Enough to heat water at least. I'd kill for a cup of coffee."

I find myself almost smiling at the dramatic declaration. City people and their coffee. But I nod, filling the kettle and setting it on the woodstove to heat while I restart the generator.

When it hums to life, the cabin's few lights flicker on. Dawn lets out a small cheer, and this time I do smile, briefly.

She catches it, her eyes widening slightly. "You should do that more often," she says. "Smile."

I shrug, turning away to prepare the coffee. But her words stay with me, warm in my chest like the first sip of coffee on a cold morning.

After breakfast, I notice her looking at my camera again. On impulse, I pick it up, check the battery, and hold it out to her. She takes it, surprise evident.

"Really? You're sure?"

I nod.

"Thank you." Her voice is quiet, sincere. She handles the camera with reverence, running her fingers over the controls. "It's an older model, but a classic. Great glass."

I raise an eyebrow, impressed by her knowledge.

"I started with actual photography," she explains, "before the social media thing took over." She looks out the window, where the storm has calmed to gentle snowfall. "Think we could go outside? Just for a few minutes?"

I consider the risks. The temperature has risen slightly, and the wind has died down. A short excursion should be safe. I nod, then gesture for her to wait while I get proper outerwear.

I find my spare jacket, too large for her but warmer than her fashionable yellow one. When she puts it on, it swallows her, the sleeves hanging past her fingertips. She laughs, rolling them up, and something in me responds to the sound.

Outside, the world is transformed into crystal stillness. Dawn moves through it slowly, camera raised, capturing images of snow-laden branches, the way light fractures through icicles, the contrast of the dark cabin against white hills.

I watch her work, recognizing the focus in her eyes. This isn't the performative photographer she described, staging shots for likes and comments. This is an artist seeing beauty and capturing it.

"It's so quiet," she whispers, as if afraid to disturb the silence. "In the city, there's always noise. Always someone watching, commenting. Here it's just..." She gestures to the vast whiteness around us.

I nod, understanding completely. It's why I chose this place—the silence that heals, that doesn't ask for words in return.

When the cold begins to seep through our layers, we return to the cabin.

Dawn's cheeks are flushed, her eyes bright with excitement as she shows me the images on the camera's display.

They're good—thoughtful compositions, interesting perspectives.

Not just pretty pictures, but ones with something to say.

"Thank you," she says again, returning the camera. "That was... I needed that."

I take back the camera, our fingers brushing in the exchange. This time, I don't pull away from the contact. Neither does she.

Later, as evening approaches, the generator sputters and dies again. We've prepared this time—water stored, blankets ready, oil lamp lit. The temperature drops quickly without the electric heater supplementing the woodstove.

Dawn sits cross-legged by the fire, looking through my photography portfolio again. "Will you tell me about these?" she asks, pointing to a series of dawn shots taken from the same vantage point but in different seasons.

"They're beautiful. Honest." She looks up. "You see the world differently than most people."

I write again, surprising myself with the admission.

Easier to see than speak.

"I understand that," she says softly. "Sometimes I think I hide behind words. Talk so much no one notices I'm not saying anything real."

The insight surprises me. She's more self-aware than I gave her credit for.

"Can I ask..." She hesitates. "The tattoo on your arm. I noticed it yesterday when you were chopping wood."

I'd forgotten about it, the tribal pattern that wraps around my upper arm. I pull up my sleeve, revealing the black geometric design.

"It's beautiful," she says, studying it. "Does it mean something?"

I nod, writing again.

Protection. Got it before first deployment.

"Did it work?" she asks with half a smile.

I consider this, then write:

I'm still here.

Her eyes meet mine, holding for a long moment. "Yes, you are."

Something changes in the air between us, a current of awareness. I'm conscious of how close we're sitting, of the firelight playing across her features, of the way her hair falls over one shoulder.

The cold pushes us closer to the fire as night deepens. Like the previous night, we arrange blankets on the floor, creating a shared space of warmth. This time, there's less pretense of distance.

"Gunnar," she says as we settle in, her voice soft in the near-darkness. "Do you ever speak? At all?"

I reach for the notebook, writing by firelight.

Sometimes. When it matters.

She reads it, then looks up at me. "What matters enough?"

I stare into the flames, considering. Finally, I write:

Truth. Pain. Things that need voice.

"Not everyday things?"

I shake my head.

"Not even 'pass the salt' or 'good morning'?"

A small smile tugs at my mouth as I write:

Salt is right there. Morning speaks for itself.

She laughs softly, the sound warming me more than the fire. "Fair enough."

We fall silent, the crackling fire the only sound. Dawn's eyes are heavy, her body gradually relaxing beside mine. As she drifts toward sleep, she murmurs, "I like the quiet now. Didn't think I would."

The admission strikes deeper than she knows.

I watch her face in the flickering light, the gentle curve of her cheek, the fan of her lashes against her skin.

Three days ago, she was a stranger, an unwelcome intrusion.

Now, her presence beside me feels right, as though she belongs in this quiet space I've created.

Her hand rests on the blanket between us, palm up and relaxed in sleep. After a long moment of hesitation, I cover it with my own, my callused fingers wrapping around her smaller ones. She doesn't wake, but her fingers curl slightly around mine, holding on.

Seventy-nine words today. Each one a small step from silence toward something else. Something I hadn't planned on finding in the midst of the worst storm in a decade.

Not quite peace. Not quite happiness. But possibility.