One Bride for Five Mountain Men

But as my head begins to clear, I realize it’s snowing. It’s not just snowing, it’s a storm. The wind moans through the trees which release deluges of shuddering snow that swirl down to the ground. I can tell I’m on a rock, but I have no idea how far everything is beneath me.

I need to find help.

Carefully, I force myself to slide off the rock and find something like land below me. My left ankle howls in protest every time I try to put weight on it, but I need to stand to see.

Shielding my eyes with my hands, I try to stare through the wind and the swirling snowflakes. It’s just as remote as it seemed from the top of the trail. There’s nothing. It’s just me. I don’t even know which direction I fell in because the falling snow has obliterated every trace of my fall.

Suddenly the wind picks up again, nearly pushing me off my feet, driving me to my knees as my left ankle gives out beneath me. I fall onto my elbows and get a mouth full of snow, rudely taunting myself with the idea that this is the last drink I’m ever gonna have.

There must be something, I tell myself. Don’t

panic, Lola. There has to be something!

But does there? Here I am in ski clothes, just a pale pink smudge in a snowstorm. There’s nobody for miles and miles. My friends are who knows where.

Frantically I look around, figuring that I could crawl maybe a quarter-mile? Not even sure how I’m estimating that, but I’m determined to give it a try. So which direction do I pick?

But squinting through the snow, I feel like there’s a glow, maybe just a little smidgen of gold off in this direction. Could that be a light? Or perhaps the glimmering pelt of a mountain lion or something?

I should go that way. I should. I try crawling in that direction, soon finding that my arms are useless against the two feet of snow they’re buried in.

I should try to walk. I probably just sprained my ankle. Sprained ankles are for sissies. I can walk, right? I can shuffle or something. I’m not going to die this way.

Heaving my thighs forward, I force myself to ignore the lancing pain in my ankle and the burning in my thighs and lurch myself forward, again and again. My breath is ragged and shuddering as I make myself repeat the motion, but the light just keeps disappearing. I probably imagined it. It’s probably nothing.

Pretty soon I realize that sound I’m hearing is me. It’s not just the snow. It’s me too, yelling out, adding my voice to the voice of the wind in the trees. Totally stupid, completely pointless. My tiny voice in the wilderness, echoing until it fades into nothing.

Finally, it’s too cold to breathe. It’s too cold to bother. I take one last breath and put my hands over my head, hoping to create a little warmth between my chin and my chest. It’s not so bad.

It’s really not so bad.

Chapter 5

Jake

With the wind howling all around the cabin, I’m finally getting the peace and quiet that I wanted. It’s ironic, but this sudden winter squall pinning me indoors is the best thing that could’ve happened to me. I really needed a chance to unwind.

The lights flicker every few minutes as the fierce elements test the limits of the solar battery array in the cellar. But I’m sure it will all hold out just fine. Storms are common here and I designed the wiring and battery with these challenges in mind. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to get a fire going in the old stove, just in case there are brief interruptions overnight.

I didn’t build this cabin with my bare hands, but damn close to it. It was already on the property, built decades ago by hunters who used it on a communal basis, when they needed shelter. It was just a timber frame with two rooms, a deep porch, and a long, sloping shingle roof. It was just enough for a couple of hunters to camp in relative comfort for a week or so, safe from weather and predators.

I discovered it by chance, a couple of years ago, while hiking through the property. It was infested with spiders and racoons, and a few generations of grouse had made their nests under the porch. I probably could have set a match to all of it, but I was in need of a project.

It had no indoor plumbing and no electricity when I got to it, but of course I’m not going to live like that. After a few months, I got solar panels installed on the roof and a bank of marine batteries in the cellar. LED lights make the most of the energy that’s collected, even on short days or overextended stormy periods. I dug out the root cellar and outfitted it with the basic necessities: dried food, fuel, water, and a few cases of pinot noir.

Now it is my home away from home. It’s my refuge. My safe space to be alone and collect my thoughts in peace.

The dried walnut logs spark immediately in the stove, catching each other on fire and instantly producing a cozy glow. The crackling fills the air, pushing the sounds of the snowstorm into the background.

As I settle into my leather recliner with a well-worn copy of The Old Man and the Sea, one of the security monitors flickers to life again. I squint at it, sucking my teeth in irritation.

It’s probably nothing, probably just an animal. Or maybe not even wildlife. Some gust of wind probably just dropped a branch in front of the motion detector and set it off. It’s been happening all day, ever since the storm ramped up. Happens all the time.

Kicking back in the chair, I open the book to a random page to start reading again and try to ignore the glowing monitor. I can’t see anything on the screen anyway, with the wind and snow making everything look the same. If it’s a bear or something, he’ll probably just wander off on his own without making any trouble. It’s a good time to settle in and read, peaceful and quiet.

They picked up the gear from the boat. The old man carried the mast on his shoulder and the boy carried the wooden boat with the coiled, hard-braided brown lines...

The glow from the security monitor casts blue-white light on my book, and it’s annoying. I should just turn it off. Actually, I could probably just go to bed at this point. The weather service said the snow is going to last at least through tomorrow afternoon. I could catch up on a good six months of sleep I’ve lost. Now is my opportunity, and I shouldn’t squander it.