Chapter 2
Kim
I'd expected rough mountain living—basic shelter, maybe a wood stove and some camping furniture. What I stepped into was craftsmanship that belonged in architectural magazines. Every surface showed the work of hands that understood wood the way I understood historical documents. Hand-hewn beams soared overhead, fitted together with joints so perfectly they seemed to grow naturally from each other. The floors were wide-plank pine, polished to a golden glow that caught the lamplight.
"This is incredible," I breathed, turning slowly to take in the great room that dominated the cabin's interior. A massive stone fireplace anchored one wall, surrounded by built-in bookshelves filled with what looked like an actual library.
"My brothers helped a lot," Neil said, gesturing for me to sit at a dining table that appeared to be carved from a single piece of maple. "You hungry? I’ve got dinner in the crockpot."
Dinner.
"I don't want to impose," I started, but then my stomach growled. Luckily, he was already moving toward what I assumed was the kitchen area.
"You're not imposing. You're a guest." He said it like the decision had been made without any input needed from me. "The bathroom's down that hall if you want to clean up. There's hot water."
I jumped at the chance to freshen up. The bathroom continued the theme of stunning craftsmanship. The vanityappeared to be hand-carved walnut, fitted with a copper sink that caught the light like art. Even the mirror frame showed the attention to detail that marked everything Neil touched.
When I caught sight of myself in that mirror, I winced. Dirt streaked my cheek, and my hiking clothes looked like I'd been wrestling with the forest. I did what I could to repair the damage, but washing my face and finger-combing my hair only went so far. When I came out, I followed my nose to find Neil in a large kitchen stirring something that smelled amazing.
"Better?" he asked without turning around.
"Much." I approached him cautiously, still feeling like an intruder in his space. "Can I help with anything?"
He glanced over his shoulder, and I caught him taking in my appearance and liking what he saw. Well, the feeling was mutual.
“Just sit," he said. "Dinner's almost ready."
I ran my fingers along the edge of the table, marveling at the seamless finish.
"How did you learn to work wood like this?" I asked when he brought over two plates of chili and corn bread.
"Trial and error. Internet videos. Years and years of making mistakes until I stopped screwing up more than I succeeded." He settled into the chair across from me, and I was struck again by how he dominated the space simply by existing. "What about you? How did you learn to do what you do?”
"I went to Yale. Six years of research and writing and defending every argument to professors who thought I was too young to have valid insights." I tasted the chili and barely suppressed the need to gobble it all down. "This is so good. Where did you learn to cook?"
"Same place I learned everything else. YouTube and persistence."
"You're full of surprises," I said.
"Mountain living requires a lot of different skills." He broke off a piece of bread. "You can't just order takeout when you live this far from town."
"How far are we from civilization?"
"Burlington's about three hours by road. My closest neighbor is my brother Kevin and his wife, maybe five miles through the woods." He studied my face as he spoke, probably reading my growing awareness of just how isolated I was. "Are you nervous about staying here alone with me?"
I appreciated that he addressed the elephant in the room directly.
"A little," I admitted. "I don't make a habit of following strange men to remote cabins."
"Smart policy." His mouth curved in what might have been a smile. "But you don't have a lot of options right now."
"No, I don't." I met his eyes across the table. "Thank you. For helping me. For dinner. For not leaving me to die in the woods."
"I wasn't going to leave you out there." Something in his tone suggested the idea hadn't even been a consideration. "These mountains can be dangerous for people who don't know them."
After dinner, he insisted on cleaning up while I explored the main room more thoroughly. The bookshelves drew me like a magnet—partly because books always did, but mostly because I was curious about what a mountain man chose to read.
The collection surprised me. Technical manuals on woodworking and forestry, as expected, but also literature, history, even some poetry. I pulled out a worn copy of Thoreau's "Walden" and flipped through pages that had clearly been read multiple times.
