“Should warm up pretty quick,” he says as he stands and turns to walk back toward the door, which I’m still standing in front of.
His coat slides down his arms as he shrugs it off, revealing a maroon long-sleeved Carhartt T-shirt underneath.
“It looks good to me.”
“What?”
“I mean . . . it feels good in here to me,” I correct myself.
He nods.
Trying to be subtle so that he doesn’t think I’m judging his space, I gaze around the cabin. From the outside, I knew that the log structure was fairly old. It’s not run-down by any means, but I’m certain the rustic charm couldn’t possibly be duplicated in a new build.
I immediately loved how cozy it looked because of the glow from the porch light and the fresh layer of snow covering the roof. I can’t help but smile to myself now that I’m inside, seeing how equally endearing it is.
A massive cowhide rug covers the dark-stained wood plank floor. The smell is a mixture of leather, smoke, and pine. There’s no paint on the walls, just sturdy logs, each rich with the natural shade of warm chestnut. The grain patterns twist and swirl along the surface. Between each log, thick bands of white chinking hold everything snugly together.
There isn’t much in the form of strategic decoration, apart from a few humble memorabilia and sentimental items—like the old pair of vintage skis hanging near the hallway and the large three-tier bookshelf that spans the entire wall to my left.
It’s the unframed black and white tintype portraits arranged neatly on the slim console table that catch my eye the most,though. I stay where I am, but I want so badly to get closer and inspect them to see if they’re authentic.
A dirty brown cowboy hat, that may have once been a light gray or tan, hangs next to the door. It looks soft and well worn-in, and there’s a feather tucked in the band.
The strangest sense of nostalgia hits me. I don’t understand the feeling at first, seeing as how I’ve never been in a place like this. But it’s clear there’s a lot of history and love here.
“Wow,” I whisper. “Your place is so?—”
“Small?”
“No— I mean, yes, it’s small.” I laugh. “But in a good way. In a charming and beautiful way.”
“I like it here,” Ledger admits in a low voice. He places his hands in his pockets, and I try to ignore his side profile while he looks around, which is proving impossible. Not even the full beard or the shadow from the black cowboy hat he’s still wearing can hide that strong jaw.
“Yeah, me too,” I whisper through a soft smile, not looking away from him.
Should I slap myself now or later?
“Where were you headed?” He absentmindedly scratches the side of his face. “I assume you’re not from around here based on all the luggage.”
“Centennial Valley. I have a job there in a few days. I was supposed to be staying at some ski lodge, though.” I pull out my phone and swipe to the camera roll, looking for the screenshot of my reservation.
“Snowy Range?”
I nod. “Yes, that’s it. Is it far from here?”
“No, you got pretty close. My family lives in Centennial Valley, actually.”
“No way!” I perk up finding our first thing in common. Well, it’s kind of something in common. Close enough.
“Yeah, I grew up there on my parents’ ranch. I work there for my dad now.”
That tracks. Only cowboys look that sturdy without even trying. I bet his hands are strong and?—
“What’s that look for?” he asks.
“Hmm? Oh, nothing,” I raise my eyebrows and give a quick shake of my head. “I was just—picturing a ranch near these beautiful mountains. I’m sure the view never gets old.”
“It’s home. I’m used to it,” he says. “About your car . . . I know a guy that could pick it up and fix it once the roads are clear, but not sure when that’ll be.”
