“I know,” she says and lets out a heavy breath. She can see all the things I’m not saying, all the things that have passed between us in the past, but I know the moment she decides not to press it, when her shoulders slump, resigned.
Then her eyes snap back to mine. “Wait, I just remembered we were supposed to have a short-term rental at the new cabin, but they canceled last minute. You could stay there.”
Wren and Holden own several rental properties around town. They like to buy up dilapidated cabins that have seen better days and turn them into magical vacation stays. Holden does most of the heavy lifting and Wren makes every place feel homey and inviting.
“Really?” I ask, the weight of the relief barreling into me.
She nods, enthusiastic. “Yeah.”
“Are you sure? I can pay for it.”
And I can. I don’t make a ton working for my uncle’s backcountry tour guide company, but I don’t spend much either. I own my land and Airstream and live frugally. I’ve built up a little nest egg to…do nothing with it.
“You don’t need to pay,” she says emphatically, like the thought never even crossed her mind. “I’ll block it off for the rest of the fall and you can stay as long as you need.”
“Thank you,” I say, fighting against the lump in my throat.
She flashes me a smile before glancing down at her phone. “I have a meeting at the farm in an hour. Want me to help you pack up before I leave?”
I nod and swivel around to assess where to start. Luckily, the damage is confined to one end of the Airstream, and if not for the electrical problems, it would be totally liveable, meaning my things on the other end are completely untouched. I make my way across the peeling laminate floors, the warm honey oak Ispent weeks picking out, and try not to think about having to replace them.
My space is as familiar to me as the back of my hand. It’s tiny and lived in and perfectlymine. I painted the interior a light sage green and wallpapered the bathroom in sunny yellow paper I found at an estate sale. Despite being pretty minimalistic, there’s half a dozen squishy pillows on the sofa, all in various soft, earthy colors and patterns. There’s too many books for the small space, stacked on every available surface—romance, mysteries, thrillers, autobiographies, and special editions of my favorites. On the kitchen counter are the lone snake plant I’ve managed to keep alive, terracotta planters from houseplants past have been recycled as catch-alls, and containers stuffed with craft supplies I haven’t used in over a year. Puzzles and board games I no longer have time to play with.
My eyes catch on a piece of art on the wall to my right, a landscape painting by a local artist of what everyone in Fontana Ridge calls The Mountain. It has a legitimate name, but none of us know it. It’s the biggest peak around and my favorite to hike. When I saw it through a shop window a few winters back while on a walk to find something—anything—to occupy my seemingly limitless time during the off-season, I knew I had to have it. It’s one of my most prized possessions, and I consider snagging it to take to the cabin, but decide against it.
The place is fully furnished and decorated, so all I really need are my clothes and toiletries. And I’ll need to stock up on groceries since my fridge has been without power for over twenty-four hours. I’ll have a full-size kitchen to cook in for the first time in years.
Wren helps me gather my things and pack them into my truck, unwilling to leave me to do it by myself while I’m still recovering, and despite wanting to tell her I can handle it on my own, I’m happy to have help. My head and shoulder and assare throbbing, and the emotional weight of the last few days is catching up with me.
I’m still exhausted, and I can’t wait to curl up in the giant king-size bed at the cabin. I remember Wren walking me through it when they completed it in the spring. It’s larger than the other two cabins they’ve renovated, this one having two bedrooms and a bigger kitchen and living room. I talked her into springing for the king-size bed at this place, and I’m thanking myself for it now.
“I’ll text you the door code,” Wren says after we throw my suitcase and weekend bag into the bed of the truck. They land with a thud that echoes through the trees. “I’ve got to pick up June and Wilder. Let me know you got in all right after you get settled.”
She hops into her vintage yellow Volkswagen Beetle and heads back down the mountain, her tires leaving tracks in the damp earth. I take one final look around, watching the first of the leaves as they catch in the wind and drift to the ground, before following her tracks and turning down the winding road that leads to the cabin.
My new home for the foreseeable future.
There’salmostnothingbetterin this world than taking a scalding shower after finishing a twelve-hour shift in the emergency room. Showering after a long day working on a ranch, covered in dust and dirt, may come close, but this is still better. My feet ache and I got sprayed in the face with blood when helping a coworker who blew out someone’s vein while placing an IV. So while any post-shift shower is lovely, this one isheavenly.
Reluctantly, I shut the water off and step out of the shower, wrapping a thick white towel around my waist. The towels in the cabin I’m renting are glorious. Honestly, everything here is nice. I know other travel nurses who like to bring their own things to the rentals they stay in, but I’ve never been one for extra stuff. All my belongings can fit in two suitcases, and that’s the way I like it.
Steam billows from the bathroom when I open the door, escaping up toward the high ceilings of the cabin. The wood floors are chilly beneath my bare feet. The storms that blew through the last few days brought a cold front with them, andI had to break out a jacket to wear to work today. My last assignment was in Florida, and I was more than ready for some autumn weather.
I just finished up four days of night shifts and have three days off before I work again, which means I need coffee to make it through the day to get on a normal schedule. I may not take much with me from place to place, but I never go anywhere without my trusty moka pot.
I’ve just finished filling up the canister with some local coffee grounds I bought in town yesterday when I hear a noise on the porch. Something loud, heavy. The woods are dense around the cabin, trees blocking out the view in front of the house, and a steep cliff jutting off the back, exposing miles and miles of mountain views beyond.
It’s probably a bear. The landlord told me to watch out for them and left detailed instructions on how to dispose of my trash so it doesn’t attract them. I tiptoe toward the door, wanting to get a look out the window beside it. I’m just a few feet away when the lock beeps and the door handle turns.
I freeze, my heart leaping in my chest. Adrenaline courses through me, and at the last second I realize I’m still holding the handle to my moka pot, and I brandish it as a weapon as the door swings open.
It’s not a bear, I realize belatedly, the moka pot held over my head.
It’s a woman.
Afamiliarwoman. Long, long dark brown hair. Toned legs that go on for days. Eyes a shade of hazel I’ve only found in nature. She’s tall—taller than I realized when she was lying in a hospital bed two nights ago—only a couple inches shorter than me. She looks considerably better than she had that night, but just as tired, if not more.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, my voice harsher than I intended, but I’m caught off guard. As caught off guard as I was two nights ago in the hospital. My first week on the job and I had found myself wanting to stay in that room talking to her. I’d let my professionalism slip, completely forgotten about my other patients until an alarm went off in the room next door and snapped me back to attention.
