God, he's infuriating. But he's also giving me food and directions and essentially making sure I survive my own poor planning.
"Thank you," I say. "Really. For the food and the information. I'll get out of your hair now."
I rewrap the food and tuck it into my pack, then hoist the pack onto my shoulders. My body protests. My legs are not excited about another three miles, but I ignore them.
The mountain man is already walking back to his cabin.
"Hey," I call out.
He pauses but doesn't turn around.
"What's your name?"
"Doesn't matter."
"I'm Autumn," I say again, even though I already told him. "Autumn West. In case you were wondering."
“Rhett, and I wasn't," he says flatly, and disappears into the cabin.
The door closes with a decisive thud.
I stand there for a moment, looking at the rough-hewn structure, the thin smoke still rising from the chimney. Behind me, the stream burbles cheerfully, utterly indifferent to the strange encounter I just had.
My professional brain is already spinning. The footage I got is incredible. The story potential is enormous. A mysterious recluse in the mountains of Blackwater Falls? My followers will eat it up.
But something stops me from feeling excited about it. Maybe it's the scars covering his hands. Maybe it's the desperate edge to his voice when he told me to leave. Maybe it's the way he still made sure I had food and directions despite clearly wanting nothing to do with me.
This man isn't a story. He's a person, with reasons for being here that are none of my business.
I pull out my phone and, before I can second-guess myself, delete the footage of him. The cabin, the clearing, the approach, I keep all of that. But the shots of his face, his voice, anything identifying are now gone.
I don't know why I do it. It's not like me. I've built my career on finding interesting stories and sharing them.
But this feels different.
He feels different.
I adjust my pack straps and start toward the stream, pulling out my headlamp. Three miles. I can do three miles.
The forest is already darkening, shadows pooling between the trees. I click on the lamp and start following the stream east, just like he instructed.
As I walk, I unwrap the cloth and take a bite of the bread. It's dense and hearty, clearly homemade, with a subtle sweetness that surprises me. The meat is gamey: venison, probably, and tough, but flavorful.
He made this himself. Baked bread in that cabin, hunted and preserved the meat. Living completely off the grid, completely alone. By choice? Or necessity? The questions follow me through the darkness, through the aching miles to the ranger station. They're still with me when I finally collapse onto a narrow bunk in the empty station, my legs cramping and my mind racing.
I should be planning tomorrow's content. Reviewing footage. Checking comments on my last post. Instead, I'm thinking about dark eyes and scarred hands and a voice like gravel and smoke.
I'm thinking about the way he made sure I'd be safe despite clearly hating my presence.
I'm thinking that I've never met anyone like him. And that despite his explicit instructions never to return, despite every logical reason to forget this ever happened and move on to the next location…
I know I'm going to go back.
Chapter 2 - Rhett
The door shuts behind her and the silence rushes back in like water filling a hole.
I stand there, fist still clenched around the door handle, breathing hard like I've been running. My heart pounds against my ribs. Too fast, too hard. The bear stirs in the cage I've built for it, pressing against the bars, curious about the scent she left behind.
