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Jackson laid the logs in the grate, mindful of the architecture of the fire. This wasn’t about heat. Building a fire was an art, a balance of fuel, oxygen, and heat, each element crucial to the next. His father had taught him this during their camping trips in the wilderness. Those lessons, imbued with patience and respect for nature, had stuck with him. Lessons he wished he could do over again to spend more time with his father, who’d passed several years ago. His mom had left the world the year before that. He was basically an orphan looking for a place to belong. That’s why he loved Aspen Cove. It was where he could become a part of something bigger than himself. He desperately wanted to belong.
Near the logs, he placed a few pieces of kindling—dry, thin sticks that would catch fire quickly. A ball of crumpled newspaper from his pocket served as a final touch. The paper would burn rapidly, transferring heat to the kindling and igniting the larger logs. His father used to say this was the foundation of a long-lasting, warming fire.
With a strike of a match, the fire was born. It started small, the timid flames consuming the newspaper and licking at the kindling. The orange glow brightened, casting flickering shadows around the cabin’s interior. He added another log, his eyes focused on the flames, their hypnotic sway a reflection of raw, elemental power.
Gradually, the flames grew bolder, the kindling crackled and popped, and the logs caught fire. The bright, warm flames spread, their incandescent glow illuminating the cabin, painting the walls in shades of amber and gold. The smell of burning wood and the soothing crackling sound filled the room, cocooning the space in an embrace of rustic charm.
As the fire blazed, Jackson sat back on his heels, a sense of satisfaction settling within him. The fire was more than a source of heat; it was a connection to his past, his father’s lessons, and the simpler times. With its heat and light, the fire in the hearth was now part of his present and the shared experience with Amanda in this humble cabin. The flames cracked and hissed, and he knew this fire, like his growing bond with Amanda, would be tended to while they were in Aspen Cove for winter.
She handed him a cup of cocoa, and he joined her on the couch. They sat silently, watching the fire.
“Do you miss it?” Jackson asked, breaking the silence. His voice was soft, his gaze fixed on the hearth. “The life you left behind?”
Amanda was silent for a moment. “I miss some things,” she admitted, her voice just above a whisper. “But not the things that matter. Not the things that make life worth living.”
Jackson turned to look at her, his gaze searching her face. “What do you mean?” he asked.
Amanda took a deep breath. “I miss the local cafe where I got my coffee every morning. I miss the bagel shop on the corner that baked my favorite cinnamon crunch on Wednesdays. I miss many things, but one thing I don’t miss is the memories of my ex…” she said, her voice trembling. “He made me believe I wasn’t worth loving, or I wasn't enough. I let his words, his actions, freeze me in place. I stopped living, stopped experiencing things. And then he abandoned me.” She paused for a few breaths. “But now…” she said, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Now, I feel free. Free to experience everything life has to offer. Free to be me, without fear of judgment, without fear of not being enough because I am enough.” She made a pfft sound. “I was certainly enough when I was supporting both of us while he figured out what he wanted to be.”
Jackson was silent for a moment, his gaze never leaving her face. Then, he reached out, taking her hand in his.
“I’m glad you’re here, Amanda,” he said. “I’m glad you’re free.”
“Me too.”
Jackson was pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of Catsby leaping onto the couch beside him, followed by an audible thump. The large tabby uncurled himself and stretched out before settling down contentedly against Jackson's side, a deep rumble of pleasure emanating from its chest. He let out a low chuckle, slowly moving one hand to lightly scratch behind the cat's ears. The movement prompted another louder purr in response.
From where he was positioned on the other side of Amanda, Gunner huffed, his eyes half-closed but his tail wagging. Jackson smiled at the sight. Despite the howling wind and swirling snow outside, inside the little cabin was a scene of absolute serenity.
“You know,” he said, looking down at Catsby and then to Gunner, “I never thought I’d be a cat guy. Or a dog guy, for that matter. I always figured they were too much responsibility, too much fuss. But I’ve got to say that something about a wagging tail or a purring ball of fur makes everything else insignificant.”
Amanda smiled, reaching over to give Gunner a soft pat. “They have a way of doing that, don’t they?” She glanced over at Jackson, her gaze soft. “I never imagined I’d be here, in a cabin, with three wonderful companions and a fire to keep me warm. But now that I am, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”
The conversation subsided, giving way to the soothing crackle of the fire and the hushed embrace of the snowstorm outside. In the silence, Jackson experienced an uncommon ease, as if the absence of words echoed his deep contentment. He had grown accustomed to such stillness, even yearned for it, but seldom found it in the presence of others. Thoughts of Sage, Cannon, and their baby crossed his mind, leading him to realize that perhaps he wasn’t the source of the feeling of being unsettled. If he were to be honest with himself, the inn was filled with constant busyness that made it hard for him to truly unwind. This moment, right here, was perfection—a sanctuary of peace within the chaos.
“You know,” he began, breaking the quiet with his low voice. “I’ve always been fond of the quiet.” He spoke the words as though they were a confession, an intimate secret shared between them.
Amanda turned to him, her eyes bright and attentive. “Really?” she asked, her surprise genuine.
He let go of her hand and rose, then picked up his backpack from the corner before retaking a seat. He slipped his hand inside and pulled out a leather-bound book. It was a copy of Ernest Hemingway’sFor Whom the Bell Tolls, the edges of its pages browned with age, its spine creased from multiple reads.
“Yes, it’s ... peaceful. A moment to be with my thoughts. And a chance to lose myself in a good book.”
Amanda reached out, her fingers brushing over the book’s cover. “You’re reading Hemingway?”
“Guilty,” he admitted with a self-deprecating smile.
She appeared genuinely surprised, her eyes wide, but not in a way that suggested disbelief or mockery. Instead, it was as if she saw him in a new light.
“That’s ... I wouldn’t have expected that,” she admitted.
“What did you expect?” he asked.
A charming shade of pink bloomed on her cheeks. “I don’t know ... A cowboy book or maybe Jack Reacher. With your army background, maybe some Patterson, Coben or Baldacci.”
He laughed a deep sound that echoed in the small space. “Well, I have a few of those authors in my collection, but I love the classics.”
Amusement replaced the surprise in her gaze. “Well, I stand corrected.” She pointed to several boxes stacked against a wall. “I have a collection of typewriters. One is purported to have been used by Hemingway, but I suspect it’s the brand he liked and not his actual typewriter. Either way, I love it.”
