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“We’re here,” Hayze announced, pulling up to our new home.
We stepped out of the truck and took it all in—the isolation, the peace, and the sense of ownership over this little slice of heaven. It was ours—free from past entanglements and filled with possibilities.
As dusk settled around us like a gentle shroud, we began unloading our belongings. Each box and bag held pieces of who we were—and who we would become in this untouched corner of the world.
“Welcome home,” Hayze said as he wrapped an arm around my shoulders.
I leaned into his embrace, my gaze fixed on our cabin—the symbol of our new life together. “Home,” I echoed with conviction as we made our way toward it, ready to face whatever lay ahead on this untamed mountain road.
I had never imagined tranquility could be so profound, so tangible. Here in Prince Rupert, anonymity was a given, and the faces that passed by didn’t look at me with recognition or suspicion. They saw Arlet Russel and her husband Hayze, newcomers to their community, not the shadow of Charlotte Bruno or even Arlet Rune, the mafia princess who was supposed to be six feet under.
Hayze and I had transformed our cabin into a sanctuary, a testament to our combined efforts and his skill. He’d become adept at crafting furniture from the raw timber abundant in the forest. “Look at this,” he would say, presenting a newly finished chair or table with a proud gleam in his eye. Each piece carriedthe mark of his hands—strong, precise, purposeful. “It’s not just woodwork; it’s a piece of us,” he’d often remark, running his fingers over the smooth grain.
The pantry was a sight to behold, always stocked with jars of preserves and sacks of grain. We’d become part of the barter economy, trading with the locals. “They love your smoked salmon,” I told him one evening, noting the abundance we’d received in exchange.
“And your berry preserves are a hit at the market,” he replied with a smile that suggested pride in our mutual enterprise.
Speaking of the garden, it became my labor of love. “It’s perfect, Hayze,” I said as he cleared a patch of land with surprising gentleness for a creature of his stature.
“It’s not brute force, but a delicate art.” A hint of a smile softened his metallic features. Together, we turned the soil, enriching it with compost and planting seeds that promised bounty—potatoes, carrots, onions, and greens.
Each morning I’d wake to mist clinging to the emerald blades of grass and say, “Good morning, little ones,” to the sprouts peeking through the soil, feeling a maternal pride swell in my chest.
We also brought in some livestock. “Chickens for eggs and a couple of goats for milk,” he listed, nodding at the thought. Hayze built them sturdy shelters, explaining, “They need to be safe from the elements and any predators.”
I learned their individual quirks and preferences, often chuckling. “They’re just like us, trying to find their place.”
Hayze was always there beside me or watching from a distance when he thought I didn’t notice. “I see you, Hayze,” I teased. He was my guardian still, but now he was also my partner—my equal in this venture into self-sufficiency. “
“We make quite the team, don’t we?”
“Indeed, we do, Arlet, indeed we do.”
Preparing for winter became our primary focus as summer waned. We stockpiled firewood, Hayze showing me how to split logs with an efficiency that made the task less daunting. We insulated windows and checked our supplies repeatedly, making lists upon lists to ensure we forgot nothing.
One chilly evening as we sat by the fire pit outside our cabin, I realized how seamlessly our lives had entwined. Hayze passed me a mug of hot tea, his fingers lingering against mine—a touch that still sent warmth flooding through me despite the cold air.
“This feels right,” I whispered, gazing into the flames that danced against the growing darkness.
“It does,” he agreed. His voice held a note of wonder, as if he too were marveling at how far we’d come—not just in the distance but in being.
We spent our days learning—how to read the sky for weather patterns, how to preserve meat without refrigeration, how to live with less and appreciate more. Each night brought us closer together under quilts we’d stitched from scraps—a physical representation of our new life pieced together from remnants of old ones.
The community respected our privacy but offered help when we needed it—an accurate reflection of their generous spirit. Theydidn’t pry or question; they simply accepted us as two more souls seeking refuge in their slice of paradise.
As autumn painted the leaves with brilliant hues before they took their final bow, I had gratitude for each simple pleasure: the crispness of an apple straight from our tree, the soft bleating of goats calling us to morning chores, and Hayze’s steady presence beside me—a constant in a world that had once been nothing but chaos.
We were building something here—something honest. And as I watched Hayze secure another section of storm shutters against the cabin’s side, I knew without a doubt that this life—our life—was worth every effort it took to preserve it against whatever storms might come.
The winter had been a testament to our preparation and resilience. Snow had blanketed our world in thick, silent layers, turning our cabin into a secluded haven. Hayze and I had stocked enough supplies to see us through the months of isolation, our foresight a shield against the biting cold.
When the first hints of spring whispered through the thawing earth, we emerged, blinking at the bright world reborn. The snow receded day by day, revealing the hardy green shoots daring to break through the soil. It was time to make our trip to Prince Rupert along with others who’d weathered the winter in their own pockets of solitude.
Hayze loaded the last of our goods onto the back of the pickup. “Think we’ll need all this?” he asked, securing a tarp over our provisions.
I checked off items on my list. “Better safe than sorry,” I replied. “Besides, we’ve got plenty to trade.”
The drive down from our mountain abode was a careful descent on roads still slick with patches of ice. Hayze maneuvered with precision, his eyes never leaving the path ahead.
