The climb to Jonah’s cabin was a test, and the mountain didn’t bother pretending it was anything else. The trail twisted through pine and spruce, steep enough to make Abby’s calves burn and narrow enough that one wrong step would send a person tumbling into rock and brush. Jonah’s stride was long and relentless. He didn’t look back to see if she struggled. He didn’t offer a hand at the slickest turns.
Abby’s dress snagged on branches, her breath came in rough pulls, and blisters began forming under her heels like small punishments. Still, she kept going, because she’d learned long ago that if you wait for the world to make things gentle for you, you’ll die sitting down.
When the trees finally opened into a clearing, the cabin stood there like a challenge made of logs. It was solid, squat, and built to endure. Firewood was stacked high along one wall. Pelts hung drying on racks. A thin wisp of smoke curled from the chimney into a sky already pale with coming cold.
Abby planted her hands on her hips and took it in. “So this is where brides come to disappear,” she muttered, not loud enough to be polite, not quiet enough to be hidden. Jonah paused near the door, his head turning just enough for one gray eye to catch hers. “They left because they weren’t built for it,” he said flatly, voice deep and rough like rocks grinding together.
“If you’re smart, you’ll do the same before snow sets in.” Abby’s chest rose and fell hard from the climb, but she managed a snort. “You don’t scare me, Jonah Granger,” she replied. “I’ve lived through worse than cold walls and hard work.” Jonah said nothing more.
He shoved open the heavy door and stepped inside. The cabin smelled of smoke, pine resin, and the faint metallic tang of old iron. Inside, it was exactly what Abby expected: rough-hewn furniture, a wide stone hearth, animal skins thrown over floorboards for warmth. There were no curtains, no softness, no little signs of anyone trying to make beauty where survival was the main language.
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