Outside, the wind picked up intensity. Snow slapped against the panes and crept through the cracks in the window frames. The cabin groaned under the assault of the cold. Sierra checked her watch.
7:12 PM.
It had been too long.
She stood up and paced to the window. Nothing but white darkness. No shadows. No signs of life. She turned back to the child.
“Do you know where your dad usually goes to get wood?”
Maisie nodded vigorously. “I can show you.”
Sierra hesitated. Every survival instinct she possessed screamed at her to stay inside, but a stronger, unfamiliar impulse pushed her forward.
“All right,” she said, grabbing her coat. She bundled Maisie tighter in the layers, lifted her into her arms, and switched on the flashlight on her phone. The girl wrapped her arms securely around Sierra’s neck.
“Ready?” Sierra asked.
Maisie whispered into her ear, her breath warm against the cold air. “I’m not scared when you’re here.”
Sierra opened the door. The frigid air hit her face instantly, stinging her skin. The trees loomed in every direction, heavy and ominous with snow. She stepped forward. Into the dark. Into the unknown. Not for a merger. Not for herself. But for a little girl in a red dress.
The forest seemed to close in around them, a maze of tall pines dusted with heavy white powder. Every branch looked identical; every direction was a carbon copy of the last. The cold bit at Sierra’s cheeks as she trudged forward, her boots sinking deep into the drifts with each labored step. Maisie clung tightly to her, her small voice guiding them.
“Daddy always goes that way. By the tall tree with broken branches.”
Sierra turned the beam of her phone’s flashlight in the direction Maisie pointed. Her breath clouded in the air, white puffs vanishing into the wind. Her arms ached from the weight of the child, but she didn’t stop. Ten more steps. Twenty.
Then—
“Wait,” Maisie whispered. “That’s it. That’s the tree.”
The flashlight beam caught the shape of a crooked pine, one side of its top snapped cleanly off. Sierra angled the light lower, scanning the ground, and then she froze.
In the snow below the tree, a long, uneven trail had been carved—a drag mark leading downhill. At the end of it, a man lay motionless. He was partially covered by the falling snow. Scattered wood surrounded him.
Sierra’s heart seized in her chest.
“Daddy!” Maisie screamed. Her cry shattered the oppressive quiet of the woods. “Daddy, wake up, please!”
Sierra knelt beside the man, carefully setting Maisie down on a patch of drier snow near the fallen branches. She pressed her fingers to his neck, holding her breath.
A pulse. Weak, but distinct.
“He is alive,” she whispered.
She shone the light over him. He was dangerously pale, his skin cold to the touch. A dark bruise was forming on his temple where he had clearly taken a bad fall.
“Sir?” she said, tapping his shoulder firmly. “Can you hear me?”
No response.
She looked back at Maisie, whose face was wet with tears. “He is with us, baby, but we have to move fast.”
Sierra wrapped her arms under the man’s shoulders and began to drag. He was heavy—broad-shouldered and solidly built. The frozen earth offered no help, only resistance. She managed to move him maybe five feet before her legs gave out. Her breath came in short, burning gasps. She collapsed to her knees, the snow soaking through her designer jeans.
“I can’t… I can’t pull him alone,” she whispered, panic rising.
Maisie stood beside her now, a small hand clutching Sierra’s sleeve. “What do we do?”
Sierra stared down at the man, at the shallow rise and fall of his chest. Then she stood up, adrenaline surging. She scooped Maisie back into her arms.
“We get help.”
She ran. Back through the trees, down the snowy slope, her feet slipping and sliding, her lungs on fire. The beam of the flashlight jerked wildly with each step. Branches snagged her expensive coat, tearing the fabric, but she didn’t care. Maisie buried her face in Sierra’s neck, too exhausted to cry.
They broke through the edge of the forest and reached the roadside. The world was dead quiet—no headlights, no sound but the howling wind. Sierra spun in place, scanning the darkness.
“Come on, come on…”
Then, two distant lights pierced the snow. A vehicle was getting closer. She stepped boldly into the road, waving her arms frantically.
The SUV slowed, traction control clicking, then stopped. It was a patrol truck. The officer inside rolled down the window, deep concern etched across his face.
“Are you alright, ma’am?”
Sierra pointed toward the black void of the woods. “There is a man. He’s hurt, unconscious. We need to get him out. Now.”
The officer was out of the truck before she finished her sentence. He radioed for backup, grabbed a heavy-duty flashlight and a medical kit, and followed Sierra back toward the tree line.
With the officer’s help, they returned to the spot and carefully lifted the man out of the snow. Sierra kept Maisie close, her arms wrapped protectively around the girl as they waited.
Back at the cabin, they laid Caleb gently onto the couch. The officer left only after ensuring they were safe and promising to send a medic up the mountain if the weather allowed.
Sierra worked quickly. She removed Caleb’s wet coat and boots, checked his pulse again, and placed a cold compress on his forehead. She wrapped him in layers of dry blankets, added more logs to the fire until it roared, and lit the old oil lamp.
Maisie sat beside her father, eyes wide, holding his large, callous hand in both of hers. Eventually, the adrenaline faded; her head slowly drooped to the side, and she fell asleep, her cheek resting against his arm.
Sierra let out a long, shaky breath, her hands still trembling. On the table nearby sat a worn photograph in a wooden frame. It showed Caleb—younger, smiling—beside a woman with kind eyes and hair pulled into a braid. Between them, a toddler beamed at the camera.
Sierra picked it up, touching the frame gently. “You did everything you could, little one,” she whispered, brushing a strand of hair from sleeping Maisie’s face.
Outside, the wind howled. Inside, the fire crackled, and for now, they were safe.
Morning crept into the cabin with a faint, cold light that seeped through the thin curtains. The fire in the stone hearth had burned low, pulsing with a gentle, dying glow. The hush of dawn was broken only by the occasional pop of wood and the quiet sound of breath, small and steady.
Caleb stirred—a slow, pained movement. His thick brows knit together as his eyes blinked open, struggling to adjust to the light. For a moment, he stared at the timber ceiling above him, confusion flickering in his dark eyes. Then he shifted, wincing at the stiffness in his shoulder and the dull ache at his temple.
He turned his head and saw her.
Maisie was curled up in the armchair beside him, her tiny fingers still wrapped around his hand, her face slack with sleep. His eyes softened instantly.
“Maisie,” he whispered, his voice hoarse.
“She is okay.”
Caleb flinched slightly at the sound of the unfamiliar voice. He looked toward the kitchen area and saw a woman—elegant, composed, and utterly out of place in a home like his—setting down a mug of steaming tea.
She stepped closer. Her blonde hair was loose, softly curled, and her cream coat hung open to reveal a high-quality wool sweater. The heat of the dying fire caught in her gold strands, giving her an almost ethereal glow in the dim room.
“You took a bad fall,” she said gently. “You are lucky it wasn’t worse.”
Caleb’s gaze moved from her face to the room, his mind slowly piecing the fragments together. “My daughter… is she…?”
“She is safe. She was scared, but she stayed strong. You both are safe now.”
He pushed himself upright with significant effort, biting back a groan of pain. “I… thank you. I do not even know your name.”
“Sierra. Sierra Langford.”
He nodded slowly, his eyes dropping to Maisie again. She stirred but did not wake. “You found her out there? In the snow?”
“She ran into the road,” Sierra said quietly. “Right in front of my car.”
Caleb’s face fell, heavy with guilt. “I told her never to leave the house when I am out. I should not have taken so long. I slipped… must have blacked out.”
Sierra watched him closely. There was a strength to him, not just physical. A steady presence, even in his weakness.
“You have nothing to apologize for,” she said softly.
He gave her a grateful look, though a trace of discomfort lingered behind his eyes. He seemed painfully aware of the contrast between them: his flannel shirt torn at the cuff, the old patched blanket pulled over his legs, and the polished, wealthy woman standing in his humble kitchen.
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