Chapter 7 - The Forest Cabin
I left the rental sedan idling on the shoulder of the highway, threw my coat collar up against the biting wind, and vaulted the rusted iron chain blocking the old logging track. The gravel gave way to thick, wet mud that sucked at the soles of my shoes as I pushed past the dripping pine boughs. The forest closed in around me, the gray light of late afternoon fading quickly beneath the dense canopy of evergreens. Every breath burned in my lungs as I climbed the steep incline, my muscles aching from the cold and the relentless pace. Clara’s notebook had mentioned the old timber warden's cabin near the ridge—a dilapidated structure long abandoned by the forestry service but occasionally used by hunters during the autumn season.
After an hour of punishing hike through the mist, the trees finally thinned out, revealing a small, weather-beaten cabin hunkered against the gray rock face of the ridge. A thin wisp of pale gray smoke curled lazily from the rusted tin chimney, cutting through the damp mountain air. My heart hammered against my ribs. She was here. I slowed my pace, walking silently across the pine-needle carpet until I reached the warped wooden porch. The front door was pulled shut but unlatched, a strip of yellowed masking tape peeling off the frame. I pushed it open slowly, the hinges groaning in protest as I stepped inside out of the wet chill.
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The interior of the cabin was dim, illuminated only by the flickering amber glow of a small stone hearth and a single kerosene lamp sitting on a scarred wooden table. The air smelled of woodsmoke, old cedar, and wet wool. On the stove, a small aluminum kettle was hissing softly, steam escaping from its chipped spout. A heavy ceramic mug sat beside it, dark coffee pooling at the bottom. I stepped further into the room, my boots clicking softly on the wide plank floorboards. Clara wasn't in the main room, but her heavy wool coat hung over the back of a wooden rocking chair, and her leather satchel rested on the unmade cot in the corner.
She had expected me. The kettle was still hot; the fire had been stoked within the last twenty minutes. She knew Arthur would try to delay me, but she also knew I wouldn't stop until I reached the end of the road. I pulled off my damp coat, tossing it over a chair, and walked over to the hearth. The heat radiated against my freezing hands. I didn't call out her name. I knew the sound of my voice would only drive her deeper into the surrounding timber before the sun went down. Instead, I sank onto the edge of the wooden cot, staring at the flickering flames as the rain began to drum harder against the shingled roof, locking us both in the quiet isolation of the ridge.
