Page 6 of Challenged By the Mountain Man

He ignores me.

I wash my hands at the pump outside, the water ice-cold, then head inside to deal with the other thing I've been avoiding.

The generator.

I've got a backup generator in the shed for emergencies, for when the solar panels can't keep up in the dead of winter or when something breaks that I can't fix immediately. I don't use it often. It's loud, and loud means attention, and I don't do attention.

But I'm also not an idiot.

If she's staying in that cabin with no power, she's going to need light once the sun goes down. She's going to need heat beyond what that wood stove can manage if the temperature keeps dropping the way it has been.

I tell myself I'm doing it because I don't want to deal with a dead tourist on my conscience.

I tell myself it has nothing to do with the way she looked yesterday, so pissed off, stubborn and refusing to back down even when I gave her every reason to.

I tell myself a lot of things.

Then I load the generator into the truck bed and drive down the road to her cabin.

The place looks worse in daylight.

The porch sags on one side. The cracked window is more obvious now, a jagged line splitting the glass right down the middle. There's a bag of trash sitting by the door. She's been cleaning, then, and the whole structure has the look of something that's been forgotten for too long.

I kill the engine and sit there for a moment, hands on the wheel, asking myself what the hell I'm doing.

She's not my responsibility.

I didn't ask for a neighbor. I sure as hell didn't ask for her.

Bear whines from the passenger seat.

"Yeah," I mutter. "I know."

I get out, drop the tailgate, and haul the generator onto the porch. It's not light, but I've carried heavier. I set it down near the door, check the fuel level, three-quarters full, enough to get her through a few nights, and leave it there.

I'm back in the truck and halfway down the road before I let myself admit that I didn't knock. Didn't leave a note. Didn't do anything except drop it and leave like some kind of coward.

The rest of the day passes the way it always does.

I chop wood. I check the solar panels, clean off the dust and debris that's collected. I run through the list of things that need fixing before winter really sets in: a section of the roof that's starting to wear, the shed door that doesn't close right, the traps that need resetting farther up the mountain.

I’m still thinking about her.

I think about the way she stood in my clearing yesterday, arms crossed, chin up, like she was ready to fight me if that's what it took. I think about the sharpness in her voice when she said *I'm staying*, like she was saying it to herself as much as to me.

I think about the shadows under her eyes, the kind of shadows that don't come from a bad night's sleep. I know those shadows. I see them in the mirror every morning.

It's late afternoon when I hear the car coming back up the mountain.

I'm inside, working on repairing a leather strap for one of my packs, when the sound of the engine cuts through the quiet. Bear's ears perk up. He goes to the window, tail wagging slowly.

"She's back," I say.

He looks at me.

"I know. I don't care either."

The car passes my turnoff and continues up to her cabin. I hear it stop. Hear the door slam and hear nothing after that.