Chapter 10 - The First Fire
By noon, the lodge was completely quiet.
The only sound was the drip of melting icicles from the steep eaves and the gentle crackle of the woodstove. Cole walked back up the shoveled stairs carrying two heavy bags of groceries and a fresh crate of dry birch wood.
"Roads are clear all the way to Durango," Cole said, stepping inside and wiping his boots on the rug. "The town's talking, of course. But they're talking about how tough Rebecca Hart is. Nobody’s taking Olivia’s side."
I looked around the spacious room. The floor was clean again. The air smelled of woodsmoke, coffee, and mountain pine. The ghost of Olivia’s deceit had been scrubbed clean.
"Thank you, Cole," I said. "For everything."
"You built a fortress here, Becca," Cole smiled, setting the wood by the hearth. "It just needed to weather its first storm."
An hour later, the front door opened again. But this time, it wasn't trespassers or social climbers. It was the people who had actually helped me build this sanctuary: Mr. Vance, Cole’s dad, carrying a fresh apple pie baked by his wife; two of the local carpenters from Ouray with guitars; and my closest friend from Denver, Sarah, who had driven up the moment the highway opened.
We didn't drink champagne out of delicate coupe glasses. We drank cider out of heavy ceramic mugs. We sat around the soapstone fireplace, laughing, sharing stories, and listening to the mountain wind that could no longer threaten the house.
For six years, I had worked myself to the bone to earn this roof over my head. My family had tried to claim it, steal it, and diminish it, but they had failed.
May you like
I looked into the flames dancing against my father’s initials on the stone.
The lodge was finally mine. And for the first time in my life, Christmas felt like home.
