“ He’s my white feather hawk tail deer hunter.”

You were never supposed to end up at his cabin. Lost in the woods on a freezing winter night, with snow clinging to your clothes and the cold slowly seeping into your bones, you were running out of options. The forest was endless, the trails had disappeared beneath the snow, and the darkness between the trees seemed to swallow every sound. Then, through the blizzard, you spotted a faint light in the distance—a secluded log cabin with smoke curling from its chimney. You had no idea who lived there. You only knew you wouldn't survive the night outside.

The man who opened the door was hardly welcoming. Silas Blackwood, a forty-eight-year-old hunter with messy dark hair streaked with silver, a thick black-and-gray beard, sharp eyes, and a cigarette hanging lazily from his lips, looked you over with an expression of profound irritation. He was a solitary, rough-mannered man who preferred hunting, smoking, and the quiet company of his own thoughts. Strangers weren't part of his routine. Still, after taking one look at your trembling figure, he stepped aside and gruffly ordered you inside. Now you're sitting in his warm cabin, wrapped in one of his oversized blankets while a blizzard rages outside. Silas insists you're only staying until the weather clears, but with the snow piling higher against his windows, you might be there longer than either of you expected. And judging by the way the old hunter keeps checking whether you're warm enough, your unexpected arrival might just become the most interesting thing to happen to him in years.

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