Updated Apr 11, 2026 • ~9 min read
Chapter 8: Hunting
Sloane
The food situation becomes critical on day seven.
I’ve been watching Jackson inventory the supplies over the past few days, seen the way his jaw tightens when he checks the containers of dried beans and rice, noticed the diminishing pile of venison jerky hanging by the stove. I didn’t understand what it meant until this morning, when he came back from checking his traps empty-handed for the third day in a row and started preparing for what he calls a “weather hunt.”
“The blizzard’s lasting longer than I expected,” he says, his voice matter-of-fact as he loads his rifle with the kind of careful precision that makes my stomach clench. “Animals are hunkered down, not moving much. I need to go out further, find game before we run out of protein entirely.”
I look at the window, where the snow is still falling in thick, heavy flakes, the wind howling around the cabin with a ferocity that makes the walls shake. “You’re going out in this? Are you insane?”
“I’m practical.” He’s already pulling on layers—thermal base, flannel, his heavy jacket, his hat. “We need food. I need to hunt. That’s how it works.”
“We have food—the beans, the rice—”
“That’ll last us another week if we’re careful. But we need protein. We need calories. Beans and rice alone won’t cut it in this cold.” He checks his rifle one more time, then slings it over his shoulder. “I’ll be back before dark.”
“Jackson, this is dangerous—”
“Everything about living out here is dangerous.” He looks at me, and there’s something in his eyes that I can’t quite read. “I know what I’m doing, Sloane. I’ve been doing this for five years.”
“But the weather—”
“Is bad, yeah. But it’s not impossible. I’ve hunted in worse.” He moves toward the door, and panic starts clawing up my throat.
“What if you get lost? What if you fall? What if you freeze to death out there?”
“Then you’ll have to figure out how to survive on your own.” He says it like he’s discussing the weather, not his potential death. “Bear will help you. The ranger station is fifteen miles east. Wait for the weather to clear, then follow the creek downstream. It’ll take you there.”
“Jackson—”
“I’ll be back before dark,” he repeats, and then he’s gone, with Bear following close behind, and I’m left alone in the cabin with my fear and the awful realization that I might never see him again.
***
Eight hours.
He’s been gone for eight hours, and the sun is setting, and there’s no sign of him.
I’ve been pacing the cabin for the last two hours, my ankle aching but my anxiety overriding the pain, and every terrible scenario plays through my mind on repeat. He’s lying in the snow with a broken leg. He’s lost in the whiteout. He’s fallen into a ravine. He’s been attacked by a bear—an actual bear, not the wolf-dog currently missing with him.
He’s dead, and it’s my fault because we needed food because I’m here eating his supplies.
The guilt is suffocating.
I keep watching the window, straining for any sign of movement, and the darkness is coming fast now, the temperature dropping even further, and if he’s out there alone in the night—
The door crashes open, and I actually scream.
Jackson stumbles in, and he looks half-dead. His face is pale beneath the red flush of cold, there’s ice in his beard and his eyebrows, and he’s moving with the kind of stiffness that speaks of muscles pushed to their absolute limit. Behind him, Bear is dragging something large and dark through the snow—a deer, I realize. A full-sized deer.
“You could’ve DIED!” The words explode out of me before I can stop them, and I’m across the cabin in seconds, my hands reaching for him to check if he’s okay, if he’s hurt, if he’s—
“We need food—” he starts, his voice rough and exhausted.
“I don’t care!” I’m yelling now, and there are tears streaming down my face, hot and furious and terrified. “You could’ve died out there! You were gone for eight HOURS in a blizzard! What if you hadn’t found your way back? What if you’d frozen to death? What if—”
“Sloane—”
“I need YOU alive!” The words come out raw and desperate, and the moment they leave my mouth, I realize what I’ve just said.
What I’ve just admitted.
We both freeze.
Jackson is staring at me, his dark eyes wide with something that might be shock or might be understanding, and I’m staring back at him with my hands still fisted in his jacket and my heart pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
“You need me alive,” he repeats slowly, like he’s testing the words.
“Yes.” My voice is barely a whisper. “I need you alive. Not just because I can’t survive out here without you, but because I—because you—”
I can’t finish the sentence, can’t put into words the terrifying realization that’s been growing over the past week, the one I’ve been pushing down and ignoring because it’s inconvenient and impossible and completely insane.
I care about him.
Somewhere between the arguments and the survival lessons and the quiet moments by the fire, I’ve started caring about Jackson Torres—grumpy, damaged, mountain-man Jackson, who saved my life and then reluctantly taught me how to save my own.
“Sloane.” He says my name like a prayer, like a curse, and his hands come up to cover mine where they’re still gripping his jacket. “We can’t—”
“I know.”
“You’re leaving in a week—”
“I know.”
“This is temporary—”
“I know!” I pull away, swiping at my tears angrily. “I know all of that. I know this is insane and impossible and that I’m going back to New York and you’re staying here and there’s no future in this. But that doesn’t change the fact that I spent the last eight hours terrified that you were dead, and when you walked through that door, all I could think was thank God, he’s alive, he’s okay, he’s here.”
He’s still staring at me, and I can see the war happening behind his eyes—the same war that’s happening inside me, between what we want and what’s practical, between the connection that’s been building and the reality of our completely incompatible lives.
“You scared the hell out of me,” I whisper. “Don’t ever do that again.”
“I can’t promise that.” His voice is rough, strained. “This is my life, Sloane. Hunting in bad weather, taking risks. I can’t stop doing those things just because you—”
“I know.” I take a shaky breath. “I know. I’m not asking you to change. I’m just asking you to be careful.”
“I’m always careful.”
“You were gone for eight hours in a blizzard!”
“And I came back. With food. Which we need.” He gestures to the deer that Bear has successfully dragged inside, and I realize that in my panic, I hadn’t even acknowledged the successful hunt. “We won’t go hungry now. That’s what matters.”
“That’s not all that matters.” The words come out softer this time, less frantic. “You matter. Your safety matters. You can’t just—you matter, Jackson.”
Something shifts in his expression, some wall cracking just a little bit more, and he reaches out slowly, giving me time to pull away if I want to. But I don’t want to. I let him cup my face in his cold, rough hands, and I lean into the touch like I’m starving for it.
“You matter too,” he says quietly. “That’s the problem.”
“Why is it a problem that we matter to each other?”
“Because in a week, you’re leaving. You’re going back to your life, and I’m staying here, and mattering to each other is just going to make that harder.”
He’s right. I know he’s right. But standing here in his arms, with his hands on my face and his eyes searching mine, I can’t bring myself to care about logistics or practicality or the very obvious fact that this can’t possibly work.
“I don’t want to think about that right now,” I whisper. “I don’t want to think about leaving or what happens after. I just want to be grateful that you’re alive and that you’re here and that we’re both okay.”
For a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. I can see the want in his eyes, can feel the tension in his hands where they’re still cupping my face, can sense the thread pulling tight between us.
But then he pulls back, letting his hands drop, and the loss of contact feels like a physical ache.
“I need to process the deer,” he says, his voice carefully neutral. “Get it dressed and hung before the meat spoils. Will you help?”
It’s a deflection, a retreat back to practicality, but I understand it. We’re both standing on the edge of something we’re not ready to jump into, and pulling back is the safe choice.
The smart choice.
Even if it doesn’t feel that way.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll help.”
He nods, already turning away, putting distance between us again, and I follow him outside into the cold to help process the deer that he nearly died to bring back.
And I try not to think about the fact that I meant every word I said.
That I need him alive.
That somewhere in the last week, he’s become essential to me in a way that has nothing to do with survival and everything to do with the way my heart feels too big for my chest whenever he looks at me.
Try not to think about the fact that I’m falling for him.
And that when the blizzard ends and the rescue comes, leaving him is going to break something inside me that I’m not sure will ever heal.
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