Updated Apr 12, 2026 • ~11 min read
Chapter 7: Memorized
Quinn
By day four, Quinn has memorized every detail of the cabin.
The way the third floorboard creaks when you step on it.
The pattern of knots in the wood paneling.
The exact angle of afternoon light through the window when the storm briefly lessens.
And the way Cole Hartford’s mind works when they’re playing cards and arguing about property rights versus environmental protection in a way that’s stopped being hostile and started being genuinely intellectually stimulating.
“Your turn,” Cole says, studying his cards with the same focus he probably applies to construction blueprints.
They’re playing gin rummy—the cabin’s emergency supplies apparently include three decks of cards and a cribbage board—and they’re on their fifth game, tied two-two, with the kind of competitive energy that makes Quinn feel alive in a way she hasn’t felt since law school debate tournaments.
“Gin,” Quinn says, laying down her cards with a triumphant smile. “That’s three-two, my favor.”
Cole examines her hand, looking for any possible mistake, then sighs. “You’re counting cards, aren’t you?”
“I’m paying attention. Not my fault you’re not.”
“I’m paying attention, you’re just better at this than I expected.”
“You keep expecting me to be incompetent at things,” Quinn points out, shuffling for the next round. “First you assumed I couldn’t handle cold weather, then that I couldn’t understand how construction works, now you’re surprised I can count cards. Noticing a pattern?”
“I’m noticing that you’re competitive and like to win.”
“Says the man who spent twenty minutes yesterday explaining why Montana beef is objectively superior to any other state’s beef using what I’m pretty sure were made-up statistics.”
“Those statistics were real—”
“You said Montana cows are happier because they can see mountains. That’s not a real metric.”
“It’s absolutely a real metric. Happy cows make better beef. It’s science.”
Quinn laughs, dealing cards. “That is not science.”
“It’s Montana science. Different standards.”
They’re sitting on the floor by the fire—the warmest spot in the cabin—with cards spread between them and coffee mugs within reach, and Quinn thinks this might be the most relaxed she’s felt in months.
Not because the situation is relaxing.
Because Cole is surprisingly easy to be around when they’re not actively fighting about the lawsuit.
“Okay, genuine question,” Quinn says as they start the new game. “Setting aside the Cedar Ridge Meadows project specifically—do you actually believe in property rights as an absolute? That landowners should be able to do whatever they want with their land regardless of environmental impact?”
“Are we breaking the truce?”
“No, I’m genuinely curious about your philosophy. Not arguing about the case.”
Cole considers this while studying his cards. “I believe in property rights as a principle. But I also believe in responsibility. My family’s owned our ranch for six generations—we’ve managed that land, maintained it, preserved it because we want it to last for the next six generations.”
“So you do believe in conservation.”
“I believe in stewardship. Taking care of what’s yours so it lasts.” He draws a card, discards. “But I also believe that some environmental regulations go too far—they prioritize theoretical future impact over people’s current ability to survive.”
“Example?”
“Rancher three counties over got shut down because endangered salamanders were found on his property. He couldn’t graze his cattle, couldn’t build necessary infrastructure, basically couldn’t use his own land. Went bankrupt within two years. The salamanders? Still endangered. But now nobody’s managing that land at all, so it’s overrun with invasive species that are probably worse for the salamanders than careful grazing would’ve been.”
Quinn draws a card, thinking. “That’s a regulatory failure, not an environmental protection failure. The solution isn’t ‘ignore the salamanders,’ it’s ‘create regulations that protect the salamanders AND let the rancher sustainably use his land.'”
“Except those regulations don’t exist. What exists is all-or-nothing enforcement that destroys livelihoods.”
“So we should create better regulations.”
“Good luck getting government agencies to care about nuance.”
“Good luck protecting any environment at all if we decide property rights override ecosystem collapse.”
They’re both getting animated now—hands gesturing, voices rising slightly—but it’s not the angry arguing from day one. This is intellectual sparring, the kind of debate Quinn used to have with her best professors, where both sides are actually listening and thinking instead of just waiting for their turn to talk.
“Okay,” Cole says, setting down his cards. “What’s your ideal solution? For land use generally, not the lawsuit specifically.”
Quinn thinks about this while studying her hand. “Tiered approach. Critical ecosystems get strong protection with limited development allowed only if it demonstrably preserves core functions. Less critical areas get moderate protection with development allowed if environmental mitigation is included. Degraded areas get minimal protection but requirements for restoration as part of any development.”
“Who decides what’s critical versus less critical?”
“Scientific assessment, with local input. Not just federal scientists who’ve never seen the land, but also people who live there and understand the practical realities.”
“You’d trust local input? Most of the time local input is ‘we want the jobs and don’t care about the environmental impact.'”
“Not if the local people actually understand the consequences. If they know that destroying wetlands means their town floods, they’ll care about protecting them. The problem is most environmental advocacy doesn’t explain the human cost of environmental destruction—it focuses on abstract concepts like biodiversity that people can’t connect to their daily lives.”
Cole’s looking at her with something like respect. “You’ve actually thought about this.”
“It’s literally my job to think about this.”
“No, I mean—” He gestures vaguely. “Most environmental lawyers I’ve dealt with just throw regulations and threaten lawsuits. They don’t actually engage with the underlying philosophy of how to balance protection and use.”
“Most construction company owners I’ve dealt with just throw money at problems and threaten to sue back,” Quinn counters. “They don’t actually engage with the environmental science.”
“Touché.”
“Although you’re engaging now. With the wetlands hydrology stuff yesterday.”
“Because you explained it in a way I could understand instead of just citing regulations.” He draws another card. “You’re a better teacher than lawyer.”
“I’m an excellent lawyer, thank you very much.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t excellent. I said teaching suits you better.”
Quinn considers this. She’s never thought of herself as a teacher—she’s a litigator, an advocate, a fighter.
But explaining the wetlands to Cole yesterday, watching his face change as he understood the interconnection between the ecosystem and the town, had been satisfying in a way that winning court cases sometimes isn’t.
“Maybe,” she admits. “But teaching doesn’t pay the bills.”
“Neither does quitting your firm to freelance environmental consulting, but you’re thinking about it.”
Quinn’s head snaps up. “I never said—”
“You didn’t have to. I can see it in your face when you talk about your firm. You don’t like how they operate.”
“They’re effective—”
“They’re ruthless. There’s a difference.” Cole meets her eyes. “You care about finding solutions. They care about winning precedent cases. Those aren’t the same mission.”
He’s right and Quinn hates it.
Hates that Cole Hartford—who four days ago she dismissed as an uneducated contractor who didn’t understand environmental science—has read her well enough to identify the exact dissatisfaction she’s been ignoring for months.
“The firm does good work,” she says, but it sounds defensive even to her own ears.
“I’m sure they do. Doesn’t mean it’s the right work for you.”
“And what’s the right work for me? According to Cole Hartford, expert on my career?”
“Something where you can actually engage with people instead of just suing them. Environmental education, maybe. Consulting with businesses that want to do better but don’t know how. Creating those tiered regulations you described instead of just enforcing the flawed ones that exist.”
“That’s not—” Quinn stops, because actually that sounds amazing and she hasn’t let herself think about alternative careers because she’s supposed to be following the path she set for herself when she was twenty-one and angry at her father.
“You’re infuriating,” she says instead.
“Why, because I’m right?”
“Because you’re making me think about things I’ve been deliberately not thinking about.”
“Good. Thinking is good for you.”
“Gin,” Quinn says, laying down her cards with perhaps more force than necessary. “Four-two, my favor.”
Cole looks at her hand, then at her face, and starts laughing.
“What?”
“You absolutely were not paying attention to this game. You got gin by pure luck.”
“I was too paying attention—”
“You were thinking about whether you actually like your job and accidentally won. Admit it.”
Quinn throws a card at him. “I hate that you’re perceptive.”
“I hate that you’re making me reconsider my entire stance on environmental regulation.”
“Good. You should reconsider it. It’s poorly thought out.”
“My stance is not poorly thought out—”
“It’s based on a false dichotomy between environment and economy when the two are actually interdependent—”
“It’s based on lived experience watching people lose their livelihoods to regulations that don’t account for human cost—”
They’re debating again, both fully engaged, and Quinn realizes she’s having more fun arguing with Cole Hartford about policy than she’s had at any work function in years.
More fun than she’s had with anyone, period, in longer than she wants to admit.
Because Cole argues back.
Doesn’t just accept her points or dismiss them—actually engages, challenges her to defend her positions, offers counterarguments that make her think harder about her own reasoning.
He treats her like an intellectual equal instead of either a delicate thing to protect or a competitor to defeat.
And that’s—that’s intoxicating in a way Quinn wasn’t prepared for.
“You’re doing it again,” Cole says, interrupting her thoughts.
“Doing what?”
“Looking at me like you’re trying to figure something out.”
“I’m trying to figure out why I like arguing with you this much.”
Cole goes very still. “Do you? Like it?”
“Yeah,” Quinn admits. “I really do. You’re—you actually think about what I’m saying instead of just waiting to respond with talking points. It’s refreshing.”
“Most people find me stubborn and difficult.”
“You are stubborn and difficult. But you’re also smart and you care about getting it right, even if that means admitting you might be wrong about something.”
“I haven’t admitted I’m wrong—”
“You admitted yesterday that you didn’t understand the flooding risk. That’s admitting you were wrong.”
“That’s admitting I had incomplete information. Different thing.”
“Keep telling yourself that, Hartford.”
Cole grins, and Quinn’s stomach does something stupid in response to that grin—the way it transforms his whole face from ruggedly serious to almost boyish.
“Deal again,” he says. “I’m going to beat you this round.”
“You’re not going to beat me.”
“Want to make it interesting?”
“How interesting?”
“Loser cooks dinner tonight.”
Quinn considers this. “I’m a terrible cook. If I lose, you’ll suffer through whatever I make.”
“Then I guess you better win.”
They play six more rounds.
Quinn wins four of them.
Cole cooks dinner.
And as they eat together by firelight, still debating the merits of various environmental policies and making each other laugh, Quinn thinks that maybe being trapped in a cabin with Cole Hartford isn’t the disaster she thought it would be.
Maybe it’s the best thing that’s happened to her in a very long time.
Which is absolutely terrifying.
Because in a few days, they’ll be rescued.
And then what?
Back to being enemies in a lawsuit?
Pretending these four days never happened?
Quinn doesn’t want that.
Doesn’t want to go back to seeing Cole as just the construction company owner who doesn’t care about the environment.
Wants to keep talking to him like this, learning how his mind works, being challenged and respected and genuinely enjoyed for who she is instead of what she represents.
But wanting and having are different things.
And wanting Cole Hartford—beyond just intellectual connection, though she’s trying very hard not to think about the beyond part—is a complication Quinn’s life definitely doesn’t need.
Even if her traitorous heart doesn’t seem to care about complications at all.
Reader Reactions