An hour in, the forest began to thin, evergreens giving way to alpine meadows dressed in November brown. The wind picked up, carrying the metallic scent of snow, a smell that made primitive parts of the brain whisper about shelter and survival.
“Storm’s coming faster than predicted,” Aidan said, stopping to pull weather gear from his pack. “We should?—”
The first snowflakes interrupted him—fat, heavy flakes that didn’t drift so much as plummet, like the sky had suddenly decided to empty its pockets. Within minutes, the world transformed from gray to white, visibility shrinking to mere yards.
“We need to make the peak before this gets worse,” Aidan said, having to raise his voice over wind that had gone from whisper to howl. “The cairn where Grandda hid the ring—if we don’t find it now, it could be buried until spring.”
They pushed upward, the trail becoming treacherous as snow accumulated with shocking speed. Dylan’s world narrowed to the placement of each foot, the burn in her lungs, the broad shape of Aidan’s back just ahead. The mountain had become something else—not just earth and stone but a living thing that tested with wind and cold and the promise that nature didn’t care about human plans or human hearts.
The peak revealed itself suddenly—they crested a rise and there it was, a flat expanse of granite swept clean by wind that seemed to come from all directions at once. The cairn stood at the highest point, a precisely stacked pile of stones that had weathered decades of seasons.
“There,” Aidan shouted over the wind.
They fought their way to the cairn together, Dylan holding the flashlight while Aidan, pulling off his gloves for better grip, dismantled stones made slick with snow. She watched his hands redden with cold, saw them shake as he worked each stone free with the patience of someone handling sacred things.
“Got it,” he breathed, pulling out a metal box that had been hidden in the cairn’s heart.
Inside, wrapped in oilcloth like a covenant against time, lay a wooden box that might have been carved when America was young. The wood was dark with age, worn smooth not by weather but by handling—generations of O’Hara fingers tracing its edges, opening it for christenings and weddings, for all the moments when love required witness. Aidan’s hands trembled as he lifted the lid—definitely from emotion now, not cold.
The ring lay on velvet that had once been rich purple but time had gentled to the color of twilight. It seemed to gather what little light filtered through the storm and hold it, the silver warm despite the cold. The claddagh design—two hands cradling a crowned heart—had been worn soft by centuries of wearing, the details gentled but not erased. Around the band, words in Gaelic spiraled like a prayer made metal, the letters so small they seemed more felt than read.
“What does it say?” Dylan asked, leaning close enough that their heads nearly touched.
“Grá, Dílseacht, Cairdeas,” Aidan read slowly, his finger tracing the ancient words. “Love, Loyalty, Friendship. But there’s more—Tríd an stoirm. Through the storm.” His voice caught on the last words. “My God, Dylan. It’s like he knew. Like they all knew we’d be standing here in this exact moment.”
As if the mountain had been waiting for that recognition, the wind suddenly shrieked with renewed violence, snow going from heavy to horizontal. The world vanished into white chaos, the cairn disappearing though it stood mere feet away.
“We have to get down,” Aidan shouted, grabbing Dylan’s hand. “Now.”
But down had become a theoretical concept. The trail they’d climbed had vanished under snow that was accumulating at an impossible rate. Every direction looked the same—white fury and wind that tried to tear them from the mountain’s face.
“The hunting cabin,” Aidan said, pulling her against him so she could hear. “Old family shelter. Northeast face, about half a mile down.”
They descended by instinct and prayer, Aidan leading with the inherited knowledge of someone whose blood knew these slopes. Dylan trusted his steps, followed his path, her hand in his the only warm thing in a world gone arctic.
The cabin materialized from the storm like salvation—a sturdy structure built by Aidan’s great-grandfather for hunting seasons, maintained by each generation since. The door fought them, wind trying to tear it from Aidan’s grip, but they tumbled inside, the sudden absence of wind so shocking that Dylan’s ears rang with the silence.
“Power of belief, huh?” she gasped, collapsing against the closed door.
Aidan was already moving with practiced efficiency. The cabin was spartan but prepared—a wood stove, stacked wood, emergency supplies that his mother refreshed every summer, two narrow bunks with wool blankets and sleeping bags. This was O’Hara territory, and O’Haras took care of their own, even when their own was just an empty cabin waiting for moments like this.
“We need heat,” he said, his hands shaking as he worked to start a fire in the stove. “Temperature’s dropping fast.”
Dylan helped, holding kindling while he coaxed flame from matches that didn’t want to cooperate with numb fingers. The fire caught, tentative at first, then growing stronger, pushing back the cold that had followed them inside.
As warmth began to creep into the cabin, they took inventory. No cell signal—the mountain blocked everything. The storm showed no signs of lessening. They had shelter, heat, and the emergency supplies Anne refreshed religiously, but they were effectively trapped until weather cleared.
“So much for avoiding the town microscope,” Dylan said, pulling off her soaked outer layers.
“They’ll send search and rescue when we don’t check in.” Aidan was doing the same, hanging wet clothes near the stove. “Wyatt knows exactly where this cabin is. We all do. It’s practically family legend—Duncan got lost up here when he was seven, found the cabin and stayed put for two days living on beef jerky and melted snow until Dad found him.”
They settled on the floor near the stove, sharing an emergency blanket and the surreal intimacy of survival. The ring box sat between them, its contents catching firelight like captured stars.
“Your grandfather planned everything else,” Dylan said. “You don’t think he somehow planned this?”
Aidan’s laugh was warm as summer honey. “Controlling weather would be impressive, even for him. Though knowing Grandda, he probably prayed for whatever would bring truth to the surface.”
The storm howled around the cabin like something alive and hungry, but inside, the fire created a bubble of warmth and light. Dylan was acutely aware of Aidan beside her—the heat of him, the way his shoulder pressed against hers, the fact that they were alone in a way they’d never been before.
