The ranger cabin hunched under a clump of ancient cedars like the woods had misplaced a secret. One-story, cedar shakes silvered with lichen, single chimney still coughing up last winter's ghosts. A hand-painted sign over the door said PINE RIDGE STATION #3 in letters the weather had been gnawing on for years. The key Drew dug out was iron, heavy, older than both of them put together.
It turned with a grumpy groan.
Inside smelled of cedar oil, dust, and the sweet little hint of mouse apartments. Pot-bellied stove squatted in the corner; a beat-up pine table sat under a window fogged with pollen.
Two cots—one had a wool blanket folded neat, color of storm clouds. Shelf held dog-eared field guides, a dented percolator, and a tin that screamed EMERGENCY COFFEE – DO NOT TOUCH UNLESS DYING.
Drew flipped a switch. Nada. "Generator's pouting. Two minutes." He ducked out back. She heard the cough of a pull-start, then the low growl of something waking up. One bulb overhead blinked, settled, spilled honey light over everything.
Anna let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. The cabin felt like slipping into a pocket of time nobody else had staked.
Drew came back wiping diesel off his fingers onto his jeans. "Heat'll crawl in soon. You're shaking."
She hadn't clocked it. The flannel was warm, but the adrenaline had drained out, leaving goosebumps behind. She hugged herself. "I'm good."
"Liar." He went to the stove, struck a match. Kindling caught with a sulky pop. "Sit. I'll brew dying-man coffee."
She dropped onto the cot's edge. The wool blanket smelled of smoke and mothballs; she dragged it over her shoulders. Drew filled the percolator from a jerrycan, set it on the stove. The quiet between them was different now—thicker, edged with creek water and the memory of mouths.
Anna cracked it. "You do this a lot? Scoop up heiresses in borrowed kicks?"
"First rodeo." He didn't turn. "Usually it's cub scouts or drunk bros hunting Insta cliffs."
"I'm neither."
"Thank God." The percolator started its glug-glug song. He leaned against the counter, facing her. "Wanna talk about the dinner?"
"No." Then quieter, "Yeah. I dunno."
He nodded, took the wobble in stride.
Poured two enamel mugs, handed her one. Coffee black as tar, hot enough to scald. She sipped; tasted burnt earth and mercy.
Drew sat across, elbows on knees. "Aunt Clara says coffee's truth serum. One cup and you spill your guts."
Anna cradled the mug. "What do you wanna confess?"
"That I've never brought anybody here." He glanced around like he was seeing the place through her eyes. "This spot's… mine. Not on any map I sell. I come when the city won't shut up."
"The city never shuts up."
"Not here." He tipped his chin at the window. Dusk had gone indigo; first star poked through. "Listen."
She did. Wind in cedar needles, stove ticking, their breathing. Nothing else.
She set the mug down. "I'm supposed to be at a tasting menu right now. Foie gras. Something with gold leaf. Mother will have sent the driver to the trailhead already."
Drew's jaw flexed. "Want me to walk you back?"
"No." It shot out, surprised them both. She rubbed her scar. "I mean… not yet."
He studied her. "How much trouble we talking?"
"Enough for the society pages." She laughed, brittle. "Harrington Heiress Vanishes After Charity Brunch. They'll spin kidnapping. Or drugs. Never that I just… walked."
Drew stood, crossed to the shelf, tugged down a battered notebook. Flipped to a blank page. "Then let's give 'em a better headline." Tore the sheet free, folded it into a paper airplane. Launched it; it landed on her cot. "Your escape pod."
Anna unfolded it. He'd scratched the waterfall in quick lines—pool, ferns, two tiny stick figures holding hands. Underneath: coordinates to nowhere the city could tax.
Her throat closed. "You drew us."
"Memory's a liar. Paper isn't." He dropped back into his seat. "Keep it. Proof you were here. Proof you picked."
She tucked the sketch inside the flannel pocket, right over her heart. Felt like smuggling contraband.
The stove crackled. Heat crept in, unknotting muscles she didn't know were clenched. Anna kicked off the damp sneakers, curled her toes into the wool. "Tell me about the maps."
Drew's brows lifted, surprised. "What do you wanna know?"
"Everything."
He talked. Not the sales pitch—raw stuff: started at sixteen tracing deer paths behind Aunt Clara's after the wreck that took his folks; contour lines turned into prayers; forest taught him straight lines were just stories people told themselves. His voice settled into a rhythm that matched the stove's heartbeat.
Anna listened, eyes heavy. Coffee cooled. Outside, an owl asked its one question.
At some point she slid to the other cot, curled on her side facing him. Drew's words slowed, stopped. He was watching her watch him.
"You're fading," he said soft.
"Am not." A yawn ratted her out.
He smiled, stood, grabbed another blanket from a trunk. Tucked it around her shoulders. Knuckles grazed her cheek. "Dawn's five hours out. I'll wake you."
Anna caught his wrist. "Stay."
Just that. No begging, no script. Drew paused, then sat on the floor beside her cot, back against the frame.
Close enough for warmth, far enough to keep the line.
"Tell me one more thing," she mumbled, eyes already sliding shut.
"Shoot."
"If we were just… people. No names, no empires. What would tomorrow look like?"
He was quiet so long she figured he'd dodge. Then: "I'd drag you to the ridge at sunrise. There's a spot where the light hits the valley like spilled honey. We'd eat Aunt Clara's cinnamon rolls straight from the tin. Then I'd ask you to help me name a trail nobody's touched in fifty years."
Anna's mouth curved. "What would we call it?"
"Something that scares the city." His voice barely there. "Something like Ours."
She fell asleep with the word curled inside her like the sketch, like hope.
Hours later—minutes? decades?—a buzz cut the dark.
A phone. Not hers; she'd ditched it back at the mansion. Drew jerked awake, fished a beat-up flip phone from his pack. Screen glowed: UNKNOWN.
He stared like it might explode. Anna sat up, blanket slipping. "Who?"
"Dunno." He flipped it open. "Yeah?"
A woman's voice, sharp and pissed, leaked out. "Andrew Callahan? This is Victoria Harrington's office. You were seen leaving Pine Ridge trailhead with my daughter. Return her now or face charges."
Drew went stone. Anna's stomach dropped through the floorboards.
He locked eyes with her. "Ma'am, I think you've got the wrong—"
"Do not play games. We have your plate. Your employment. Your aunt's address. Bring. Her. Back."
Click.
Silence roared.
Anna's hands shook. "They tracked your truck."
Drew closed the phone slow. "They can't know you're here."
"They will by morning." She stood, paced the tiny room. "Security. Press. Dad signs their checks."
Drew caught her shoulders, steadied. "Listen. Service road out back. Hits the east lot. Truck's there. I can have you at city limits before they roll."
"No." She shook her head. "If I walk in now, they lock me down. Patrick—"
"Patrick?"
"The son at dinner." Her voice cracked. "Patrick Vale. CEO. Thirty-two. Perfect bloodline. Mom's been grooming him since I was sixteen."
Drew's grip tightened, then let go. "Jesus."
"I'm a merger, Drew. Not a daughter." The words tasted like rust. "Tonight I'm engaged. Next week married. Week after, pregnant with the right kind of heir."
He flinched at the cold math. "And if you don't?"
"They'll burn you to get to me." Hollow laugh. "Your maps. Aunt Clara's house. Everything."
Drew stared at the stove, embers dying. Then at the paper airplane. Something locked in his eyes—not fear, steel.
"Then we don't give them tomorrow." He grabbed his pack, started stuffing: flashlight, compass, emergency tin. "Service road. Ditch the truck two miles out. Ranger buddy owes me—borrows his Jeep, no questions. Got a place. Off-grid cabin, no address. Granddad's. We hole up till we figure the next move."
Anna stared. "You'd torch your life? For a girl you met six hours ago?"
He met her eyes, dead steady. "I'd torch it for the girl who looked at a waterfall and said let me be dirty."
Her heart split wide. She stepped in, cupped his face. "Then let's be criminals."
Drew's grin flashed sharp. "First rule of cartography: when the map lies, draw a new one."
He killed the light. Stove glowed faint orange. Outside, the forest held its breath.
They slipped out the back into pre-dawn dark, two shadows carrying nothing but a paper airplane and a future nobody had budgeted for.