“Don’t Touch Me, I’m Dying!” Mountain Man Gasped — But the Fat Girl Refused to Listen

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The Mountain and the Girl

The blizzard roared like a beast, tearing trees apart and turning the world into a sea of ​​white. Jasper “Jax” Thornfield, once known as the strongest man in the Rockies, stumbled through the storm, his strength fading with every step. His coat was ripped, his ribs cracked, and blood seeped from the claw marks on his abdomen. He had fought off a hungry bear, but the price of survival was high. Every breath was a struggle, each step heavier than the last.

“I just need to make it home,” he muttered, his voice barely audible over the wind. His legs buckled, and he fell to his knees, then collapsed completely into the snow. The cold began to creep into his bones, and he closed his eyes, ready to let the storm take him.

But then, the crunch of boots broke through the silence. A voice, young and trembling but determined, called out. “Sir! Oh, dear Lord, you’re hurt!”

Through the swirling snow appeared Cordelia “Cora” Whitmore, her heavy skirt soaked and her golden curls frozen into icy threads. She had been walking the mountain trail alone, fleeing a life she refused to live. Now, she stood over the dying man sprawled across her path.

“Don’t touch me,” Jax rasped, trying to push her away. “I’m dying. Leave me.”

Cora shook her head fiercely. “No. I won’t leave you here.” She knelt in the snow, her hands pressing against his bleeding wound. “You’re coming with me.”

“You can’t even lift me,” Jax muttered weakly.

“Watch me,” she replied, determination flashing in her eyes. With a grunt, she heaved his arm over her shoulder and began dragging him through the storm. Her boots sank deep into the snow with every step, her muscles screaming in protest, but she refused to stop. The wind roared around them, erasing their tracks almost as quickly as they were made. By the time the blizzard swallowed the trail behind them, two silhouettes—one broken, one unbreakable—disappeared into the white.

When the door to Jax’s hunting cabin finally burst open, Cora nearly collapsed with him. The small space was dark and cold, with pelts scattered across the floor and a single hearth at its center. She dropped him gently near the fire pit and fumbled for matches with trembling fingers. When the flame roared to life, she turned to him, cupping his fevered face.

“Stay awake,” she pleaded.

“Why?” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Why would you do this? You don’t even know me.”

“I didn’t need to,” she replied simply. “You were breathing. That’s enough.”

When the firelight revealed the full extent of his injuries, Cora’s stomach twisted. The gash across his stomach was deep, raw, and still bleeding. “You’ll die if I don’t close this,” she said.

“You’re no doctor,” he muttered.

“No,” she admitted, “but I can sew.”

With shaking hands, she boiled water, tore strips from her underskirt, and began cleaning the wound. Jax bit down on a leather strap to muffle his screams as she stitched the torn flesh. The scent of blood and sweat filled the room, but her hands never stopped moving. Hours passed before she finally collapsed beside the bed, exhausted but relieved to see his chest still rising and falling.

By dawn, the storm had quieted, and sunlight spilled through the cracks in the shutters, painting the room in gold. Cora sat wrapped in a blanket, watching Jax sleep. His breathing was rough but steady now. She had saved him, at least for the night.

When Jax woke, his voice was a low growl. “You should go. You don’t belong here.”

Cora met his gaze without flinching. “Neither do you. You’re bleeding on your own floor.”

He stared at her for a long moment before sighing. “What’s your name?”

“Cora Whitmore,” she replied.

“Where’s home, Miss Whitmore?”

She hesitated. “I suppose it isn’t anywhere anymore.”

Jax said nothing, but something stirred in his chest—a feeling he hadn’t known in years. For the first time since the bear attack, the man who had wanted to die began to wonder if maybe life wasn’t done with him yet.

The days passed in quiet determination. Cora tended to Jax, boiling snow for water, changing his bandages, and feeding him broth one spoonful at a time. He protested at first, muttering, “You should’ve left me,” but she only smiled and replied, “And let the wolves have you? Not my style.”

By the third day, he could sit up. His ribs still ached, but his strength was returning. That evening, as she stirred a pot of soup, he asked, “Why are you really here? Women don’t just wander up mountains for fun.”

Cora hesitated, then said softly, “Because the man my father wanted me to marry was old enough to be my grandfather. He saw me as property, not a person. So I left.”

Jax frowned. “That’s dangerous.”

“So is bleeding to death in a snowstorm,” she replied with a faint smile.

He couldn’t help but chuckle, the sound low and rough. It was the first warmth she’d heard from him, and it stayed with her long after they’d gone to bed.

As the weeks turned to months, the snow began to melt, and life on the mountain found a new rhythm. Jax taught Cora how to tie kindling, gut a fish, and handle a rifle. She hummed hymns as she worked, filling the cabin with a warmth it hadn’t known in years. Slowly, their shared silence turned into something deeper—a quiet understanding that neither dared to name.

One evening, as they sat by the fire, Cora began to hum a tune from her childhood. Jax listened, the melody weaving through the crackle of flames. “What song is that?” he asked.

“Something my mother used to sing,” she replied. “She said it kept the dark away.”

“It’s working,” he murmured.

By spring, the mountain was alive again. Streams of melting snow carved paths through the valley, and wildflowers began to bloom. Jax, now fully healed, built a new table for the cabin. When he placed it before her, rough edges and all, she touched the wood as though it were gold.

“You made this for me?” she asked, her voice soft.

He shrugged. “You needed a place to write those notes of yours.”

“No one’s ever built me anything before,” she said, her eyes shining.

He hesitated, then said quietly, “No one’s ever earned it like you have.”

But peace on the mountain was fragile. One morning, a rider appeared—a sheriff from the valley below. He claimed he was there to bring Cora back to her father and arrest Jax for crimes long buried. When the sheriff threatened to burn the cabin if Jax didn’t surrender, Cora stepped forward, her voice steady despite her fear. “You’re not taking him.”

The sheriff sneered. “You think love washes blood from his hands?”

“No,” she replied, her voice unwavering. “But it teaches a man to stop spilling it.”

In the tense standoff that followed, Jax disarmed the sheriff without firing a shot. The deputies, seeing his restraint, lowered their weapons and left the mountain without further violence.

Two days later, as the sun rose over the valley, Jax and Cora sat on the porch, watching the world awaken. The snow had melted, leaving the earth fresh and green. Cora leaned against his shoulder, her warmth steady and grounding.

“So,” she asked softly, “what happens now?”

Jax looked out at the endless ridges, their peaks glowing gold in the morning light. “We live,” he said simply. “Sometimes, that’s enough.”

And for the first time, they both believed it.

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