Rock Mountain Man (Men on a Mission Book 6) Read online

  Rock Mountain Man

  Men on a Mission Book Six

  Kate Gilead

  Copyright © 2019 by Kate Gilead

  All rights reserved worldwide. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This story contains adult themes, sexual encounters and strong language. It is intended for mature readers only.

  All sexual acts described herein are consensual and all characters are 18 years of age or older.

  Click here to sign up for Kate’s newsletter for new release alerts and random freebies!

  Facebook

  [email protected]

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue: Chapter 14

  14. JACKED Sample Chapter

  Also by Kate Gilead

  Chapter One

  Zoey

  I can’t believe I made it.

  Five years, it took.

  Actually, five years, one month, two weeks and two days after Momma died.

  I’m here.

  Standing in front of Grampa’s cabin in the storied Canadian Rockies.

  It was a helluva trip.

  Weird how the easiest part turned out to be escaping Izzy in Toronto.

  I just melted away in the crowd downtown, made my way to Union Station and took a three-day train-trip out west.

  A lot tougher were the years before, waiting. Gathering courage to make the leap.

  Then, once I got here, it was no fun sleeping rough for three nights in the town of Kamloops. That’s how long it took before I found a ride up here to Portage Pass.

  Three days, scared shitless mostly, standing on the street corner like a bum, holding a hand-lettered sign made from a greasy pizza box I took out of a garbage bin.

  Zachs Valley

  Portage Pass

  Will Buy Gas

  Luckily, the driver who offered me a ride is a local, a neighbor who knew Gramps. He was going that way anyway, so he took me all the way to the property, no charge, and dropped me off at the beginning of the long, uphill, overgrown driveway–or track, more like–leading to the house.

  It’s early summer here. At this altitude, and in the shadow of the mountain, it’s still very cool. Things take longer to green up. This driveway may not even be visible by the time the dog days of August roll around.

  All good, in my book.

  Saying thanks and good-bye to the kindly old driver, I’m grateful he didn’t turn out to be a perv or something. He’s a big dude, for sure, but respectful.

  After introducing himself as Burt, he did give me a curious glance or two as he chatted about this and that; some good-natured griping about the government, the weather; the usual stuff.

  Once we got onto the final stretch of the winding road, he pointed out how much better the township is grooming the road since the new cell towers started going in. “We got hydro up here forty years ago,” he says, pointing at the line of poles following the curve of the road. “Bout time we got cell and internet too.”

  He seemed kind of proud about that.

  But he didn’t ask me any questions.

  Although, if he had, I was fully prepared.

  Now, standing in the last of the daylight before the sun sets behind the rocky peak of the mountain, I’m exhausted, dirty, hungry and still a little scared that Aunt Izzy will show up…just materialize out of nowhere.

  And pull me back, somehow, into her lazy, greedy grasp.

  She would if she could.

  Along with the money, Grampa’s property stayed protected from Izzy, through Mom’s efforts and foresight.

  Mom talked to me about over the years, among all the other things she tried to teach me.

  “It’s for you, Zoey. It’s what I have left in this world to give you. Be careful with it. Learn how to make it serve you. Don’t squander it!”

  “Okay, Momma.”

  “Good girl. I’ll keep it safe for you until you need it.”

  “Okay Momma.” I remember leaning my head against her as we sat, listening to her earnest voice. I was happy to listen, to let her care for me…happy that she loved me so much.

  Not that I was never scared. I was, sometimes.

  But I always listened to Momma.

  “Be careful around Izzy. I’m sorry but you must remember what she’s like. Moneymoneymoney. She’ll keep you okay here, as long as she’s getting paid for it. I know you’re only fourteen but we’re running out of time. You need to learn what to do, how to watch out for yourself.

  Of course, neither one of us knew that Izzy was going to get worse after Mom passed.

  How much crazier and angrier and frustrated Izzy got later, no one could have imagined.

  After Mom was gone, maybe Izzy’s true colors came out more. I don’t know. All I know is, when she knew that no one would be around to look out for me, it’s like she couldn’t resist tormenting me.

  But what she didn’t know is just how well my mother considered everything. How well she prepared me.

  Then, that last day in the hospital. The day Mom passed.

  Hooked up to wires and tubes, she’d told me to look for a small tear in the lining at the bottom of her purse, right in the corner.

  Inside that tear was a tiny piece of paper, tightly folded around a tiny key.

  “It’s for you now. All of it. The old place in Rocky Peak, too.”

  “Is that where I’m going to live?”

  “No silly.” Smile. “Well, you could in the summer I guess. When the well isn’t frozen.”

  “What about the winter?”

  “You’ll be able to live anywhere you want. You’ll know what to do when the time comes. You’ll see.”

  “Okay.”

  “If you don’t want to live with Izzy, you don’t have to. She might want you to stay for the money. Or for what you do for her, whatever it is. But, when you turn eighteen, you can go your own way.”

  She’d paused and stared at me, frowning, her breathing labored. “You’ll be okay Zoey. Have faith in yourself.”

  “Okay, Momma,” I’d replied, choking on my despair.

  She’d looked at me with her tired and sunken eyes. They were still beautiful to me.

  “I’m sorry there’s no one left in the family for you. But there are good people there. On the mountain. Used to be, anyway. Be careful. Remember what I taught you.”

  “Momma…”

  “Love you Zoey-Bird.”

  And those were the last words she spoke.

  Inside the paper were her hand-written instructions, where to go as soon as I could get away.

  And the key was for a Toronto bank deposit box in my name.

  Now, the tears come. Now that I’m here, finally, I can let the tears come and they do, blurring the shape of the cabin, set in the breath-taking beauty of the gentle valley.

  The one with the clean stream running through it.
>
  Above it all, looms the mountains. A stunning range, the vista is multi-hued green forest and vegetation marching up the mountain-side, met with the snowy white cap at the tops.

  One in particular stands out.

  Instantly recognizable from the only photo she had…the near-perfect, inverted-v shape.

  Rocky Peak.

  Home.

  Wearily, I pick up my back pack, cross the dooryard to the cabin, climb the weathered board-plank steps, over the creaky porch and test the door.

  It’s locked.

  Or, wait…is it? Or is it just stuck? Maybe all the years of disuse has bent it out of shape.

  Putting my shoulder against it, I turn the ancient-looking knob and shove.

  Almost.

  One more time and the door flies open with a brief skree of rusty hinges.

  And I’m inside.

  It’s…well…small.

  Chilly.

  And, it smells musty.

  Not too bad, though. Musty is better than moldy. Mold means water getting in somewhere, but a quick glance at the ceiling above the exposed rafters shows no evidence of leaks or water spots.

  Thank God.

  My eye spots a hatch in the ceiling too. Okay, that’s what Momma said to look for.

  Looks like it’s kept closed with a wooden latch, but there’s no ladder. I’ll have to worry about that later.

  Mom told me it was a one-room cabin. And I knew that Gramps, like most men around here, wore a lot of hats. He was a self-sufficient hunter, angler, trapper, carpenter, prospector, and somewhat, I guess, a survivalist.

  Some of which, he taught his daughter–who taught me, in turn.

  And Momma always said the cabin isn’t the Ritz Hotel or anything. Gramps made sure things were insulated, water-tight and well-built. But he didn’t care about fancy finishes. No women came to this camp…it was his place.

  Momma said even Gramma stayed away, only coming once in a blue moon to give the place a scrubbing.

  But now, no one’s been here for years, I guess.

  Could be, I have some work ahead of me.

  The whole cabin is maybe twenty foot by twenty. Small for a house, but bigger than Izzy’s master bedroom. The thought gives me some satisfaction. Izzy and her “I’m the Master!” shit.

  Weird, a woman calling herself “Master” like that.

  Well, she can be her own master now and good riddance.

  Dim light still glows through the thin white curtains, covering three medium-sized windows.

  What it illuminates, more than anything….is cobwebs.

  Cobwebs cover everything. I knew it was to be expected, but spiders are my Achilles Heel…and getting rid of those is going to require some courage.

  Especially if they’re big spiders, like the kind they have back in the bush in Maine.

  Standing in the doorway, clutching my backpack, I take everything in.

  Thick drop-cloths cover all the furniture. Gramma must’ve put those there when she closed the place after Grampa died.

  Underneath the drop-cloths, I can see a set of bunk beds, which sit on a rough, hand-made wooden frame. The bottom bunk holds a double mattress, and a single mattress sits on the top.

  To the right of that, sit the humped shapes of what must be two armchairs. A table sits between them, too, by the looks of it.

  On the walls hang outdoors-y stuff. Snowshoes in two sizes; a fishing net; a rusty old scythe; some handsaws in different sizes; a number of small-animal traps. I hope I won’t have to use those, but I’m determined to do what it takes to survive. There’s also an axe, a hatchet, a crowbar, a spade and a shovel, and two brooms: a big push-broom and a smaller straw one with a dust pan next to that.

  Also, there’s a deerskin parka, well-worn, but probably still worth a small fortune. There’s a dream-catcher and a bunch of leather work-gloves, creased and stained. Too big for me, likely, but better than nothing.

  A number of small square frames with screening all hang neatly from a long peg. Drying racks for fish or game, is my guess.

  Leaning in the opposite corner are four fishing rods.

  Close by is the pot-bellied wood stove. From what I can tell, it’s a good one. Very old but sturdy. It has one pipe, going straight up, the best possible configuration to ensure good draw and minimize the chance of having a dreaded chimney fires.

  The stove sits on thick slabs of some kind of stone, maybe quarried from somewhere on the mountain. Thick , grey, flagstone-type stones, laboriously fitted together on the floor under the stove. Behind that, brushed-metal sheets cover the walls behind the stove like wainscoting.

  Good. The heat from the wood stove will not be burning through that. That metal backing is reflective too. It’ll be nice and cozy in here in the wintertime. And on damp days. And tonight.

  Maybe it’s just from stress, fatigue, and sleeping rough. I have a real chill in my bones right now.

  But, this is good. Real good.

  Okay…Mom was right that it’s not a permanent place to live, granted.

  But Grampa knew what he was doing, making it as good as it is.

  Lined up in neat stacks against the metal backing are enough short logs to last the summer, even if I need to make a fire every night, which I hope I don’t.

  A basket next to one of the chairs holds a healthy pile of kindling, and from here I can see the basket is set on a tall stack of yellowing old newspapers.

  Great! All I have to do is make sure the chimney isn’t blocked and I will be warm tonight.

  “Thank you, Grampa,” I say, gratitude filling my heart.

  Better attend to that right away. I need to check out the stove, and make sure I have the tools I’m going to need as well.

  Glancing to my left, I see there’s a long row of wooden pegs lining the wall next to the door. Beyond that, a drop-cloth-covered shape that might be a dresser of some kind.

  Also good. But I’ll get to that later.

  Stepping back outside, I use my multi-tool knife to cut a thin young branch from one of the plentiful cedars growing on the periphery of the dooryard.

  The cedar branch has a fan of wide, fragrant needles, which will make a decent duster for cobwebs.

  Back inside, I use my makeshift duster to clear the cobwebs from the wooden pegs, and hang my backpack up.

  Then I close the door behind me. There are two thick, sturdy, sliding bolts, one at the top, and one at the bottom. Bear-proofing, maybe. Although they’ll only slow a determined bear down, they’re a lot better than nothing.

  With a bit of struggle, I get both bolts closed.

  In six steps, I pass the small kitchen area with its long counter, noting a deep sink with hand-pump, a small two-burner propane stove, and hand-made pine cupboards on the wall above.

  I can always bring water from the stream and boil it, so my priority is fire first, water second.

  Near the stove area, set in a big, galvanized ash-bucket, are a long chimney brush, a poker, a bellows, a pair of log-tongs, an ash-shovel and a few other important fireplace tools.

  Excellent!

  Lifting the latch on the heavy stove-door, I swing it open and peer inside. Except for the usual soot, coating of ash and a few stray chunks of charcoal, it’s empty.

  Gramma must’ve cleaned that out, too.

  Pulling on the flue-handle until it’s in the fully-opened position, I hear it creak softly from inside the stove, followed by the gentle pitter-patter of soot particles falling out of it.

  So far, so good.

  Taking up a generous handful of newspaper from the pile, I crumple it all into a bunch of tight balls and set it in the middle of the stove, right under the pipe.

  Wiping my hands on my jeans, I look around.

  On some shelves a bit to the right of the stove, between it and the kitchen counter, a number of dusty, cobweb-covered items are neatly arranged.

  There’s two hurricane lamps, and four full bottles of oil. There are four brass candle-hold
ers with handles like Aladdin’s Lamp, and a dusty stack of boxes containing some of those short, sturdy, slow-burning utility candles.

  Also, some books about trapping, fishing, and identifying native species. Looks like an old compass there too, and a few other handy items.

  Oh, yes, jackpot! There’s also a stack of a dozen extra-large match boxes.

  Also good, since I only have a pack of three dollar-store mini-lighters with me that I remembered to grab in Kamloops.

  Blowing some dust off first, I pull one of the matchboxes from the stack, keeping a wary eye out for spiders.

  Opening the box reveals the matches looking like new. Taking one out, I scratch it across the striking-patch on the box and…voila! It lights immediately.

  Tipping the match to encourage the flame, I kneel in front of the stove and set fire to the newspaper ball.

  It catches slowly. There’s no draw in the stove…yet. Once the air inside the stove heats, it should naturally be drawn up the pipe.

  I wait, and watch. In a few moments, the flames on the crumpled newspaper leap higher, as the draw begins doing its work.

  The sooty smoke is getting sucked right up that pipe, like it should be. Nothing is lingering inside the stove or coming out towards me.

  Quickly, I crumple some more newspapers, set it on the already-fading fire inside, and add a few sticks of kindling on that. Nice and dry, the kindling catches quickly. I set a few more on that, then put two small logs on top of those.

  Crackle, crackle…the flames lick hungrily up the sides of the logs.

  Closing the flue about three-quarters, I watch for a few more minutes to make sure it’s going to burn okay.

  It does.

  So I put one more log on the fire, close the stove door and latch it, leaving the air-flow slider on the door open a little to keep the flames fanned.