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

  Standing up, I smile in satisfaction.

  I’m so tired, I’m about to fall over, but now at least I know I’ll be toasty-warm and cosy.

  Best of all, for the first time since Mom died, I don’t need to fear random night visits from crazy Aunts who barge into my room to wake me up and scream abuse at me.

  Now, what about water?

  Taking a candle from one of the boxes, I fit it into one of the candle-holders and light it.

  Setting the holder on the counter, the glow dispels the gathering gloom, instantly making the room seem much cozier and welcoming.

  There’s a deep sink in the kitchen counter, with an old-fashioned hand pump. On the wall above that hangs an old, tarnished mirror.

  My reflected image in the mirror gives me pause. Under my eyes are now deep hollows and dark smudges. My skin is dull with dirty sweat.

  I look like what Izzy took to calling me after Mom died.

  A ragamuffin. An orphan.

  But at least I’m not a penniless, homeless orphan ragamuffin. The thought makes me smile, although my reflection in the mirror tells me it’s more of tired grimace.

  Grasping the bright red handle of the pump, I give it a couple experimental pushes.

  It moves easily under my hand, generating squeaking noises, but no water.

  Which means, there’s no water pressure. Either the well is dry or the pump just needs a good priming.

  Here goes, then.

  Reeee…..reeeeee…..reeeee….there’s no resistance yet. From the sounds of it, the grease on the inner mechanism has dried out or solidified from disuse.

  I keep at it. Soon, the grease becomes more emollient and starts doing its job, silencing the squeaking.

  And right after that, comes the increasing resistance in operating the pump.

  Thanks God! There’s water down there, and…oh! A trickle of rusty water squirts into the sink.

  Then another, bigger trickle.

  Then another, bigger still. Cleaner now.

  And now….an even bigger trickle of the cleaner water…more and more, cleaner and cleaner, coming faster…until….whoosh! As I pump, I can feel the temperature of the handle getting cooler under my skin.

  And a clear stream of cold water begins flowing into the sink.

  Opening some cupboards over the counter, I find a glass tumbler, set upside down in its spot on the neatly-lined inner shelf. I give it the old eyeball to make sure it’s clean enough, and operate the pump again.

  Holding the now full-glass up to the light, I see that the water is perfectly clear.

  Then I sniff it cautiously. Smells fine.

  Sipping carefully, first, soon leads to frantic gulping.

  It’s cold, clean and tastes sweet, with a tang of earthiness.

  This is good, potable water. And it’s a good thing, because I only have two water bottles left. At least I won’t have to haul water and fool around with boiling it tonight.

  Oh, crap! I forgot to check and see if this sink is hooked up to anything, or at least has a bucket under it to catch the draining water. I hope there’s not a big puddle of water underneath it now.

  Grabbing up the candle holder for light, I bend and open the door to the cabinet under the sink.

  There’s a thick black pipe running from under the sink and disappearing into the wall of the cabin. Where it enters the wall, the piping is surrounded by some kind of sealant.

  Looks like Gramps built a drainage bed for the grey-water, and mouse-proofed around the pipe, too.

  Silent thanks fills my heart again.

  Staggering with fatigue now, I put one more log on the fire, and close the sliding flue in the door to make sure the logs burn slowly.

  Then I step over to the big bottom bunk and pull the drop-cloth off of it, tossing that onto one of the chairs.

  Underneath, the bed is neatly made up. There’s a hand-sewn quilt, a bit raggedy but serviceable. Two plump feather pillows are covered in threadbare but decent cases.

  Pulling the quilt down reveals a thick flannel blanket over sheets decorated with a tiny blue paisley-type pattern that was probably popular in the 70’s.

  Checking under the blankets, sheets and pillows releases a slightly musty-smell, but no mouse poop.

  And no spiders!

  Gratefully, I toe my boots off, shuck my jeans to the floor, pinch the candle out and fall into the bed.

  Ahhh…it’s comfy.

  Pulling the covers up to my neck, I remember that I didn’t even locate the outhouse yet.

  I should get up and look for it before it gets completely dark, I think to myself.

  But instead, I fall into a deep, peaceful sleep.

  Chapter Two

  Rock

  “Really? Now, that’s something you don’t see every day,” I remark, swinging my axe up and resting it on my shoulder. It’s just past dawn and I’m already working up a sweat.

  But stockpiling firewood for the upcoming winter is a never-ending task. Every spare minute I have, that’s what I do.

  “Yup. I dropped her off at Chester’s at dusk last night. Skinny little thing. Felt sorry for her when I saw her in town, standing there with that sign. Dangerous thing to do, a young girl hitching a ride these days.”

  “Sure is,” I say. “Most people would just call a cab or an Uber. She must be broke.”

  “She’s lucky that Hell’s Angels convention pulled out last week or who knows what might have happened to her,” Dad agrees.

  “So, what’s her story?”

  “Heck if I know. You know I don’t pry into the business of strangers, Rock.”

  “No, Dad, we know you save your prying for family.” I give him an ironic look before setting another thick log upright on the wide old stump that serves as my chopping-block. I use the axe-head to take aim, touching the sharp blade to the center of the log.

  Adjusting my grip on the handle, I swing the axe upwards, then bring it down full-force on the log.

  Crack! The two pieces fall neatly to either side. Another clean cut.

  Dad plucks a piece of tall grass from the ground, sticks it in his mouth and chews on it peacefully. “Say, kid, when you gonna get that log-splitter of yours fixed? It’s weird, seeing you swinging an axe again.”

  Picking up another log, I set it in place before answering. “I’ll get to it. I’m kind of enjoying doing it the old-fashioned way. It’s good exercise.”

  “I know it. How do you think I got these guns here?” Dad lifts his arms, flexes and poses comically, lips pooched out, biceps bulging, his fluffy, salt-and-pepper hair still sporting a bed-head cowlick.

  “Genetics?” I tease him.

  Crack! Another log split perfectly down the middle.

  He smiles but doesn’t take the bait. “Son? I was thinkin’, maybe you should go check on that girl. She didn’t say much, but I got a funny feeling about her.”

  “Oh yeah? Like what?”

  “Well…just…I’m not sure. It’s just strange for a young girl to travel up-mountain alone. I feel like…I dunno. Maybe you should make sure she’s alright.”

  “She’s not up-mountain. Chester’s place is just down the valley. Anyhow, she must be alright. She got herself here, didn’t she?”

  Setting up another log, I swing and slice it in two. I’m not about to go charging into a situation I know nothing about. Especially when it’s so close to home.

  “I guess so,” Dad says. “But, you know, Chester and Nelly were good neighbors til the day they died. The best. Maybe…well what if the girl’s a squatter? You know, I haven’t heard a thing in years about their daughter, the one who married that American and moved away. That property’s still hers, as far as I know.”

  “I thought you don’t like to pry. Besides, it’s her property, so it’s her problem.” With a grunt, I swing the axe down again.

  Crack!

  “Now, you know that’s not the right attitude,” Dad says. “I go into that cabin every six months to make s
ure it’s in good shape. Fixed up the under-floor insulation just this spring. Limed down that outhouse every year until there was nothing left in the holding pit. Doesn’t even smell like an outhouse now. Been keeping the grass cleared around it to discourage varmints. I sure wouldn’t want some squatter taking advantage of my hard work.”

  Stopping to lean on the axe, I wipe the back of my glove across my sweaty forehead. Grinning, I say, “Just because you promised Nelly you’d look after it, doesn’t make letting yourself in to their cabin any more legal. It’s still break-and-enter. It’s still trespassing.”

  “Maybe by law. But you know we follow our own laws around here, Rocky. Weren’t for that, none of us’d survive.”

  “Well, go check on her yourself,” I say amiably, then stack and split another log.

  “I would, but I’m thinking, a young girl like that might find it kind of….you know, creepy. An old coot like me snooping around.”

  “Oh yeah, fifty-five is so damned old, Dad. You barely look forty-five.”

  “Still. I’d feel better if you did it. Or, come with me anyway. Could be she’s got a gang of people coming to join her. You know there’s been some homeless people from the cities finding their way up here. Taking over hunt camps and shit.”

  “Oh so you’re scared of homeless people now?” I cock an eyebrow at him.

  He tilts his head, giving me a “you gotta be kidding” look.

  “No, Rock. But maybe, Vanessa scared you off women,” he laughs.

  Touché.

  I nod slowly, looking at him evenly. “Well, you know Vanessa was a two-timing liar. A user and a taker, and useless as tits on a bull.”

  “Yep. She was a devil in a dress, just like I warned you. That doesn’t mean all women are like her, Rocky. Meanwhile, I’m not getting any younger. I want grandkids before I get too old.”

  “I’m only twenty-eight, Dad. My whole life is ahead of me.” I frown at him. “What’re you trying to say?”

  “Nothing much. Just that your mother died when she was thirty. We thought she still had her whole life ahead of her, too. At least she gave me three sons. None of who seem like they’re getting ready to give me any grandsons.”

  I take in a deep breath and let it out slow. Only six when she died, I don’t remember much about my mother.

  My brothers, who were three and two, don’t remember her at all.

  Maybe that’s why they don’t seem as bothered about her passing. But for me, sometimes…deep inside, her loss still aches.

  More softly now, I say: “Dad, things are different now. I keep telling you…”

  “Yeah yeah, you wanna be a monk now. You can’t find a decent woman. The good ones are all taken and the rest are nuts. Yada yada blah blah.”

  “Jesus Dad! You really think some chick who hitch-hiked her way to squat in an abandoned cabin isn’t gonna be crazy? You really think that’s wife material? Come on!”

  “I never said that. Who said that? I just think you should go check on her, that’s all. Find out her story.”

  I split another log, then stack the pieces with a satisfying thunk.

  “I don’t want to get involved with someone else’s problems,” I say.

  “Don’t, then. Just check out the situation.”

  “I….ah, whatever. Okay. Okay. I will, as soon as I finish up here.”

  “Have a shower and put on something decent first,” Dad says. Then he gives me one of his bullshit-innocent grins.

  “Don’t be playing matchmaker with me, Dad. The odds of a decent girl dropping into my lap are less than zero.”

  He mutters something that sounds like, “Won’t know til you try,” but it’s so quiet, I don’t quite catch it.

  “What?”

  “I said, you always were a good boy,” he says more loudly, giving me that grin again. He squints up at the sky. “I’m getting hungry. Got some chores to do, then I’m making breakfast. Eggs, bacon, beans and corn bread. You stop by and eat after your shower.”

  He turns and starts up the path through the trees back towards his place, hands in his pockets and whistling a tune.

  I’ll go check on the squatter chick if it makes Dad happy, but I’ll be damned if I’m gonna shower and change like I care what she thinks.

  Shirtless, and wearing my old wood-chopping pants and thick-soled work boots, the only nod I’m making to the situation is to strap my sheathed hunting knife around my waist, then tuck it under my waistband.

  It’s only about six inches long, but it’s very sharp, and I know how to use it. More likely to run into trouble with a bear than trouble with a homeless girl, but…better safe than sorry.

  Then, I go eat breakfast with Dad. He frowns at me for looking like a backwoods hick, but wisely says nothing. He just plates my food, letting me eat in peace.

  Good.

  Afterwards, heading down the trail towards the old Zachs’ place, I muse about all of it to myself.

  As much as I understand Dad’s desire for family and grandkids, right now, I don’t even care if I ever see another naked woman.

  Well, okay, not entirely. But, almost! Got my fill of that back in my college days. Wallowed in online porn and cheap sex and all the stuff young men are supposed to do.

  Purposeless, aimless and ultimately, boring orgasm-chasing.

  All it did was push me away from those pursuits. I was raised to respect women and when they throw themselves at you, it’s hard not to paint them all with that brush.

  Then, when Vanessa came along, I thought I’d found something different. Someone classy, someone to worship and respect.

  But she wasn’t.

  Vanessa was trash in a fancy wrapper. Logic says not all women are like that, but logic also says: Once bitten, twice shy.

  The ancient animal track I’m walking here leads steadily downwards towards the valley, following the property line almost perfectly. That’s probably how the properties got divided in the first place.

  Back in the 1830’s when the mountains were settled, that’s how people did things. They followed nature and used it to help them achieve realistic goals, rather than trying to tear it down and replace it all with concrete and skyscrapers.

  The two properties are actually adjacent, making my land and the Zachs’ property next-door neighbors. Technically, anyway. Chester’s cabin is about a mile down the mountain from my place, separated by rocky outcroppings and thick bush.

  Only me and my Dad really know where one property starts and the next begins. When we cleared some brush a few years ago, Dad showed all three of us brothers where the stakes marking the property lines are located.

  But I could tell that my brothers didn’t really take note. They just wanted to get the work done and get back to the house they share in the little college town down-mountain, so they could do the same stupid shit I used to do.

  I’m not sure why I cared so much, myself. Dad gave each of his sons a parcel of land on our twenty-first birthdays. We all kind of took it for granted, I think.

  That was then, though. Hell, back then, I didn’t even know if I’d be living here. Wasn’t sure what I wanted, much less thinking about things like property lines and legacies and descendants and all that shit.

  The stakes will be overgrown by now, but I wonder if I could find one of them again.

  After a few more minutes of walking, I start looking around for the birch stand that marks the general area of the one stake that marks the north-west corner of my property.

  And there it is. The one sapling that I marked with orange surveyor’s tape catches my eye. The tape is kind of tattered and dirty now, and it’s clearly higher than it was when I first tied it to the tree. Still visible enough to draw my eye, so I head towards it.

  The stake should be just a little ways beyond. Stepping into the scrubby plants just off the track, I push around the layers of ground cover with my boot until my foot knocks against something. Grabbing a branch, I use it to move the leaf-litter and old twigs and
stuff out of the way.

  And there it is. The original stake, driven into the ground a hundred and sixty-odd years ago.

  Made of some kind of bronze alloy in those days, the stake still carries a bit of a dull gleam.

  And it’s still as solidly stuck in the ground as the day it was put in. Of course, there’s a lot more of it underground now than there is above.

  Standing back, I just look at it for a second. Something about its presence is comforting.

  Solid. Stable. Always there, always will be.

  Like the land itself. And like the people on it…generations of people, maybe.

  If we’re lucky. And smart. And willing to work.

  No guarantees, of course, but something about all that just makes me feel…good.

  Another ten minutes walking, and I can see the roof of Chester’s place, set into the little valley clearing beside the stream. There’s a thin tendril of smoke coming from the chimney.

  Someone’s there, alright.

  A little side jaunt takes me up one of the rocky shelves jutting from the slope over the cabin.

  Good birds-eye view here, I should be able to scope things out without…without…oh shit.

  On the bank next to the stream, there’s a couple of folded towels next to pile of clothes…plus a pair of shoes, a pouch of some kind. There’s what looks like panties and a bra, hanging from a bush.

  In the water, there’s a naked girl, long brown hair wet and clinging to her scalp and back.

  She’s submerged to her waist in the stream. I shouldn’t be…I shouldn’t…I take a step back, but it’s too late.

  Just as I’m turning away, she turns towards me, takes a deep breath and then lowers herself quickly until she’s submerged underwater.

  But she wasn’t quite quick enough to hide her trim, slender curves, or a pair of very perky tits, both looking like mouth-watering, round juicy globes with strawberries on top.

  Chapter Three

  Rock

  Fuck!

  Great, just great. Now I’m a goddamn Peeping Tom.