Chapter 4
Chapter Four
FELICITY
M y heart races four hours into my drive to Hollister. Making my way up four eighty-eight, Hollister’s Main Street comes into view. There’s not much here, but it doesn’t surprise me, considering the town only boasts two thousand residents and enjoyed its heyday more than a century ago during the California Gold Rush.
But the buildings are quaint. I spy a gas station and mercantile, a bar called Stonie’s that looks dead except for a few cars lingering in the parking lot. To my left is a cute, pastel-colored bakery called Sweet Rush that people bustle in and out of. A café poised nearby holds promise, too, The Human Being.
Across the street, I see the Silver Fork. I found countless raving reviews about its fantastic food as Callie and I did a little research last night before this trip. But it has a big closed sign up and looks like it’s been that way for a while. I also see a cute little Bed and Breakfast where I’ll be staying for the night, but check-in isn’t until after three, and I’ve got plenty to do before then. Like figure out where Fierce Amestoy lives and finally put a flesh and blood body with a name and a face.
The Human Being hums with life. Bright, flashy paintings line the walls, offering pops of color, and the place has an eclectic, psychedelic feel. Behind the counter stands a curvy girl with medium-length, caramel-colored hair and snapping crystal-blue eyes. She smiles brilliantly at me, but there’s a sadness behind her eyes she can’t conceal.
“Welcome to The Human Being. My name’s Stacey. What can I get started for you?” I notice a funny little tattoo on the inside of her left wrist that looks like a heart with a tail. A few feet from her, in front of the copper-colored espresso machine, stands a younger woman with pixie-cut black hair, bright purple, glittery eye shadow, and a pierced nose.
I eye the drink selection, marveling at the inventive combinations of flavors and ingredients. “Wow, you’ve got quite the menu here.”
Stacey smiles politely, though unenthusiastically.
I shift my weight, looking over my shoulder to ensure I’m not holding up the line. Seeing no one, I dive into my standard freelance writer spiel because I’m always looking for new stories to pitch.
“My name’s Felicity James, and I’m a freelance writer with publications like the San Francisco Chronicle, the Reno Gazette-Journal, and magazines like edible Reno-Tahoe and edible Napa-Sonoma. I would love to speak to your owner about pitching some articles about this place. It’s adorable.”
“Thank you. Dee’s not here now, but I can give you her card,” Stacey volunteers, grabbing one from the stack beside the cash register. I finger the tie-dyed and purple card in my hand, flipping it over. “Thank you. What else would you suggest around here?”
“Definitely Sweet Rush Bakery. That place makes the most amazing pastries, including these delicious French ones that people can’t get enough of.”
After a year of living in the Hexagon, French pastries are totally my jam. “Thank you. I’ll be sure to check it out. And what about the Silver Fork?”
Big tears well in the curvy employee’s eyes, and her bottom lip quivers. “I’m sorry,” she apologizes, her face flushing with embarrassment as she shifts from one foot to the other. “Babe, can you get this lady’s drink order? I have to use the bathroom.” She races dramatically down the hallway, and I look quizzically at the punk-looking barista, feeling awkward.
“Did I say something wrong?”
“Silver Fork,” she frowns.
“What happened to the place? It has glowing reviews.”
“Closed,” the teen says, shrugging her shoulders. “Stace used to work there and had something going with the owner, Jerry Lee. Not sure what. But he vanished without a trace.” She shakes her head, laughing darkly. “Give it a few more months, and Dateline will be out here interviewing people again.”
“Dateline? Again?” My eyes widen as I look around the cafe, noticing a few people seated around the place but not much else.
She nods. “Yep, a couple of years back, Jess, this true crime reporter, was nearly murdered by a serial killer not too far from Wild Horse Falls. Really trippy stuff. I heard you say you write for the San Francisco Chronicle. So does she, so maybe you know her?”
I shrug. “The story has a familiar ring to it, but I can’t say I know a Jess. Sounds like this town’s far more interesting than it looks.”
“You have no idea,” the teen chuckles, cracking a smile that transforms her morose face. “Do you know what you want?”
“I’ll take a large Mexican Mocha, hold the whipped cream, and I also want to see if you can help me locate someone in town.”
The teen lifts her eyebrows.
“Fierce Amestoy.”
“Oh, Fierce?” She laughs, filling me with undeniable curiosity.
Stacey returns to the cash register, excusing the barista to stand by the espresso machine.
“She’s getting a large Mexican Mocha, no whip,” the girl calls, making the espresso machine hiss as she twists and turns parts of the device before loudly tamping on the counter. She adds, “You should introduce her to Jess. They both write for the Chronicle.”
Stacey nods.
I add, “I’m also looking for Fierce Amestoy. Any idea where I might find him?”
“Oh, Fierce?” Stacey says with a sad laugh. Why is everyone laughing about this request?
“I hope you have hiking boots. He’s probably out with his sheep at this time of day.”
This is what I’m afraid of. But I can’t let anything stop me. I have to get this story, which means tracking him down, no matter what.
“I can give you directions to the Amestoy Ranch,” the blonde says, her face still pinched and her eyes red. “But get ready for a drive. I hope you have a vehicle that can handle muddy off-roading and rough terrain?”
“I have a Jeep. Thanks.”
“What kind of clearance does it have?”
My eyes round. “I don’t know.”
“Well, I’ll give you directions. But proceed at your own risk. It’s wild out that way.”
I spend an hour at the cafe, soaking up the ambiance and writing about my observations. I take detailed notes about the location’s vibrant interior and two employees, the sad-faced Stacey and her sarcastic partner in crime, Suzy. At least, I gather that’s her name after hearing them talk back and forth a couple of times.
Counting the last of my money, I grab a BLT with hummus for lunch, one of the best sandwiches I’ve ever eaten, munching on it quietly as I people-watch and get a feel for the place. I’m dragging my feet, putting off the inevitable of meeting Fierce. Not only does he sound unreachable. But what if my surprise is unwelcome? Either because he’s cheating or because he’s lying about himself?
The directions Stacey gave me don’t include a physical address, which makes me wonder how the man gets mail. But then again, I passed a small post office on my drive to the cafe, so maybe he has a PO box. She also scrawled Jess’s phone number on the back of the card, saying she’s somebody I would do well to know. I’ll have to run her name by McDuffey at the Chronicle.
Checking my messages, I see a new voicemail from Fierce, his usual morning one right on the dot at nine.
I listen, savoring his deep, rugged voice. “Good morning, Firefly.”
I feel bad I didn’t call last night or this morning, but the sleepover with Callie and driving four hours nixed those plans. And honestly, I need to meet him in person and find out what’s going on before surrendering my heart further.
As I leave the cafe to the tinkle of bells tied to the door, Stacey and Suzy yell, “Good luck with the Amestoys.” That sounds a little ominous.
You’ve got this, Felicity. I start the Jeep and follow Stacey’s fascinating hand-written directions. She uses everything from unique trees to significant rock formations as markers. When I turn onto my first in a series of rugged, bumpy dirt roads, I pray my old Jeep can handle it. Mud splashes onto my windshield and makes my tires slip and slide. It doesn’t help they’re bald. I take it slowly, wondering what in the hell I’ve gotten myself into.
Each passing mile into some of the wildest terrain I’ve ever seen makes me feel more overdressed and uncomfortable. After all, I’ve got a lacy hot pink bra and panty set on with a gray pencil skirt and a tight-fitting, long-sleeved, lacy black top that shows off my ample cleavage to a tee.
Callie helped me do my makeup perfectly, so I’ve got cool cat eyeliner with bone-colored eye shadow and scarlet lips. Between that and my curled locks, I rock a slight nineteen-sixties Italian diva vibe, complete with heeled black leather riding boots and a white and gray plaid swing jacket. Think Sophia Loren. I’ve never felt sexier in my skin, but I’m also completely and utterly out of my element. Talk about a fish out of water!
I pass a field with donkeys and llamas and then another with waves of fluffy white sheep. Great! I’m dressed to the nines for livestock.
Nearly fifteen minutes later, the dirt road ends at a large, white, two-story Victorian house with a windbreak of leafless cottonwoods to the side. A crowd stands outside, watching the strangest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on—a group of bare-chested men with curly black hair and wild beards wrestling in the mud in the middle of a pasture.
This is like something out of a cultural anthropology documentary I watched while attending UNR. I park next to a muddy, silver Ford F-250 and emerge, trembling. Older couples, younger women, and young children stand a distance away, watching and laughing at the wrestling scene. When they see me, they turn, eyeing me suspiciously.
“Kaixo,” I greet timidly in my best Basque accent. It means hello and is among a handful of words and phrases I learned while living in Pau. It’s embarrassing that I didn’t pick up more, but to say the Basque language is unique and challenging to master is an understatement. As I pick my way across the pasture towards the spectators, my heels sink into the mud, and I try not to plant myself face-first into the mire.
Their faces warm and open, communicating an immediate sense of welcome that floors me. It’s not what I expected based on what Fierce told me about his family. One of the older women strides toward me, grey swirls in her black hair fashioned in a bun. She covers her mouth with her hand, her eyes rounding and watering. A man follows behind, a big smile on his ruddy, bearded face that reminds me of an older version of Fierce.
What in the hell have I done?
Behind them, the men continue scrapping in the mud. They’re so covered in it now that they look more animal than human, entirely oblivious to the events unfolding. The older woman and man pick up their pace, and before I know it, I’m in a double bear hug with them, Basque swirling thickly around me. I recognize isolated words. Happy. Welcome. Love . Fortune. Son. Daughter. Family. Children. But my guess is as good as the next person’s about what they’re saying.
The older woman strokes my cheek fondly, cooing to me in soft strains of Basque, and all I can do is nod and smile. Her voice raises at the end of a repeated phrase, and my stomach churns. She’s asking me a question.
Taking a deep breath, I reply in my best provincial French, “Sorry, but my French is far better than my Basque.”
The woman looks shocked, pausing momentarily and looking at the man next to her. He shrugs and says something I don’t understand.
Then, she launches into a thickly accented French that my brain strains to understand. Something about me being early or picking me up. It makes no sense, and I shake my head.
Behind us, a cacophony of deep male voices rumbles, and seven mud-covered, bare-chested men encircle us, their blue eyes and white teeth glowing from their muddy faces. In a second larger circle around them, the remaining older couples, younger women, and small children eye me.
The tallest among the muddy group, a massive brute of a man steps forward, his brows furrowing and his eyes large. “Felicity?” From phone calls and FaceTiming, I would know that voice anywhere.
Still, I hesitate, overwhelmed by everything. “Fierce?” I ask, looking past the older couple, still crooning and fawning over me.
The creases in his forehead deepen, and he lets out a long exhale. “You’re even more beautiful than your photos,” he says in a raw voice.
Around him, his brothers burst into laughter and mocking jokes in a mixture of English, French, and Basque. My head spins, and my heart races as I take in the giant of a man. He’s so much larger and taller than I ever imagined, and the mud splattered across his body heightens the gorgeous angular planes of his marble-carved chest. In a word, he’s stunning.
My eyes instinctively drop to his left hand, and I sigh in relief. Despite the mud covering his massive digits, I clearly see no band. Thank goodness .
Invading the inner circle of his parents, he pulls me into his muddy arms as his mother and father protest in Basque. An ear-to-ear grin covers his handsome face, beaming straight, snow- white teeth against the brown of his dirt-drenched features. “I would’ve dressed up if I knew you were coming. But you came. You actually came. What a surprise!” He stares at me long and hard, looking like the wind’s knocked out of him.
My heart pounds, and relief washes over me in extravagant waves. If this man were hiding a girlfriend or other relationship, there’s no way he would claim me so boldly in front of his entire family. My face relaxes into a warm smile, my eyes filling with tears.
His big body drenches my clothes in dripping mud as he holds me tightly against his rock-hard frame, towering above me despite my not-insignificant height of five foot nine and two-inch heels. But nothing matters as he leans in, capturing my mouth hungrily and causing a commotion in Basque around us. He tastes like mud and sweat and the most virile masculinity I’ve ever encountered, and I want more…an immediate addict from the first brush of his lips.
Fierce pulls back slightly, the grin still stretching his face. He exclaims something in Basque. My brows knit, and he presses his lips to the shell of my ear, making my neck and shoulders shiver with want as he clarifies, “I told them, ‘This one’s mine.’”