Rough and Rugged: A Meet Me In Milwaukee Charity Anthology

Chapter One

Emmett

The day I turned eighteen, I couldn’t be fucked to consider what future me would experience. I sauntered into the recruiter’s office, signed my name, and counted down the days until graduation, flipping my hometown the bird as I left for basic training the next day. I never looked back.

For twenty years, I went where the Army sent me, working my way up the ranks but growing more and more disillusioned with life after each deployment. The plan was to study criminology and start a security firm with some of my buddies, but when my discharge was finalized, I couldn’t stand the thought of spending the rest of my days in a uniform—even if it was an overpriced suit.

They tried to talk me out of it, of course, but I jumped in a new-to-me truck, my duffel tossed haphazardly in the back, and took off to find my place in the world. I spent the first year driving aimlessly from California to New Orleans. City life wasn’t for me, so I knew I needed to keep searching, but rather than heading east toward the town that gave that gave zero fucks about me growing up, I headed north, hoping to find somewhere that felt like home.

I always thought I’d end up near the ocean, but when I crossed into Arkansas, making my way through the Ozark Mountains, I felt peace for the first time in a long time. I spent weeks driving around, waiting for a sign, not that I put much stock in that kind of thing, but the military taught me to trust my gut, and when I tasted the homemade pie at Sweetie’s, I knew Shady Rock was home.

As luck would have it, a realty office was next door to the diner. When I walked inside, I was greeted by a petite redhead behind a large monitor. A gray tabby kitten was perched on her shoulder, watching me as I crossed the large room. She introduced herself as Grace. When I asked about land options in the area, she pronounced herself Shady Rock born and bred and then gave me the rundown.

It didn’t take long before she was moving the cat to the computer chair, grabbing her purse, and ushering me back out the front door to go see what she called the perfect place for me. The drive was long and wound lazily around the hills, and when we turned off the highway onto a gravel road that stretched for miles, I was second-guessing my decision to trust her.

When she pulled up in front of a small, primitive cabin in a clearing, I was ready to head back to town and move on. This was not perfect. Remote, yes. Perfect, no. But, as I walked around the summit, I began to see the possibilities. Fuck me, she was right.

Seventy-three acres of pristine wooded land surrounded on three sides by the national park land. As I stood at the top of the hill, looking down, I could see—and hear—the Buffalo River running below. Closing my eyes, I listened, realizing the silence spoke to me. I knew before I followed Grace into the dank cabin that this would be my home.

It only took us a few minutes to tour the small building, and it obviously needed repairs. In high school, I’d spent two years working with a construction crew, so I had a little experience swinging a hammer and felt confident I could make a go of it.

When I made a cash offer, standing in the middle of the empty living room, Grace’s face lit up with a beaming smile. We filled out the paperwork, and she drove us back to town, promising to contact me soon. It only took two days for the owners to accept my offer and begin the process.

Grace handled everything, telling me when to show up with a cashier’s check to sign the forms. The sellers were motivated to close quickly—they’d been waiting to divvy up an inheritance—and I took possession two weeks later.

The next year flew by as I lived in the small cabin, building my dream home around it as much as possible. My buddies dropped in a couple of times and pitched in. I was grateful for their help, but a part of me resented their intrusion on my solitude.

Finally, the house was complete, and I enjoyed my days exploring the forest, fishing the Buffalo River, and settling into a routine. It was peaceful. Predictable. Everything I’d dreamt of. Almost.

Distant shouting wakes me with a start, my heart seizing in my chest as flashbacks of panicked screams flood my mind. Jumping out of bed, I run to the front door, grabbing the shotgun I keep propped beside it.

I stand on the wraparound porch, ears trained for the source of the sound, running toward the back of the house as I hear it again over the sound of the river. I stop, staring over the edge of the cliff my patio is built on, watching a family with three little kids play in the cold water. It’s still early enough that it’s unpleasantly cool to swim, but the children don’t seem to care.

I watch them for a minute, the fear morphing into something else. Something foreign. Almost like… envy? Whatever it is, it has no place in my vocabulary. I’ve chosen my life. The mountain is my home. What woman is crazy enough to live so far away from civilization anyway?

Turning, I head inside to start my day. Summer is fast approaching, and there’s plenty to do to keep me busy. Moving around the house, I can’t help but wonder how different it would feel with a family living here. The laughter of children and the personal touches a woman would add to make it more of a home.

“That’s not for you, Holloway,” I grit out, needing to put this errant way of thinking behind me. “This is what you want. Everything you need is right here.”