Vigil for the Mountain Man (Deadfall Ridge #4)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

VIRGIL

T urns out, Bryson McKinley picked a lousy time to get himself killed.

A soft breeze blows off Deadfall Ridge. Deceptively so. Like nature didn’t gut punch us a couple weeks ago.

Aspens quake in the distance, leaves torn by wind and battered by hail, yet somehow persisting. A Steller’s jay lets out a mischievous cackle, electric blue plumage catching in the golden sunlight of late afternoon.

Golden light.

When I close my eyes, I can still see them. The faint flicker of candles. Not one. Not two.

Too many candles to count.

And the silence that came with them, almost too quiet even for the forest. As if the songbirds themselves mourned.

Can’t talk about the woman’s face. Or the children.

Those still gut me to the core, their expressions.

And the sounds… Sniffles and sobs, and a whimper that came from the woman, soft and anguished, like the cry a wounded animal makes.

I’ve seen death before. More than I care to think about as a former Marine. But the shadow of it on the living? The ones who have to go on alone. Always been tough for me to stomach.

The muted vanilla of Jeffrey pines hit my nostrils. All butterscotch, pineapple, and rain-soaked bark. Ponderosa pines put off something more like a cookie smell, mixed with dead pine needles and damp earth.

Both hit my nostrils now with a deep-chested inhale, then a heavy exhale as my eyes clock everything I have to do. Huge trees lie twisted and tortured, angry roots sticking up like thickets.

The fence separating the McKinley property from mine is buried beneath half a foot of mud.

Bushes everywhere. Huge boulders brought down by the storm. It’s a wonder my cabin survived. A wonder the McKinley place did, too.

The flash flood churned up more than trees and rocks, though. Bridges, buildings, people in the wrong places. Amazing another of our neighbors, Hudson, survived at all. Or that he somehow found Hadleigh along the way.

Guess they’re an item now. Weird how life works sometimes.

All I know is Bryson picked a hell of a time to die.

A man with a wife.

Two small kids.

A life people actually mourned when it vanished.

Probably should’ve been me, though I’d have known better than to be on the lower banks of the canyon with those dark clouds looming. With that rain-swollen river roaring like a freight train through the gulch.

But nobody would miss me. That’s the real point.

Not like Bryson, his widow still barely moving weeks later. And two young children. Helen's eight. Luke five. Old enough to hurt. Too young to understand all of it.

Sad to see. But that’s life.

Plain and simple.

Lost my dad early, too. Sucks but you have to move on. What else can you do?

Another blow of the ax, and the log splits clean in front of me. Part of the clearing process. Kills two birds with one stone since the power’s been out since the flood. No telling when the electric company will be around for repairs.

I have a solar option. Bryson did, too. But those panels are probably at the bottom of the foothills by now, washed down by the churning mud.

I pile wood high in my arms, head still spinning. Songbirds chirp around me like nothing ever happened. Never ceases to amaze me how nature adjusts to devastation. I turn, pressing my back into the cabin door to open it.

That’s when the thought hits me, cold and foreboding. Haven’t heard the sound of wood chopping since before I learned of McKinley’s death. Haven’t seen smoke from the chimney now that I think about it either.

“It ain’t winter,” I grumble, piling the wood in a neat stack beside the hearth. Nope, it ain’t. But it’s cold enough to put goosebumps on my naked torso at night, the Sierra Nevada’s notoriously fickle weather already acting like late fall or early winter.

“Fence. Wood,” I shake my head, making a tepee in the fireplace over a bed of fresh kindling. “Next thing I know, I’ll be bringing ‘em game. Groceries.”

The fence won't fix itself.

The kids sure as hell can't.

And Clara...

Goddammit Bryson.

Somebody will have to keep watch.

I grab my flannel, grimacing with each button. For God’s sake this is the last thing I need. Worrying about other people’s concerns. Cleaning up other’s messes. It’s why I don’t even have a damn dog.

With another load of logs in my arms, I do the unthinkable. The inevitable. I trudge through half a foot of mud mixed with decaying leaves and pine needles until I stand in front of the McKinley place.

I don’t have to knock. Fat cheeks and big eyes greet me from behind the glass. Luke.

“Just me,” I say. “Your daddy’s friend.” That last part tightens my throat.

The kid chews his bottom lip, peeking out the curtains at me like I’m a sasquatch.

“Ain’t gonna bite,” I grunt. “Open up.”

“Mama?” I hear, high-pitched and nervous. Then nothing. Not footsteps. Not creaking floorboards. Not scolding voices.

I stand there, and I stand there, and I stand there until my arms burn, and I have no clue why the hell I decided to butt my nose in where I shouldn’t.

That’s when I hear the squeak, see the big blue eyes. Bryson said Helen had his woman’s eyes. Never much paid attention to it personally.

“Yes?” she asks, arching a brow.

“Your mama around?”

She frowns, opening the door a little wider. “Doesn’t want to see anyone,” she whispers.

I stand there awkwardly for another long moment, shifting my weight on the porch. I could go. Quit worrying about this place, this family.

Truth is, they should probably relocate anyway. Move back to town, far away from this mess.

“Fires don’t make themselves,” I say, nodding for her to open the door wider.

Her forehead creases, but she obeys, head bowing as I enter.

The place is… how do I describe it?

Something beyond chaos. Something hollowed out and broken. Like the flood outside had nothing on what’s happened indoors since. It’s not my place to notice… or care, though.

I head for the hearth, working on a fire as Helen and Luke whisper behind me. Loud enough I can hear everything.

“The neighbor,” Luke says.

“Papa’s friend.”

“Hates kids. Dad said so.”

“Yep,” Helen says on a breathy exhale.

I frown, working on the fire until a warm blaze glows in the hearth.

I straighten, turning. “You’re right on both accounts,” I say in tones that boom through the house.

“Your father was my friend. Sorry for your loss. And yeah, that fence may be down at the moment,” I add, pointing through the wall in that direction.

“Doesn’t mean I want to see hide nor hair of you on my property. Understood?”

The creak of a floorboard draws my eyes to the darkened hallway where Bryson’s woman stands wrapped in a quilt, cheeks hollowed out, eyes half-dead and bloodshot. “May I help you?” she asks, lifting her chin.

I put my hands on my hips. “No offense. But you’re in no place to help anyone at the moment.”

She worries her bottom lip, eyes narrowing, but she doesn’t speak. Maybe I was too blunt.

“Figured you could use a refresh on the woodpile.”

The room goes silent.

She blinks twice. God help me if she starts crying. Her mouth quirks as if she’s fighting it. So, I quit waiting, heading for the door.

Only halfway there, I notice some open cupboards, bare to the back. And the smell of nothing. No food. No cooking. I stop mid-stride, eyeing Helen and Luke, then Clara.

“When’s the last time you ate?”

Clara opens her mouth, but Luke beats her to it.

“Mama keeps saying she’ll go to the store, but—” he sniffles. “She’s still waiting on papa.”

God, that pulls something behind my ribs. I wince, eyeing the woman.

“Stop being stupid,” Helen scolds, face going hard. “I told you, he’s gone for good.”

“No, he ain’t,” Luke says, balling his tiny fists.

“Yes—”

“Stop it,” Clara hisses. Then to me, she raises her chin, the only thing animating her something like pride. “Not your problem.”

I fold my arms across my chest. She’s right. It ain’t.

Still my eyes wander. To the sink filled with unwashed dishes. The empty cereal boxes. No cooking smells. No food smells at all.

Helen’s stomach growls. She rubs it, cheeks heating.

“Got extra chili. Too much to eat alone,” I mutter, frowning and shaking my head when she protests. “Can’t abide hungry kids anymore than I can cold ones. ‘Sides—” I pause, searching for the right words. Still unable to utter the dead man’s name in public. “He’d have wanted this.”

Then I stride for the door before she can say anymore, cursing under my breath as soon as I clear the cabin. This is the last damn thing I need.