Guardian of Misty Mountain (Misty Mountain)
1. Adrian
1
ADRIAN
" L et's get this over with," I mutter as I park my truck in front of Misty Mountain General Store.
Rolling my shoulders and stretching my neck, I look at myself in the rear-view mirror, grimacing at my reflection. Blue eyes that have seen death and destruction stare back at me, the scar cutting through my left eyebrow an ever-present reminder of the horrors of my past.
I tear my gaze away, not wanting to relive those memories. I’ve had plenty of practice shoving my time in the military into the dark corners of my soul. What I haven’t figured out is how to keep them there for good.
Walking around to the bed of the truck, I pop the tailgate and grab several bundles of firewood before making my way into the store. Jack Gregory, the owner, is in his usual spot behind the register, almost like he hasn’t moved since my last trip into town three months ago.
“Adrian,” he greets, giving me a warm smile. I tip my chin down, nodding slightly in acknowledgment. “I see you’re as talkative as ever.” The man tugs at his long beard, a habit of his for as long as I can remember.
“At least there are some constants in this world,” I reply, setting the wood bundles on the nearly-empty shelf next to the register. Just as I’m heading out the door to gather more firewood, Jack stops me.
“You know, we have a hand cart. Might be more efficient.” After a pause, he adds, “It would help get the job done faster.”
He knows me all too well. I suppose he would, after years of me supplying firewood for his customers. Like clockwork, I come into town once a quarter to drop off wood, custom furniture from my shop, and other trinkets for local shops to sell. If I could cut my visits to once a year, that would be preferable. As it is, the demand for my services puts me here every three months.
I grab the cart and wheel it out to my truck, loading the remainder of Jack’s order inside. Once the shelves are full, I put the cart away and go to the register, bracing myself for a social interaction. It’s not that Jack is an asshole or anything. Just the opposite. He’s always been kind and understanding, as well as a reliable customer.
It’s me who’s the asshole. I can’t help it. I don’t mean to be short with people, but I know how I sound. Clipped sentences. One-word responses. A harsh tone, even when I try to soften my voice. I blame it on the claustrophobia of being in someone else’s space. My skin crawls just thinking about all the people I’m going to have to interact with today, the migraine already pressing against my temples and threatening to tear my head in two.
“I can always count on you, Adrian,” Jack says, breaking into my thoughts. “How’s things up on the mountain? Still working away in your shop?”
I nod, tapping my foot rapidly on the tile floor. Say something , my brain screams at me. That’s what a normal person would do. Jack is the easiest person to talk to and I’ve known him since before I left for the military.
“Lots of projects,” I manage to tell him, though my words come out stilted and awkward. “Keeps me busy, which is good.”
Jack smiles, then signs the check he had waiting for me at the register. I take it and thank him, then finally walk outside where I can breathe. One delivery down, five more to go. Next up, a rocking chair for Ella and her wife Maggie down at the Hollow Tree Inn.
Two hours later, I’m making my way down the main drag, back to my truck. I’m ready to peel my skin off and throw myself off of the nearest cliff. It shouldn’t be this difficult, this painful , to be in public. Misty Mountain, Colorado is my hometown. I grew up here with locals who never left or people like me who went off into the world only to end up right back here in our secluded mountain town.
The difference is, that I left as an optimistic, bright-eyed teen who thought the world was his for the taking. I came back a jaded shell of a man with a tattered heart and a head full of nightmares I can't seem to shake. Even after five years, I can't let my guard down. I can't integrate myself back into society. I can barely function as a loner, let alone keep up relationships with other people.
My shoulder hits something solid and I startle a bit, everything in me on high alert.
“At ease, soldier. It’s just me,” a familiar voice says. I snap my eyes up, meeting Dawson Stone’s gaze. He’s former military like me, though he’s only recently retired.
“Hey, Dawson,” I mumble, taking a step back. “Didn’t see you there.”
“Back in town for a supply run or just hanging out?”
I cut him a look, unsure if he’s joking or not. “Deliveries and restocking supplies,” I answer.
“Kidding, kidding,” he says, holding his hands up. “I get it. I’ve been thinking about following your lead and setting up shop somewhere up in the mountains. Not sure what else I have going on for me here.”
Dawson shrugs and looks away. I understand. I really, really do. His restlessness speaks to the part of me that never settled down after leaving the Marines. I’m about to make a lame attempt to leave this conversation when I notice the plastic bag Dawson is holding. Is that… a whisk? And measuring spoons?
“Ah, this is just… it’s nothing,” he’s quick to say once he realizes what I’m staring at. “In fact, I don’t even know where this stuff came from. I must have grabbed the wrong bag at checkout.”
I lift an eyebrow, giving him a skeptical look. “Hey, whatever gets you through the day,” I tell him.
Dawson changes the subject, which is interesting. I wonder what the deal is with the cooking supplies, but I don’t press him about it. I can certainly understand the need for privacy. “So, have you ever been to the Beer and Darts night at the Rusty Elk Tavern?” I throw another skeptical glance his way. He knows the answer. “Right. I suppose not. There are fliers all around town for it. Hank is hosting this event once a month for veterans and first responders. I was thinking about stopping by, but…” He trails off, shrugging his shoulders.
“Hank is a good guy,” I reply. “We served in the Marines together.” I’m not sure why I offered that piece of information. I’m not usually so forthcoming, but a lot of us are ex-military here in town. There’s an unspoken bond between us. One wrought in blood and mired in trauma.
We part ways with a handshake and I make note that Dawson didn’t turn around to exchange his supposed “switched bag” of cooking supplies. Interesting.
My truck is in sight, a gleaming beacon of safety in the sea of anxiety threatening to drown me. Right before I reach my vehicle, something catches my eye. The late afternoon sun reflects off of the long auburn hair of a woman walking across the street. I can’t seem to look away, my gaze inextricably drawn to her.
As if sensing my stare, she peers over her shoulder, searching for something or someone. I’m hit with golden eyes and soft freckles that cause an ache in my chest for some reason. My body turns on its own, without my permission, so I can get a better view of the beautiful, heart-stopping mystery woman.
She must be new in town. Surely, I would have noticed her during my last trip. Then again, it’s not like I make a point to chit-chat or visit the local establishments unless I have to drop something off.
I start shuffling across the street, following her without knowing why or what I’m going to say when I catch up to her. I can’t take my eyes off of her silky hair, shimmering in the waning light of the day. She slips into Evergreen Books & Trinkets, the old door closing behind her and stealing her away from my view.
The fight-or-flight instinct that has been gnawing at me all afternoon is telling me to turn the fuck around and get back into my truck. No good can come from chasing a gorgeous woman into a bookstore. And yet…
My hand wraps around the door handle, gripping the thing so tightly my arm is shaking. Am I really about to do this? I can't remember the last time I went somewhere in public voluntarily. It's almost like an out-of-body experience, watching myself open the door and step inside the cozy bookstore.
As soon as the bell above the door rings, my skin prickles with awareness, putting me on high alert. I can feel the eyes on me, everyone staring at my scar and wondering why I moved back to town in the first place if I was just going to hide up on my mountain and never talk to them.
I clench my fists at my sides and bite the inside of my cheek, the flash of pain bringing me back into my body. What am I doing here? I’m not an impulsive man, even less so after my time in the military. What am I hoping to accomplish? It’s not like I’m going to magically know how to talk to someone, especially a beautiful golden-eyed goddess.
I duck behind the nearest bookshelf to try and blend in, but I don’t think it’s helping. Whispers break out among the patrons here, and although I can’t hear what they’re saying, my imagination has no trouble coming up with worst-case scenarios.
“Hi, can I help you find anything?”
I leap backward, nearly knocking over the damn bookshelf. After steadying the piece of furniture, I clear my throat and turn to the woman next to me.
It’s her.
“I… Um, what I mean is… I, uh, like books,” I stutter out like a complete idiot.
Bright, curious eyes are trained on mine, and to my surprise, I don't see a single ounce of judgment in them. She's looking at me with something close to understanding or at the very least, empathy.
"Me, too," she says easily, not skipping a beat. "Is there a specific genre you're looking for? Or maybe a particular author? You know, we actually have a few local authors featured here. We just got a shipment of Travis Holt's new fiction book on military espionage."
“Ah, well, I don’t know if I have the stomach for military fiction. Not after living it.” Her brow furrows and she tilts her head slightly, studying me with an intensity I’m not used to. I clear my throat and rub the back of my neck. Can I get any more awkward? “Anyway, I didn’t mean to say… I wasn’t trying to, um…”
I have no idea how to end this humiliating interaction. I should never have come in here. What the hell was I thinking? I got so caught up in the moment that I let myself forget why I live a life of solitude.
“How about mystery novels? Ruth Ware has a great collection of standalone novels in our mystery and thriller section.”
That name rings a bell. “ The Woman in Cabin Ten is one of her books, right?”
She gives me a brilliant smile, her golden eyes sparkling as she nods. “Yes! I loved that one. I remember reading in my closet when my parents were asleep, thinking that I could relate to being trapped.” Her eyes grow wide and she looks away from me. Cold washes over me, as if her eyes were the sun and now I’m stranded in the darkness. “Anyway. Ruth Ware. Great author.” The woman gives me a small smile, trying to recover from whatever just happened.
Why did she feel trapped? Why was she reading in the closet? Did her parents not approve of her book choice or were they just controlling? I have so many questions but I’ll never ask them. It’s not my business. Plus, I’d be opening myself up to her asking me similar questions. I don’t have any satisfying answers.
“I’m Adrian,” I blurt out.
“Adrian,” she repeats, her eyes meeting mine once more. “I’m–”
“Amelia! Amelia, dear, can you jump on the register while I finish dusting these shelves?”
The woman gives me an apologetic smile, then waves before heading up to the front counter. I’m thankful for the excuse to slip out of the bookstore undetected. God, what an embarrassing introduction.
I finally make it back to my truck, where I hop in and rev the engine. I don’t make it even halfway up the mountain before my thoughts turn to Amelia. It doesn’t matter now. I won’t be back for another three months, and by then, she might be gone.
The ache in my chest sharpens to a point and I gasp for air. Why does the thought of never seeing her again physically pain me?