Healing with the Mountain Man (Veterans of Willowbrook Ridge #4)

1. Dean

Dean

Every Monday, I go to the Hollow Oak to join the handful of people like me—lost souls who sit around, drink, and cling to the little things in life that still matter.

Today, the bar is hollow in more than just name.

Even at its best, the bar is never packed during the afternoon, but now it’s downright skeletal—maybe ten people at most, scattered like afterthoughts across the dim-lit space.

Behind the counter, a single bartender moves between taps and registers, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else.

The one who runs the kitchen is currently leaning against the bar, chatting up one of the men sitting on the other side.

The regulars who do show up are the closest thing I have to friends. That’s why I drag myself here every week, no matter what. Even today, with the threat of a storm rolling in, I still came.

But unlike me, most of the veterans had the sense to stay away. Smart. Either they’ve found better places to be, or they’re battening down for whatever mess the sky’s about to unleash. Makes me think I should’ve done the same.

Too late to start making regrets now.

Once I’ve eaten a burger and a few onion rings, caught up with the few who haven’t slipped out, I’m moving on to continue my usual routine before the rain turns into something less desired.

Leaving the Hollow Oak, I don’t head straight for the mountain. Not yet.

First, I stop at the library—surprisingly still open. Most businesses have already locked up, knowing it’s a waste of power, staff, and hope to stay operational in the face of what’s coming. But the library lingers, stubborn as the guy who normally runs it.

Inside, the aide, Tulip, is at her usual post. She gives me a welcoming smile—more out of habit than recognition—and I return it before making my way to the computers.

Every few days, I come here to check my email. There’s always something waiting. Usually spam full of cheap offers, fake urgency, and words that mean nothing. I delete them without reading.

But then there are her messages.

Three or four new ones each time, unless something “exciting” happened in her world—which, to her, could be anything from a stray dog following her home to a change in the coffee shop’s seasonal menu.

She writes to me like I’m her diary, pouring out her days in paragraphs I have no right to inhabit.

Today, there are just two from a few days ago. Better than nothing.

I print them. Part of the routine. That lets me read them in a way that’ll let me appreciate every moment she wants to share with me. I can sit back with my eyes closed and imagine I’m right there with her, without worrying about getting any judgmental stares from kids coming to do their homework.

Then I type a reply—short, uneven, never matching what she gives me—and leave before Tulip or Dallas can decide I’ve overstayed my welcome.

Even if I wanted to linger, to wait for a response that might never come fast enough, I don’t. Some habits are better left unbroken. Can’t hover more than I want to, not without crossing boundaries I’ve set for myself.

Abandoning the library, I grimace up at the sky. The clouds are almost black now, a slow, suffocating tide rolling toward the town. Not a fan. Especially when the sun seems nonexistent at this point.

I need to hurry.

Next stop, the post office.

I check my box out of habit, half-hoping for something new. Emails aren’t the only way my pen pal and I talk—we trade physical letters too. It’s more intimate, like we’re holding two conversations at once. Hers is in ink, mine is in type.

She always writes by hand. Curves and loops, smudges where she’s dragged her sleeve across fresh ink.

Scribbles when she writes something wrong.

A little piece of her pressed into the paper.

I type my replies—clean, legible, distant.

I want her to read them easily, but really, it’s because I don’t trust my own handwriting to say what I mean.

My hands would shake, my fingers impulsive to put down feelings I’ve fought to keep inside.

Today, the box is empty.

The worst part isn’t the disappointment. It’s the waiting. Letters take days. Weeks, sometimes. And every time I walk away with nothing, I wonder if her precious words have been lost along the way.

Alani lives in Texas. I live in Montana. As much as I hate it, the distance of our relationship is what’s hindering me from getting what I want. Her.

The problem is, Alani isn’t just some pen pal. She’s the daughter of the man I once called my best friend.

The same woman I met in person only once, and that was the day of his funeral.

The memory sits like a stone in my chest. Her in that black dress, eyes red but dry, hands folded in front of her so tight, that it took strength not to pull her into my arms and promise her that everything would be alright. That day, I’ve never seen a person look so alone.

Lewis made it clear that his daughter was his world during our service together. Showed me baby pictures until the edges frayed. Wrote about her, too, when we traded letters.

Even his last letter, the one that arrived too late with a warning that has haunted me to this day, asked me to do one thing. Take care of the one thing he felt he didn’t have the strength to do himself.

Going from one pen pal to another, all I have are her words. Ink on paper. Pixels on a screen. Close enough to ache, too far to matter.

My head wasn’t in the right space during the funeral, and my heart felt heavy at the time. I didn’t start craving the woman because of the memory of her looks.

It was the three years of communication we shared.

This isn’t what Lewis wanted, I’m sure of it, but it is what it is. It’s why I’m going to continue to shove these feelings down. Pretend they don’t exist.

Scowling ahead, with nothing else to keep me in town, I make my way toward the mountain.

Rain drums against the windshield, a steady rhythm that blurs the world beyond the glass. The wipers fight a losing battle, swiping away sheets of water only for more to take their place. The mountain road twists ahead, slick and dark, disappearing into the mist.

I grip the wheel a little tighter. Not gonna make it back down tonight—not in this.

The cabin comes into view, tucked between towering pines, its porch light a dim beacon in the storm. I ease the truck to a stop, kill the engine. For a second, I just sit there, listening to the rain hammer the roof.

Then I see her. A woman—no, not just a woman. A damn vision. Something that makes me wonder if the weather is playing tricks on my eyes.

She’s perched on the edge of my porch, legs hanging lazily, like she hasn’t got a care in the world. Her head leans against the banister, dark hair spilling over her shoulders. Eyes closed. Lips parted just so.

A sleeping beauty on my doorstep.

I step out into the rain, but I barely feel it as the drops soak my shoulders. My boots hit the gravel, then the wooden steps, but she doesn’t stir. Not even when I stop right in front of her, water dripping from my jacket.

I notice her luggage and bag, but not even the mystery of why her belongings are at her side is enough to pull my eyes away.

Even if it’s been three years since I’ve seen her, the image of her is burned in my mind.

Alani Morris.

There is no black dress anywhere in sight. Of course not. She’s got jeans torn at the knees and circles around her eyes like she hasn’t slept in days.

With the growl of thunder bringing me out of my daze, I tear my eyes away and grab her luggage.

While I don’t have a clue why she’s here, there’s no shot in hell I’m going to turn her away. Not when she had to have travelled so far to get here.

Taking it inside first, my fingers curl at my sides as I decide how I want to get her inside before the rain starts hitting her.

Alani stirs when I crouch to pick her up. The young woman feels as light as a feather in my arms as she curls up against my chest.

Heading inside, I hear the distant meows growing louder as my arrival has garnered more attention. As I reach the living room, I find my cat waiting for me.

Muttering that I’ll feed him in a moment, I keep moving.

Heading down a hall of doors, I hesitate on where to stop. Despite having a room for guests, it’s remained occupied by nothing but a pack of dust bunnies. The room is going to smell stale, and I don’t want Alani breathing in all the dust.

Turning my gaze to the only other door that is better fitting, I continue forward.

I nudge my bedroom door open. Setting her down against my sheets, I carefully take off her shoes and leave them paired together at the foot of the bed. Once I’m throwing a blanket over her, I’m running a hand down my face as I watch her curl up with one of my pillows.

This is unreal. Impossible. Too good to be true.

What in the hell am I going to do?