Married in Misty Mountain (Misty Mountain #10)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Shenna

“I’m so sorry, dear. This just isn’t going to work out.”

Hank, my sweet, paternal boss, gently takes the broom out of my hands.

I stand forlorn in a pile of broken glass and spilled beer, my third major screw-up in as many weeks in my brief employment at the Rusty Elk Tavern.

The local bar and restaurant, with its homey feel and clientele— dedicated locals and wealthy tourists alike—is the only job where I can earn nightly tips. I need every last dollar if I’m going to make a life of my own, far away from my parents.

“I understand, Hank,” I say, reaching for the broom. “But at least let me clean up before I go.”

The grimace on the older man’s face broadcasts the truth of the matter. Hank is worried I’m going to cut myself on broken glass and end up needing stitches. Again.

“No, no. Dr. Ried’s on vacation this month, and I don’t want to have to take you to the vet’s office for antibiotics this time.”

I can’t tell if Hank’s joking or not with that crack about bringing me to the veterinarian.

On the other hand, I cannot afford a visit to a real doctor. Dr. Ried at the Riverbend Clinic was nice enough to stitch me up for free the last time I had an accident at work.

“Okay,” I say, looking down and biting my lip. I refuse to cry. The tears make my colored contacts shift around; on top of that, crying dislodges my fake lashes.

“I feel awful about this, Mildred, but you’re becoming a liability at this point,” Hank says as we both watch a large group of tourists get up from their table and leave, evidently feeling as if they’ve waited too long for the drinks I just spilled.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. My name’s not Mildred. It’s Shenna. I’ve been lying to everyone in Misty Mountain about my real identity, for reasons you’ll soon understand.

“You’re right. I should just get out of everybody’s way. I knew Misty Mountain was too good to be true,” I mumble, leaving Hank to clean up and heading toward the break room, where I untie the stubborn knot at my lower back and toss my apron into the laundry bin. My quick exit is blocked by Clara, Hank’s wife, who has followed me down the narrow hallway.

“Mildred? Are you okay?”

I wince at the older woman’s gentle demeanor. Yet another person I’m lying to. Why is everyone here so understanding when I fail? I’m built to withstand anger, impatience, and frustration. Kindness is too much for me to bear.

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

“I just came from closing up the cafe. Need a pick-me-up?”

She holds out a small cardboard box labeled Pine and Petal Cafe. Inside is one of Clara’s house-made chocolate croissants.

“Yes, please,” I say, my stomach rumbling as I take the box gratefully.

“Hank told me what happened, and I’m really sorry. Is there anything I can do?” Clara asks.

What I wish everyone would do is give it to me straight. I have no marketable skills except for eating Clara’s delicious baked goods. I devour it in about ten seconds and am oddly comforted now.

I give a hopeful smile, though I know I’m about to get shot down. “Is the Pine and Petal hiring?” I ask, referring to Clara’s pride and joy down the street from The Rusty Elk.

She shakes her head sadly. “I’ve got all the help I need.”

I nod and change out of my work shoes, slipping into my sandals that I kept in the locker. “It was a long shot.”

When my car broke down in Misty Mountain over a month ago, I felt good about this place. It’s a lesser-known ski town without the high cost of living or celebrity status of an Aspen or Jackson Hole. I thought I could start over where no one knows Shenna Blake. I thought I could reinvent myself as Mildred. I know—not the most convincing name for a woman in her early 20s, but I panicked when being interviewed for my first job outside of the “compound.” I had to say anything other than my real name.

But despite my disguise and my fake identity, I can’t reinvent everything about myself. Once a klutz, always a klutz.

I blink back tears that automatically form in response to Clara’s sympathetic look.

“Where will you go?”

“Well, I just signed on for another month on my apartment lease. So I have one month to figure it out.”

Clara looks concerned. “I hate the idea of you leaving us so soon while your ex is out there looking for you. You’re safer here.”

Clara is the only person I’ve hinted to about my past. Guilt rushes through me as I internally acknowledge this additional white lie.

The truth is, I don’t have an ex, per se. But I am on the run from a man.

Derek Creevy and I never dated. He never even asked. That’s because Derek Creevy never needed to ask. My father “promised” me to him in what I now see as a horrifying tradition known as “betrothing.” My father came to me when I was 13 and told me that he and the Creevy family had everything arranged, and I was to be married to him the day I turned 18.

It took me a long time to realize how messed up that was.

Referring to Derek Creevy as an “ex” has made the way smoother. People instantly jump to their own conclusions and don’t ask a lot of follow-up questions. But the awful truth is, Derek is twenty years older than me. No, Derek never laid a hand on me because he didn’t need to. Our futures were sealed, and he was patient enough to wait on me.

If that makes your stomach turn, welcome to the club.

So I hope you understand the white lies. Because let’s be real: in the compound I grew up in, if I had married Derek when I turned 18, all signs point to him becoming a future abusive ex-husband.

I let out a long sigh. “I have enough tips to get my car fixed up. Well, fixed enough to get me to Denver. They have a shelter there for people like me.”

“A shelter?” Clara gasps. “No. No way. I’d rather you stay in Misty Mountain with Hank and me.”

“No, no,” I say, shaking my head. This woman’s kindness is breaking down my walls, and I’m almost about to cry for the second time in ten minutes. I won’t allow it. “I’ll have a lot more job opportunities in Denver. Maybe someone will pay me to get the cereal from the tallest shelf for little old ladies at the grocery store. My only marketable skill, quite frankly.” Yeah, going for the joke usually keeps my walls up. Nicely done, me. Keep pushing those pesky, friendly people away.

Clara is determined, though, and a sly smile spreads across her pretty face. “That gives me an idea. Jack Gregory at the general store always knows about openings in the area. Go down there and talk to him.”

Translation: let me call in a favor from my friend, and we’ll all pretend you landed another job on your own merits.

“The general store? Why, so I can drown a family of five on a rafting trip?” The general store is generally the first place tourists go to book excursions. Tour guides are one of the things this town can’t seem to get enough of.

“I’m serious, Mildred.”

I’m about to let my pride get the better of me and crack another joke, but then I look into my friend’s eyes and know I don’t want to leave Misty Mountain. Despite my screw-ups, despite my drafty old apartment, plus the fact that I haven’t managed to save enough money to pay for my car to get fixed properly, I can feel the sense of belonging. The local mechanic patched my little car up just enough to make it run until I could afford real repairs. Who would do that for an anonymous single woman in the big city? Who in the big city would be so protective of me that they’d bend over backward to help me stay?

“You don’t have to get me a charity job, Clara.”

“It’s not charity. You just need to build a little confidence in your skills,” she says.

Gosh. Clara is the mother figure I never knew I needed. My childhood teacher once laughed at me when my classmates called me a giraffe on roller skates. Instead of taking issue with that teacher, my mother scolded me for being clumsy. Clara might be on to something because I never overcame that blow to my confidence.

“Maybe you’re right,” I say, frowning at how much I hate admitting I’m wrong.

Hank could have fired me on my first night. I had mistakenly opened the bar’s most expensive bottles of champagne for a table that had ordered sparkling wine. Turns out, the bubbly I was supposed to serve to customers was in a separate wine fridge altogether, but I had to make a special effort to screw up by finding the Dom Perignon way at the back. Hank had been setting it aside for some lavish wedding reception, and now he’d had to stock up again. He’d refused to take it out of my paycheck since it was an honest mistake.

Last week, I overturned an entire tray of elk venison stew, made from Hank’s game he hunted himself. That was the night I’d also cut myself and needed stitches after trying to clean up the mess myself.

“Listen,” Clara says in a tone that will suffer no more foolishness from me, “Go on down to the general store now, before they close for the day. Jack will help you out.”

Embracing my pathetic state and feeling fortified by the chocolate croissant, I hug Clara goodbye for the night and make my way down Evergreen Way. Most of the quaint shops are already closed for the night, but I can still smell the residual scent of baked bread coming from the Pine and Petal Cafe. The window display of Evergreen Books and Trinkets is lit up with the white glow of fairy lights, showcasing the latest book by local author Finn Campbell. I pause and read the sign announcing a book signing coming up soon.

“I’m so proud of you, baby,” I hear someone say. I look up and finally notice the couple a few feet away, gazing into the bookstore window. I recognize the older man of the couple as Finn Campbell himself, along with his wife, Sami.

Though I’m feeling a little starstruck at the sight of the reclusive author, I keep my distance and let them have their moment.

“Thanks, baby,” he says, kissing her forehead, his arm around her shoulder. The way he holds her so close and protectively makes me ache for something like that.

I walk past them, giving them space, and head past the Hollow Tree Inn. The lobby is dark and quiet as I pass by, and through the window, I spy the owners, Ellen and Maggie, exchanging a kiss behind the reception desk. I blush and look away, feeling like a peeping Tom.

The setting sun casts a warm pink glow against the mountains surrounding the town. This place looks like something out of a storybook where nothing bad ever happens. Everyone who sets down roots here succeeds. Everyone has someone to love, it seems.

But they all have life experiences, and I have none. I’m 23, and I do not know a trade and have no real relationship experience. I’ve never even been kissed.

Maybe I should have had a better plan before leaving my parents behind and that awful creep Derek.

A group of college-age backpackers are coming out of the general store as I wait to go inside. They look excited about their upcoming trip and are showing off some of their new, expensive-looking gear. They seem like nice, friendly, and fun people. It makes me miss having friends my age.

What is that like?

Okay, Shenna Blake. Pity party over. Buck up and go in there and get yourself a job.

It’s your last chance.

I wait for the hikers to pass before I step inside.

Inside the store, I find who I assume is Jack, a handsome older man stocking shelves and sporting what I’ve silently nicknamed the “Misty Mountain uniform”: long beard, plaid shirt, rugged, ripstop trousers, and hiking shoes that cost more than my much-needed car repairs.

Jack beams at me, both of us recognizing each other from my meager weekly grocery trips, where I buy mostly ramen and hot dogs. In addition to mountain gear, the store is everyone’s go-to for groceries, tools, and camping supplies.

“Hey there,” Jack calls out. “What brings you in on a Saturday night?”

I smile sheepishly. “Clara Montgomery said you might know if anyone local is hiring.”

Jack nods in understanding. “You must be Mildred. Yeah, I’ve seen you before but never caught your name. I’d remember that, for sure. You don’t look like a Mildred. Is it a family name?”

This man is a lot like Hank, with a dad vibe about him.

I shrug. “No, my parents just decided to saddle me with a name fitting a 99-year-old.”

Jack laughs, which compels me to keep going. “Well, it’s a nice name.”

“Yeah,” I say, knowing I’m headed into full-on babble mode, but I can’t stop. “It happens when people don’t have access to birth control. Pretty soon, you’ve got twelve little offspring running around, and you’d better name them all something unique, or it’s tough to keep them all straight. Especially when you’ve got half-sisters and a million first cousins, and pretty soon your half-sisters are having babies too, and…” Oh my gosh.

Jack’s eyebrows are lifted high on his forehead as he processes the craziness coming out of my mouth.

This is getting messy.

Someone, please change the subject before I confess everything.

“So…Clara says you need a job?”

I fight against the negativity at knowing that Clara has already asked Jack to help me in the time it took for me to walk down here. Now’s not the time to be prideful, Shenna.

“Yes. Do you know anyone hiring?”

He purses his lips. “I don’t, actually.”

Well. So much for swallowing my pride.

“I see.”

Ugh. If I go back to my apartment now, I might be able to get on the crappy Wi-Fi tonight before the signal craps out and figure something out. “Sorry to bother you…” I move to leave, but Jack puts his hand up.

“Wait. That doesn’t mean I’m not hiring. I just so happen to be looking for an assistant manager.”

I tilt my head suspiciously as I turn back to face him. He seems as equally surprised as I am at that announcement.

Assistant manager? He’s got to be pulling my leg.

“But…I never saw anything posted about a job opening here. Your bulletin board was the first place I checked.” I gesture to the corkboard display on the wall next to the cash register. People post not just about job openings but about their lost cats and dogs, fundraisers for local causes, and sign-up sheets for wilderness excursions by someone named Mountain Man Hurley. That sheet is always full, despite the triggering name of that wilderness guide, whoever he is. Yes, I said triggering.

“Here’s the thing,” Jack says, setting down the box of hiking socks he’s restocking for the wall display. He rests his hands on his hips and casts his fatherly gaze at me. “I close up in five minutes, and it just so happens that I have a friend from out of town waiting for me to pick her up at the Hollow Tree Inn. It would be nice to have someone here to finish restocking the grocery shelves so I can freshen up. What do you say?”

A friend? He wants to freshen up for a friend. I smile at him, knowing what he really means is he has a hot date. Feeling the slightest twinge of jealousy, I give him a smile.

“You’d trust me alone in your store? I’ve never assistant-managed anything in my life. You haven’t even run a background check on me.”

Jack waves this idea off as if suggesting that vetting his employees is the wildest thing he’s ever heard. “If you do a good job tonight, we’ll take care of all that paperwork and red tape in the morning.”

This is completely crazy, but what choice do I have? I’m desperate for money.

“Okay, I’ll do it.”

Jack shakes my hand and welcomes me aboard. He then takes me through a quick orientation and hands over the keys. Before he leaves, he informs me, “And don’t worry about being alone. If anything happens, just call me on the store phone. My cell is on speed dial number one.”

He hands me the key to lock up after I leave and instructs me to text him when I’m finished.

I tell him to have a great date, and he gives me a knowing smile before heading out the door.

And now, I’m alone, unsupervised, in the general store.

I guess I can start with the socks. At least I can’t screw that up.

After restocking the hiking socks, I scan the aisle to help me prioritize my remaining tasks. The boxes are cumbersome, so I empty one at a time, restocking the flashlight batteries, sunscreen, and bandanas.

The shelf of canned chili beans is almost empty. I head back to the stock room and try to lift one of the boxes, but it’s super heavy. I’ve never used a dolly before, except for the time I almost broke the bartender’s foot at the Rusty Elk while trying to help move beer kegs around.

I do my best and eventually successfully stack six boxes of canned goods, and start to steer out of the stock room without spilling anything.

When I swerve neatly around the corner, I’m feeling pretty confident in my newfound abilities with heavy equipment and considering a career as a forklift driver.

That confidence comes at a price as I smash directly into a brick wall that wasn’t there before. Boxes drop. Cans go flying.

I swear that wall wasn’t there before.

But wait. Walls don’t make noises.

No, it’s not a wall. It’s a pained-looking man, grunting and holding on to his foot, with one arm propped against the wall for balance.

“Oh my gosh! You scared the bejeezus out of me!”

The large man doesn’t apologize, instead criticizing my skills. “Where did you learn to drive one of those things?”

That voice, those hands.

Something is eerily familiar about this person. I scan him from the injured foot up to his massive thighs, trim midsection, and ridiculous trapezius muscles.

His cold eyes capture mine, and my jaw drops.

I am face to face with my childhood nemesis, Hurley Hanlon.

A yeti-sized, all-grown-up Hurley Hanlon. The boy who first called me a giraffe on roller skates and ruined my self-confidence in one fell swoop.

It’s a good thing I’m wearing a disguise, so he won’t be able to hurt me—again.