Chapter 19
M ac leaned against the workbench, arms crossed, watching Beckett struggle with a stubborn bolt on the snowmobile trailer. Cord sat on an overturned bucket, sipping coffee like it was whiskey, his boots kicked out in front of him.
Tuesday would be the first of September. The final stretch of the camping season. Ten more days, and they could close the gate. Mac had already started counting down.
"I can't wait until everyone's gone," he muttered.
Cord snorted. "You say that every year."
"I won't argue with you. It's been a long summer season." Beckett grunted as the bolt gave way. "I'm ready to hibernate inside my cabin, do a little ice fishing, and get fat off huckleberry cobbler."
Mac raised a brow. "Who is making you cobbler?"
"I can do it?"
"Why haven't you made us any?" he asked.
"If you'd pick huckleberries, I'd make you one. But since you won't get your lazy ass out there and pick, I'll keep what I get to myself." Beckett tossed the tool in the rollaway and picked up his coffee. "Cord can probably find some woman in town to make him pie."
"Hey, now, I go all winter stuck up here with you two." Cord frowned. "I'd end up killing you both if I had all that pent-up frustration in me. I'm not going to waste time eating pie."
"That's your problem, right there." Cord chuckled. "You're not eating pie."
Mac laughed easily. They'd spent years like this—fixing things, ribbing each other, waiting for the snow to come and silence the world. It was the way of mountain life.
A dirt bike revved in the distance.
Mac turned toward the sound, watching as Jetter rode into the building, helmet still on, mud caked on both knees. The kid was late. Missed dinner. Again.
Jetter parked the bike and hopped off, letting it idle for a second before killing the engine. He didn't look at Mac. He just wheeled it onto the stand without brushing and lubing the chain after his ride, as he was supposed to do.
Mac whistled, getting his son's attention. "You're not doing maintenance?"
Jetter snapped, "I don't care."
Mac stepped forward. "You always care."
"Nothing matters anymore." Jetter ran out the side door into the trees.
Cord raised an eyebrow. "Is he okay?"
"Something's off." Beckett wiped his hands on a rag. "He's always good about taking care of his ride."
Mac was already moving. "I'm gonna find out."
He followed the trail behind the building, past the fire pit, through the thicket where Jetter always disappeared when he didn't want to be found. The tree fort loomed ahead, tucked into the branches like a secret hiding place.
At one time, he had constructed a fence to keep Jetter contained to one area. But as he grew, the fence came down. It gave Mac time to teach his son about the mountain, the trails, and how to remain safe.
What he wouldn't tolerate was going off half-cocked. That was a good way to end up injured, or worse. Jetter needed to remain calm and take in his surroundings. If he couldn't do that, he'd need to take some of his privileges away.
"Jetter," Mac called. "Get down."
"No."
Mac stood at the base of the tree, arms crossed. He was too big to climb it. Too heavy for the boards nailed into the trunk to hold his weight. It was a standoff.
"Talk to me," Mac said.
Silence.
Then, finally, Jetter's voice drifted down. "I don't want to move back with Mom."
His son had a good relationship with Tara. He respected her—he made sure that his son stayed obedient and humble to the woman who brought him into the world.
Mac blinked. "You have a problem with her?"
"No," Jetter said. "But she can come visit me here."
Mac exhaled, seeing where this was going. "You know there's no school up here."
"I don't care."
"You have to care." He gazed at the tree's trunk. "If someday you're going to grow up and live here, you'll need to be smart. Right now, running off and throwing a tantrum is showing me you still have a lot to learn."
"I want to live on the mountain."
Mac looked up at his boy and saw something raw in his face. Not rebellion. Not attitude. He recognized what was wrong.
He'd been the same way as a kid. The mountain was home, regardless of whether the ones you love were around.
"It might not seem like it, son. But you have six years until you graduate from high school and are old enough to make decisions about your life. Those years are going to fly by—"
"No, they're not," said Jetter.
They went back and forth, with Mac listing common-sense reasons and Jetter deflecting them. Finally, Mac sighed. It was time for Jester to learn a hard lesson.
"The most I can do is talk to Tara," he said. "Maybe we can work something out. If it's okay with your mom and I can make it happen, I'll see about bringing you up the mountain during the winter when you have free time, and no school."
"Really?"
"It's not a sure thing, son. Tara has her own schedule for you. But if she can work it out, I'd be happy to bring you up on the snowmobile. You know that living with your mom is the smart thing to do. She can provide you with schooling, and you like playing hockey in the winter, huh?"
"Yeah, but I can skate on the lake when it ices over." Jetter climbed down slowly, boots thudding against the dirt. He walked up and hugged Mac tight. "Thanks, Dad."
Mac held him there, one hand on the back of his head, the other wrapped around Jetter's slim body. Time was a thief. That was something Jetter had yet to learn.
Then his son pulled away and headed toward the house.
Mac stayed behind, staring up at the trees.
He inhaled deeply, the scent of pine thick in the cool air.
It was supposed to be a relaxing summer.
He hadn't planned to get involved with a woman who was leaving soon.
And he had no idea how he was going to handle the changes coming with Jetter. How was he going to let him grow up and have more say in his life without holding him back?