Chapter 3
Chapter
Three
MCGREGOR
“ E verything goes in one of three piles,” I say to my Army Ranger buddies, pointing as I denote each one. We stand outside in front of Mack’s cabin, the crisp cool air of early morning already heating. “Goodwill, Mack’s storage unit, and trash.”
“Isn’t there a keep pile?” Rutger asks. The blond Texas cowboy has a slight Southern drawl, his words often punctuated with thick sarcasm. Back in our 75 th Battalion days, he was the sniper for our team. I never worried during his overwatches. But he can also be a real pain in the ass sometimes.
“Believe me,” I grumble. “Once you look at what I’ve been dealing with, you’ll realize the ‘Goodwill’ pile is more or less a pipe dream, the ‘storage unit’ pile is mindbending, and the ‘trash pile’ applies to nearly everything. No ‘keep’ pile needed.” I lead them back inside the crowded cabin.
“Sounds fun,” Wolfe, our fearless leader, chimes in.
He’s a massive brute of a man, boasting professional wrestler proportions with buzz-cut brown hair and hazel-colored eyes.
Loyal to a fault, he remains dedicated to taking care of his Ranger colleagues-turned-undercover crew, although years have passed since we officially served together.
Although I was a loser drunk until eighteen months ago.
We straggle back into the house.
Farzad laments, “So much stuff.”
“Yeah, the downside of American consumerism,” I remark.
Farzad served as our translator in Afghanistan many years ago. He saved our team more than once, and so Wolfe and the rest of the crew worked our asses off to eventually secure his relocation stateside.
“And you get to keep the cabin once you sort everything out?” Wolfe asks incredulously.
“Yeah,” I say, diving into one of the piles in the middle of the living room. I’m bound and determined to make a massive dent in this place today.
“I don’t know if it’s even worth it,” Alonso adds, stabbing his fingers through his dark hair as he eyes the room, overwhelm written in his features.
“I don’t know, either,” I admit, not one to tell people when I’ve messed up. But this mistake is kind of monumental. “And this isn’t even the worst part of the deal.”
Rutger and Wolfe lift their heads from a pile of car parts they sort through. Not what you’d typically find in someone’s living room.
Rutger says, “Uh-oh, that doesn’t sound good. What do you mean?”
I motion towards shelf upon shelf of notebooks. “Mack wants me to transcribe his writings and try to publish them.”
Wolfe scowls, eyeing the shelves.
Rutger whistles, removing his cowboy hat and running the back of his hand over his forehead. “Damn, dude. Looks like you’ve got your work cut out for you.”
“Yeah, but he hasn’t given me a deadline for when everything needs to be completed. So, I’m taking my time. Working a couple of hours nightly. Attempting to make it manageable.”
Farzad grimaces, his vibrant Hazara eyes contrasting with his olive complexion and ebony-hued beard. “My friend, I think you’ve bitten off more than you can chew.”
“Nice use of that idiom,” Alonso compliments our Afghan friend.
Farzad’s somber face breaks into a grin. “My wife has taught me much about English.”
I want to tease him about Shelby. Say something about how pussy-whipped the big Afghan warrior is. I can tell Rutger does, too, by the way he sets his mouth.
Joking about each other’s women is fairly standard. But not for Farzad. As he has made abundantly clear on several occasions, Afghan men don’t comment on each other’s women. While our buddy has Westernized in some pretty remarkable ways, this is one area where he remains committed to tradition.
Wolfe bends over a Rubbermaid filled with hunting magazines. “For a hoarder who threw shit everywhere, Mack did a pretty damn good job of packing these in chronological order.” He chuckles deep in his throat.
“For whatever that’s worth,” I agree. “I still can’t figure the guy out. On the one hand, this house is a hoarder’s nightmare. On the other hand, he could be so meticulous and detail-oriented with the strangest things. There’s no rhyme or reason to it.”
For example, when it came to the dozen women he corresponded with, he kept a notebook filled with each one’s photos and details.
Everything from their favorite candy to their birthdays, number of siblings, and musical preferences.
It’s fucking ridiculous, but it has made personalizing their breakups much easier.
All except for Callie …
“Not sure you want to figure it out,” Alonso points out. “Because that would mean getting into his mind, which might be a one-way ticket to the loony bin.”
I shake my head. “Nope, Mack’s mental health isn’t the issue. He’s as eccentric as they come. That’s all. But I do wonder if I’ll ever figure out how to make this house into a home I feel comfortable with.”
Wolfe asks over his shoulder, carrying the Rubbermaid of magazines toward the front door and the piles outside, “Why’d the old man decide to leave anyway?”
I follow him outside with a couple more boxes stacked in my arms for the trash pile. “Started hooking up with this fire-breathing performer named Trixie, and the rest is history. Apparently, they’re getting married at Burning Man in a couple of weeks.”
Wolfe freezes, scowling. “Seriously?”
“Yep.”
“The guy never ceases to amaze me.”
“You don’t even know the half of it.” I groan.
“He had all these women he talked to through a dating site called Mountain Mates. I mean, good-looking, intelligent, amazing women. He kept their information in a notebook so that he wouldn’t confuse them.
And some of the love letters he wrote? He had them eating out of his hands.
I had no idea what a scam artist he is.”
Wolfe throws his pile to the ground. “Okay, there aren’t enough words in the English language to make women like that fall in love with that pain-in-the-ass hoarder.”
“He didn’t mention any of that in his love letters.
Didn’t talk about much of anything, really.
Instead, he waxed hot and heavy about abstract stuff like soulmates, true love, amorphous bullshit.
I have to admit the guy’s not a terrible writer.
I have half a mind to publish his love letters instead of his journals because that’s where the real treasure lies.
I bet you anything even Izzie would dig the letters?—”
“Until she learned who wrote them.”
“Yeah, and you could say the same for the women because you know what that son-of-a-bitch did?”
Wolfe shrugs, turning towards me.
“He sent them my photograph without my permission so that they thought they were talking to me.”
Wolfe guffaws until he wipes tears from his eyes.
“What are you laughing at?” I scowl.
“I don’t know what’s worse. The thought of women falling for Mack’s literary charms or your ugly mug.”
“Hey, wait a second,” I counter gruffly. This is how we always tease each other, but still. “I may not be a pretty boy, but I’m a whole helluva lot better looking than Mack.”
Wolfe laughs even harder.
I cross my arms over my chest, annoyed. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Get it all out of your system.”
“You and Mack,” he says between breaths and laughs. “God, I feel sorry for any woman who crosses your paths.”
“Of course, you do.” We all give as good as we get in this group. Way back when Wolfe first met his future wife, Izzie, I gave him plenty of shit over her. After all, she’s a hoity-toity academic, and he’s a brutish warrior.
“So, is Mack continuing these relationships despite being on the road with Trixie?”
“Nope, it seems serious between those two because that was a part of the deal for the cabin. I had to agree to let each of the women down gently.”
“Seriously? Now, I’m sure you got the bad end of the deal. Breakups suck.”
“Yeah, they do. And all of these women are Northern California-based, some of them local, though I don’t know how he kept from meeting them in person, apart from using a P.O. Box for their correspondence.”
Except for one woman—Callie. Mack treated her differently.
Maybe because he assumed she wouldn’t drive from San Francisco to Hollister?
I have more questions than answers when it comes to his notebook of women …
and how my throat thickens and my chest burns every time I look at Callie’s photos or read through one of her letters.
I continue, “Just the other day, when I was working at the museum in Ophir City, I got accosted by one, Beverly, who drove from Truckee to find me. She was pissed at me for breaking it off so abruptly after my most beautiful love letter yet. I’m sure Izzie mentioned it to you.”
“So that’s what was going on at the museum? You sound like you’re in trouble, McGregor. Keep it up, and you won’t be able to live in this area anymore.”
“I have worried about that,” I confess. “I keep waiting for my tires to be slashed or a paper bag filled with shit to end up in the mailbox.”
“How do you think she tracked you down?” he asks.
“Beverly said she put my photo in Google search and matched it to one of me on Gold County’s website when Ormsby Security was honored for taking down the museum heist. Izzie found Beverly’s signature in the museum visitor log for a whole week before the woman caught me on a public-facing shift and let me have it. It was … ugly.”
“Yeah, my wife told me about it. But she left out the why …”
“Because I didn’t go out of my way to explain it,” I say.
“Wild shit, McGregor.”
I nod.
“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.” Wolfe laughs.
“So they say.”
“A dozen breakups? Shit, dude.”
“Yep, though I still have one more to go. One I’m dreading.”
“Another local who’s going to set fire to your life?” Wolfe arches an eyebrow.
“Fortunately, this one lives in San Francisco. But their relationship was a lot further along than the rest.”
“But they never met? And she thought he looked like you? How far along could it possibly have been?”
I shrug. “All I know is I’ve got to let her down as gently as possible. In a way that won’t have her second-guessing herself or getting caught in shit like this again. A lady who’s fallen for a scam needs a confidence boost, not to have her self-esteem attacked further.”
“So, you’re trying to boost their confidence while breaking up with them? Is that even possible?”
I shrug. “Who in the hell knows? But I try.”
“Sounds like you care about the woman in San Francisco,” Wolfe says, eyes narrowing.
I pause for a moment, processing his observation. “Yeah, I do. From her profile on Mountain Mates and letters, she’s quite a catch. I would never want to do anything to hurt her, which makes this suck so much more.”
Wolfe nods, his face unreadable.
What I don’t tell him is that Callie would have been perfect for me if she hadn’t fallen into Mack’s snare. This realization makes everything about the current situation so much worse.
Rutger, Alonso, and Farzad burst through the squeaking screen door, junk piled high in their arms.
“It’s not even seven a.m., and you two are already taking a break?” Rutger barks.
“Yeah, not cool,” Alonso chimes in.
Farzad is oblivious to the whole thing, always ready to work regardless of what others do.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I say, waving away their complaints. “I had something I had to run by Boss Man. That’s all.”
“That’s right, and now it’s back to work,” Wolfe orders.
Hours pass as we sort through shit in the cabin, taking occasional trips to the dump with our pickups and the box truck loaded to the brim.
When the sun hits its zenith, the temperatures too toasty to labor outside, we head into Hollister for lunch at the Silver Fork.
Thank God it reopened recently. It’s the best damn restaurant in this town, and the Black Forest Cake is freaking scrumptious.
By nightfall, the cabin is empty apart from my modest stack of belongings. Nearly twelve hours after they arrived, my comrades depart. I feed and water the animals and Duke, spending extra time brushing my horse and giving him carrots.
Then, I unpack my belongings, move my furnishings, and make my bed, spreading out and transforming the place into something like my home. God only knows how many pounds of junk we moved today.
I eat a lonely dinner of chicken tamales at the rough-hewn kitchen table, going over Mack’s notebook of notable females. Turning the pages of Callie Marchand’s section, I trace her lovely, symmetrical face with my fingertips.
The woman’s fucking gorgeous with her dark mocha skin, golden undertones, and warm, expressive brown doe eyes framed by a full fringe of lashes. Her thick, pink lips inspire an unquenchable thirst as I imagine tasting them for the first time.
Callie makes me want what I shouldn’t … dangerous, unattainable things. Like a wife and kids to call my own.
Turning the page, I read her last letter to Mack. It came in the mail two days ago, and I dutifully added it to the binder.
You say you taste me in your dreams. Sunshine and the sweet warmth of summer rain.
That my fragrance invades your senses, seducing and alluring you, making it impossible to think.
That you’re obsessed with me.
If that’s the case, my question to you is simple …
When?
When will we finally meet?
If only those words were addressed to me. I may not know the first thing about writing a love letter. But I would know exactly how to respond to this missive.
“Yes! Now! This fucking minute! Send me your address, and I’ll be there.” Because this goddess is worth a four-hour drive. Far more than that, honestly. A warm glow simmers through my core as I gaze at Callie’s photograph. What in the hell is wrong with me?
“Time to break it off, Mateo. A woman like that would never settle for a directionless, former alcoholic Ranger like you.” I eye her, stomach roiling at the thought of calling her up and letting her down. It doesn’t feel right with her, though I can’t articulate why.
The doorbell sounds, startling me out of my solitary reflections.
Standing and sauntering that way, still holding the notebook, I stash it among Mack’s journals, uncertain who might be visiting.
I open the door, staring down at the single most beautiful sight of my entire life.
The kind that steals my breath and sends aching shockwaves through my chest.
Calliope Marchard.
In the flesh. From her glossy, long, straight black hair to her warm brown skin, snapping mahogany eyes, and excruciatingly thick, juicy lips, the woman looks good enough to eat. And by the way her simmering gaze meets mine, I’m not the only one who feels this way.