2. Chapter 2 Daisy
Chapter 2: Daisy
I f one more testosterone-soaked mountain man does a drive-by creeping session without offering to help, I'm going to lose it. I've counted four trucks this morning alone, all with those super-dark windows like they're all starring in their own personal witness protection program.
"Seriously?" I glare at the latest retreat, a massive black pickup that probably compensates for something. "What is wrong with this town?"
The box I've been wrestling for ten minutes picks this moment to explode all over the porch, scattering my brand-new inventory system everywhere. I unleash my favorite string of profanity, the one that made my proper Chinese grandmother threaten to wash my mouth out well into my twenties.
"Real professional, Daisy. Day five of small-town business ownership and you're already the crazy lady talking to herself on the porch."
I blow a strand of hair out of my face and survey my new kingdom: one ancient Trading Post, complete with creaky floors, questionable wiring, and enough dust to make me question every life choice that led me here.
But it's mine. All mine.
The early morning light catches the faded lettering above the door:
Storm Peak Trading Post, Est. 1899
Below it, my shiny new sign waits to be hung:
Under New Management – Grand Reopening Soon!
Assuming I don't throw in the towel and run screaming back to Seattle first.
I bend to gather the scattered papers, my overpriced Lululemon leggings earning their keep with the stretch, as a shadow passes over me. Another truck crawls by.
"Take a picture, it'll last longer!" I yell, not bothering to look up. The engine revs and the vehicle speeds away.
Great. Now I'm not just the crazy lady talking to herself, I'm the crazy lady yelling at random trucks.
The door creaks behind me. "You're scaring away all my regulars."
I yelp, spinning to find Old Joe leaning in the doorway. He's got to be pushing eighty, but his eyes are sharp as he watches me over his coffee cup. He's been here every morning at dawn since I bought the place, claiming squatter's rights to the ancient armchair by the pot-bellied stove.
"Your regulars seem pretty easily scared," I mutter, gathering the last of my papers.
"Nah." He takes a sip, clearly enjoying both the coffee and my irritation. "Just the one you keep trying to catch. That's Marcus Steel. He only comes down the mountain at dawn. Doesn't like people seeing him."
Finally, a name to go with the black truck. "What's his deal?"
"Not my story to tell." Joe gives me his cryptic old-man smile. "But if you're looking to update this place proper, you might want to ask him about that furniture in the back room. He's the one who made it."
I freeze halfway through the door. "The gorgeous pieces in storage? That was him?"
The display cases I'd found buried under tarps are what sold me on this place. Gorgeous hand-carved wood, the kind of craftsmanship you can't fake. I'd been trying to track down the artist all week.
"Yep. Been trading his work for supplies here for years." Joe settles into his chair with a grunt. "Course, good luck getting him to talk to you. Man's got his reasons for staying up that mountain."
I glance at the road where the black truck disappeared. "We'll see about that."
Joe's chuckling follows me into the store. "Girl, you have no idea what you're poking at."
I ignore him, heading for the back room. Time to take another look at that furniture. I run my fingers over the carved surface of the nearest table. The craftsmanship is exquisite, but there's something else, a wildness in the designs, like the wood itself is trying to break free.
What’s your story, Marcus Steel?
A boot print catches my eye. It wasn’t there when I left last night. The print was muddy and still fresh like it had been racked in recently.
Someone's been in here at night. WTF!