Thirst in the Mountains (Greene Mountain Boys #12)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Lucy

I love this guy. He’s my ride-or-die.

His massive chest. His brown eyes. His protective nature.

I love the way he makes me feel when he looks at me—like I can’t do any wrong. Like I’m the love of his life. Like he’ll die before he lets anything bad happen to me.

I can do without the drooling though.

I’m flying down the highway in awe of all the beautiful mountains around us. Around every bend is another sweeping vista that takes your breath away. Cutter’s head is out the window, his ears flapping in the wind, his long streams of drool coating my faux leather seats behind him and making a mess.

I crank up the radio and he turns to me, those big brown eyes full of trust and love. I smile.

“You ever heard this song before?” I ask as he watches me pop a cherry Starburst into my mouth. “Sorry, you can’t have one. It’s not good for doggies. Noah Kahan. Stick Season. You like it?”

He turns back to the open window, indifferent to the amazing song blasting through the car speakers.

I try to focus on the nice lyrics and not the raging worry ripping through my stomach.

This is bad.

This is so bad.

I stole a dog.

Before you judge, hear me out. It’s not always a bad thing to steal a dog.

Some people have very good reasons for stealing dogs, thank you very much, and I’m one of them.

It all started eight months ago.

I got a job as a receptionist for a company that sells commercial and residential water pumps. Exciting, right? It was a pretty decent job, answering phones and coordinating workers to send them out on jobs. It was a bit boring, but it was fine.

The thing is, it wasn’t in the nicest part of town. My neighbor on the left was a gravel quarry and the neighbor on the right was a mechanic shop slash junkyard which I’m pretty sure was also an illegal chop shop.

Every time I walked by the chainlink fence to get to my office, their practically feral Rottweiler guard dog would come charging over, snarling and frothing at the mouth. He’d scare the crap out of me every single time. He’d leap on the fence and bark his terrifying head off, letting me know that if the fence wasn’t between us, he’d be eating me for dinner. The first time, I spilled hot coffee all over my chest, I was so startled. The second time, I dropped my papers into the dirt. The third, fourth, and every time after that, I ran, cringed, and prayed for that fence to hold back the canine onslaught while he snarled and assaulted it with everything he had.

I hated him. I began dreading the walk into work. Sometimes, it took ten minutes of deep breathing at my desk before my hands would stop shaking.

Three months went by like that.

And with every day that passed, he seemed to hate me more. I used to think he was hunting me for sport, popping out of different places with that vicious snarling, which I’m sure was scaring years off my life.

Then, one day, I had some extra steak left over from dinner and I got an idea.

As I was walking by the fence, I tossed it over when Cujo came running. He stopped and gobbled it up while I hurried inside.

I kept doing that every day. I’d buy him a nice juicy steak on the weekend, cook it up on Sunday night, and then cut it up for the week.

After a week of this, he no longer barked and attacked the fence when he saw me. After two weeks, he started running over and wagging his tail.

We became friends. I stayed and talked to him after giving him his snack. After a month, I put my fingers through the fence and he licked them. I saw his name engraved on the tag hanging from his dirty brown color—Cutter.

I no longer dreaded walking by the fence. I actually looked forward to it. He looked so happy every time he saw me—happier than anyone else was.

I’d sit outside on my breaks and he’d lay down beside me, staring up at me with those loving brown eyes. Sometimes, I’d read. Sometimes, I’d play him some music. Sometimes, I’d tell him my problems. He always seemed to be listening and was always happy to have my company.

Fall came and so did the cold rain. During a hard downpour, I watched through my window all brokenhearted as Cutter tried to shelter under a smashed car door for hours. I knew the owners left him out there all the time, day and night, no matter what the weather was like. He had a dog house in the corner of the lot, but the wood was all rotten and I never saw him in it. He preferred to lie under that smashed yellow door in the cold mud for some reason I never understood.

By three o’clock, I couldn’t take it anymore. Cutter’s head perked up and his eyes followed me as I marched into that chop shop to speak with the owner.

I didn’t get far.

The sleazy guy with the slicked-back hair, thin goatee, and scorpion tattoo on his neck laughed in my face when I suggested that he let his dog inside while it rained.

“He’s a guard dog, lady,” Angelo said, shaking his head at me. “He’s supposed to be mean and mad. You think he’s going to be any good to me if he gets used to curling up on a couch with a bellyful of cookies?”

I’m not a confrontational person by any means. If I get the wrong order at a restaurant, I usually let it slide, and I don’t think I’ve ever made a scene in public.

But the image of my friend looking so pathetic in that rain stirred something inside of me.

I hated how he was treated. I hated how he wasn’t fed all weekend while the chop shop was closed. I hated how he was never pet, never kissed, never hugged, never called a good boy. All that frustration and anger bubbled over and exploded out.

“You’re abusing him,” I shouted. “He doesn’t deserve this!”

He rolled his eyes. “You gonna buy some rims or what?”

“ Stolen rims?” I said, glaring at him.

He glared back at me.

I knew I was in over my head. There were all sorts of sketchy guys coming in and out of here and the closest thing I came to a fight was when my volleyball team in high school started a shouting match with the other team. Luckily, I was serving so I was in the back.

“How about you go back to your water pumps and I’ll forget this conversation ever happened?” he warned. “Otherwise, we’re going to have bigger problems than a wet dog. You understand me?”

I bit my tongue, turned, and stormed out of there.

“And quit feeding my guard dog!” he shouted at my back.

Even though it was pouring, Cutter jumped up and ran over, wagging his wet tail as he followed me along the fence.

“I’m sorry, buddy,” I whispered to him. “There’s not much I can do.”

He didn’t seem upset with me at all. He was just happy to see a friendly face.

Two weeks later, on a Wednesday afternoon, I stepped out of my office and someone popped out of the shadows, clutching a knife.

“Give me your purse, jewelry, and phone,” the man hissed.

I froze, staring at him in horror. He had these hollow sunken eyes with nothing good behind them. At first, I thought Angelo must have sent him since I had kept feeding Cutter even after his warning, but I quickly realized by his shaking hands that he was a junkie looking for money for his next fix.

“Let’s go, bitch ,” he hissed, slashing the knife between us. I gasped as it came dangerously close to my face.

I couldn’t move, but luckily, I didn’t have to. My furry savior came charging through the junkyard, barking and snarling like I hadn’t heard him do in months. Cutter saw me in trouble and leaped so high that he made it to the top of the fence. I don’t know how that crazy dog made it to the top, but he did and managed to scramble over.

“ Fuck! ” the guy screamed, turning and fleeing in panic as Cutter leaped off and landed on the ground six feet below.

I don’t know how far Cutter chased him or what he did when he caught him, but I never saw that guy again. Cutter came running back to me a few minutes later, looking pretty darned pleased with himself. His ears dropped back as he smelled me all over, making sure I was okay.

I dropped to a knee, buried my face into his neck, and cried. He just stood there patiently as I let it all out.

“Thank you,” I sobbed, petting him with trembling hands. “Thank you for saving me.”

“What the fuck?!” Angelo screamed, storming out of his building when he saw me hugging his dog. “Did you let him out?!”

I tried to explain that he saved me. That his guard dog actually did his job admirably, but Angelo didn’t want to hear any of it. He grabbed Cutter by the collar, yanked and dragged him to the door, and threw him back into the junkyard.

“Stay away from my dog, lady,” he hissed at me. “I’m not going to tell you again.”

“But he?—”

It was no use. He didn’t want to hear it.

That’s when Cutter and I became best friends. I couldn’t sleep at night knowing he was out there in the cold. December came and the weather got worse. It snowed a lot and I kept thinking of Cutter’s cold paws and frozen body. The poor dog was out there all night.

On the first Friday in December, we got a heck of a snowstorm. I sat in my office watching Cutter through the window, hating how cold and pathetic he looked. I had already thrown a thick blanket over the fence for him, but it was covered in snow.

The weather report said we were going to get thirty centimetres over the weekend and I knew in my heart that I couldn’t leave him out there in a storm like that.

He saved me.

I knew it was my turn to repay the favor.

I slipped out to the hardware store and bought the biggest bolt cutters I could find. Once Angelo and all of his criminal employees left for the weekend, I ran over to the fence, clipped a hole into it, and we made our great doggy getaway.

Cutter looked so confused when I tried to put him in my car, but with the help of a few cookies, I got him in.

I brought him home that night and he slept in a warm bed for the first time. He looked so happy. So grateful. We snuggled all night and I knew I had done the right thing even if that thing was stealing a dog.

I also knew that I had blown up my life. There were cameras all over the junkyard and Angelo already didn’t like me.

It was all starting to dawn on me as I snuggled with Cutter in my bed. I couldn’t go back to my job. Ever.

Angelo would find out where I lived and when he came here and saw his dog all domesticated in my apartment, he would go beyond giving me a stern look. He’d probably slit my throat.

“We have to go somewhere else, buddy,” I said as I stroked Cutter’s head. “We can’t stay here.”

I had until Monday morning when Angelo and his crew woke up from their weekend bender and stumbled into work. They’d see that Cutter was gone, they’d find the hole, and then all they had to do was look at the camera recording to know that I was responsible.

And not even my protective furry friend could save me then.

I spent the night looking up places. A small town in the mountains would be perfect. Somewhere Angelo would never find us.

It was after midnight when I found it.

The Greene Mountains in Montana.

It was perfect.

It was an adorable town with a stunning surrounding, and best of all, it was far enough away from here that we wouldn’t ever have to look back.

I packed up everything that was worth packing, emailed my boss telling him I had to quit, left two months rent on the table in cash with an apology note to my landlord, and we left.

I was kind of sad to realize that I didn’t have anyone else to say goodbye to. I had been living here for two years and hadn’t really made any friends.

My family was three states over. I’d be closer to them now.

A new start was what I needed.

And that’s what we’re about to get.

“There it is,” I say to Cutter as we pass the giant green sign on the highway. The Greene Mountains. “We’re here.”

My stomach fills with excited nerves as I put on my blinker and turn onto the exit.

Cutter looks at me and then licks my wrist like he’s telling me we got this.

“We do got this, buddy,” I say, more to myself than to him. “We got this. Greene Mountains here we come!”