Chapter 4
Chad
Three weeks later.
I like weekends as much as the next guy. They’re good for getting stuff done around the house, maybe helping a friend finish a project, or heading out in the wee hours of the morning to find a good fishing spot, that kind of thing, but this weekend I’m itching to be doing something else.
“You want to head over to the bar?” I ask Luís as I get up from my camp chair, its legs are nestled in a thick carpet of orange maple leaves. “We’re not catching anything,” I add quickly, gesturing out to the lake and then to our fishing pole rigs. The crystal clear water is anything but blue. The surface is a mirror of confetti colors, the orange, yellow, and red of turning leaves, and the hazy purple-gray of an autumn sky dotted with big white clouds. It’s one of my all-time favorite postcard views, the kind that tempts me to take up photography, but photos never capture the feel of it.
Today, however, I keep glancing at my truck and the road that heads back to town.
Luís gives a slow shake of his head. “Sit your ass down, cabrón, ” he grumbles at me. “It was a two hour drive to get here, and we’ve been here all of thirty minutes. The sun's barely coming up.” He gestures at the warming horizon. This low in the valley, the sun has a long way to climb to come up over the mountains, and the extra hours of morning shade make this a prime fishing spot, one of a handful we don’t tell tourists about.
He turns in his camp chair to give me a pointed look. “She’s not there, man. She went home, back to wherever her home is.”
Boston. She’s from Boston.
“I don’t know who you’re talking about,” I grumble the halfhearted lie, and he doesn’t dignify it with a response.
“Isn’t this why you have that rule of yours? No tourists. You broke your own rule, and now you’re paying for it. You’ve got to shake her off. Move on,” he huffs, and I huff back.
He’s rolled his eyes at my rule more times than I can count, telling me I was being thick-headed not to give some tourist or other a chance. “It’s just geography, man. Grown-ass adults can figure that shit out.” He was firm in that stance until I asked him to spend a couple of weekends camped out at Under the Volcano with me, a measly three-night run of Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, two weekends in a row, and now his tune has changed. Now he’s all for my rule. He even went so far as to bully me into fishing today, knowing that it means I might miss her.
“If I see her again, then she got the job and she’s moving back. She’s not a tourist if she lives here,” I say with a bit of a whine I’m not proud of.
“ Siéntate .”
I sit.
I fidget in my chair as all around, the earth comes to life. Birds call and critters buzz, waking up to greet a new day, but the sound of it doesn’t have its usual effect. Instead of settling into the easy quiet of the moment, I’m pulled inward. My hand tingles, and I flush with the remembered sensation of touching her for the first time, the way her palm fit against mine. Our fingers twined, and she tugged, leading me off of the porch.
“Where are we going?” I asked, my pulse kicking up a notch. She smiled and that look burned itself into my brain. Every time I’ve closed my eyes since, I’ve seen her looking over her shoulder with a devilish half smile. It stirs my insides with a dark and insistent kind of hunger. I don’t like it.
Except that I do.
Somewhere between her pulling me into a dark doorway and me ripping off her panties with my bare hands, things shifted. I was no longer a rabbit. And she wasn’t a wolf.
She purred at me. I growled back.
That doesn’t make me the wolf, though. There are real werewolves in this world, with real inner beasts. I've just got this damn growling voice inside my head, and a constant hunger to have someone all to myself. But as a decent, good guy, I ought to ignore that and forget about her. Let her go.
She’s mine.
She’s not mine. Fuck. What’s wrong with me?
She’s a tourist, I remind myself. And Luís is right, I know better than to get attached to tourists. I should have listened when I told myself not to touch her. My tongue was plunging into her mouth at the time, but I know what I mean, and I tried. I slapped my hands against the wall and did all I could to not grab hold, but she kept tugging at my belt loops, and the wolf liked it so much, I couldn’t resist.
Damn it. I’m not a wolf. I give my head a firm shake.
“You alright, man?” Luís asks, bringing me back to the moment.
“I gotta piss,” I say, but what I really need to do is walk this off. I take a lap in the woods, trying to dislodge the dogged memory, but no matter how much I wrestle against it, it refuses to let go.
If only she’d told me she wasn’t from here, maybe I could have resisted. Born and raised, she said, and I took it to mean what I wanted it to mean. I slid inside her like I belonged there. My mouth landed on her neck, and I bit and sucked like I could make her mine. Like I could keep her.
But the fit was too perfect. Everything about her felt too good to be true, and it was.
If a job is a good enough reason for her to move here, then another job could be a good enough reason for her to move away again. It’s natural for some people not to feel tied to a place, but I’m not one of them.
She’s not from here.
And I can’t be from anywhere else.
When I finally return to my seat, Luís asks again if I'm alright. I nod and settle into my chair.
A breeze picks up, coming down the mountain and over the water right toward us. It’s cool against my face. I inhale, and there’s comfort in the sharp notes of pine, the herbal smell of sagebrush, and the earthy sweet scent of mulched maple leaves. I take another deep breath and let it out slowly.
“I’m sorry, man,” I say, glancing at Luís. Warmth flushes at the back of my neck as I think of the three weeks he’s sat by me, letting me moan at work and kept me company at the bar when he could be off with Babs, living his own life. Three weeks over someone I encountered for all of thirty minutes, not a girlfriend, not a date, not even a full-fledged one-night-stand—he’s a better friend than I deserve. “You’re right. It’s time to move on.”
He gives a little nod.
I look out over the water and vow that starting this very moment, I’m clearing my head. I’m not gonna spend another minute thinking about her. It’s not doing me or anyone any good. I take another deep breath, filling my lungs with fresh mountain air. He was right to drag me out here. I needed this.
Next to me, Luís straightens in his chair. “I’ve got a bite,” he says. He’s on his feet, and he snatches up his pole.
“Reel it in,” I say, jumping up to see what he caught. The water ripples with movement below. “I think it’s a bass.”
“I’m hoping for trout.” The fish breaks through the surface, and low and behold, it’s a twelve inch trout wiggling on his line. We yip and hoot at the sizable beauty. A proud grin spreads across Luís’s face as he holds it up. Trout is Babs’s favorite.
C ome Monday morning, I’m feeling good and whistling a new tune. I’d abandoned my notebook on my nightstand for the past few weeks while she-who-shall-not-be-thought-about lived rent free in my brain. But the notebook is back in my pocket, and my head is back in the game.
I come skipping down the stairs from my apartment over the garage wearing my park ranger uniform and fleece-lined bomber jacket against the cold morning air. Heading across the lawn and up the walk to the house, I knock on the front door, and as soon as I get the invite, I go inside.
“Morning, Darcy,” I say, greeting my seventeen year old niece. “And Miss Haisley.” I nod to Darcy’s chubby, seven-month old daughter, strapped into a high chair. The baby lets out a high pitch squeal and bounces in her seat, and that has me grinning ear to ear. Even though she’s greeted me like this every morning for weeks, I just can’t get over the fact that her little baby brain recognizes me. It zings me right in the chest.
Darcy is always full of chit chat in the mornings, and today she tells me about the online classes she enrolled in that’ll let her finish high school and earn college credits at the same time. “I like the sound of that.” I nod encouragingly.
I make us some breakfast: eggs and toast, and a pot of coffee. And while we eat I let her know I’ve got some errands to run after work. “Do you want anything from the shops?” I ask.
“We need Halloween candy!” she says with an excited grin that takes me all the way back to when she was just a little kid. I only met her a few times back then, and one of those times, she was missing both her front teeth. I just about died from the cuteness.
“Yes,” I say and point at her, “good reminder.” Even with the pumpkins everywhere and decorations all over town, Halloween still snuck up on me. It’s tomorrow. “How much do you think we need?”
She pulls a plastic witch’s caldron out from under the table. “This much.” I’d say it’s about three or four gallons worth. “But I want to pay for it,” she adds quickly and starts digging in her pocket.
“No need. I’m on it,” I say as I head out the door. “Call if you think of anything else.”
Normally, I hit the highway and make a straight shot to work, but this morning, I swing through downtown. I’ve decided to widen my net and add a stop at Perkatory Coffee Shop to my morning routine. My personal feelings about the owner aside, Perkatory has far and away the best coffee in town, which also makes it a fine place to meet local ladies.
“I thought I’d need a shot of espresso to perk me up this morning, but then I saw you,” I say with a soft smile, nothing too toothy or rabbit-like. I get a nasty glare, and rather than wait it out, I retreat to the back of the line. I fish out my notebook and scratch a line through that one.
“The sunset has nothing on your gorgeous hair,” I say to the back of the lady ahead of me.
She turns and rolls her eyes at me. “Seriously, Chad? That was cute the first dozen times, but it’s getting old.”
“Sorry, Judy,” I say, scrunching my nose in apology. I didn’t recognize her.
If I’m being honest, the sunset is far prettier than her hair, but it feels like such a nice compliment, I can’t help giving it a go every red-headed chance I get. A comparison to the sunset—the sunset! How is that not a killer line?
“It’s fine,” she says with a little dismissive wave. “How’s your dad doing these days?” she asks, and a little concerned wrinkle pinches her brow.
“Eh, fine I guess,” I mumble. It’s not like she knows my dad or anything, but like a lot of locals, she knows his story, the man who went from being a school superintendent and noted public figure to a crotchety hermit living up on the mountain and taking shots at the tires of cars that get too close to his property line. He’s a curiosity, and people can’t help but ask about him. Maybe they even think they genuinely care. “I’ll be stopping in on him later.”
“Oh, that’s good of you,” she says. “Give him my best.” She turns to place her order, and I have a moment to decide. Do I really need another cup of coffee, or should I just duck out and try this again tomorrow when I’ve thought up some new lines?
I duck out.
A chilly breeze comes whistling down the sidewalk as soon as I’m outside, and I have to catch the brim of my hat to keep it from sailing off. As I’m unlocking my truck, I hear a set of heavy footsteps hurrying toward me. “Chad,” a deep voice calls my name. I turn to see Haratious Mercer, a squat, heavy set demon in a pinstripe suit, jogging toward me.
“Hiya, Harty,” I say, tipping my hat.
“I’m glad I ran into you,” he says, a soft wheeze in his voice. “Could you stop by my cabin, the green one near Frostwing Lookout, and check on the occupant? I haven’t heard a peep from the gal since she booked the place.” Harty owns five rental cabins on Mt. Winter Bliss even though he’s not exactly the outdoorsy type himself. “Her credit card keeps going through, so I’m assuming she’s still alive, but if not, I’ll need to get the place cleaned out before the stink devalues the property.”
I grimace. “If you think your guest is dead, why haven’t you notified the authorities?” I ask, a hard edge to my voice. Guest safety is a serious matter, not something to be flippant about.
“How would I know if she’s dead?” He throws up his hands in exasperation. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking you to go check on her.” He pauses for a beat before he pulls out a white envelope from under his arm. “And if she is alive, could you give her this welcome packet? I’ve been meaning to get up there and deliver it myself, but it’s such a long drive, and with the cost of gas these days, a single trip eats into my profits.” He extends the white folder to me, but I refuse to take it.
“Harty, are you gonna make me remind you yet again that the park rangers aren’t your personal concierge service? I can’t be checking guests in and out for you.”
“Oh, no, of course not,” he says with a tight smile. “I’m merely one of the local businesses that generates the tax revenue that pays your public servant salary. It’s obviously too much to ask for one teensy tiny favor every now and again. It’s best if I burn up my own tank of gas and bathe the mountainside in extra fumes even though you’re going to be in the area anyway.”
I sigh and snatch the folder from his hand. “I’ll drop it off.”
A grin lights up his face. “There’s a good man. I knew I could count on you,” he says and practically skips off with the giddy joy of having saved himself a three hour round trip.
I make it to the ranger station at the foot of the mountain at eight o’clock on the dot, right on time, but I might as well be late. Luís has already opened up shop. The gate is unlocked, the traffic cones are all placed, the green storm shutters are open, and there’s coffee and cookies set out in the guest welcome center. Luís is chatting with a pair of visitors in hiking gear. He hands them a map and tells them to be sure to stick to the marked trails and then sends them on their way.
“You could have left me something to do,” I grumble after the hikers have left. I like carrying my weight. It doesn’t sit right with me when I don’t.
“There’s a job to be done whether you drag your ass out of bed on time or not,” he says, and I mumble back, not really saying anything, just making unhappy noises.
The tune I was whistling this morning has taken on some sour notes, and I haven’t even visited my dad yet. I didn’t oversleep, I grumble to myself, but it’s hardly worth arguing about.
“Here, tonto . Will this make you happy?” Luís asks as he hands me a work order. “The trail up by the crater needs clearing. Grab your tools and get your ass up to the summit. See if you can get it clear before the hikers catch up to you.”
I snatch the paper with a grin, and I’m off, purposeful energy lightening my mood and adding some bounce back to my step. I pack the truck with everything I might need and take the service road up to the first lookout point along the crater rim. A tree’s come down, a small one, but it’s blocking the trail and it’s taken out one of the interpretive signs that gives visitors facts about the wildlife and history of the area. A chainsaw makes quick work of the tree. Thankfully, the sign post didn’t snap, and I’m able to reset it with some fast setting concrete. I can’t do anything about the cracked plexiglass though. That’ll be a special order.
At five, I head out to Last Hour Road and take it up to my dad’s cabin. I stop by twice a week, but he’s never expecting me. Today is no different.
“What are you doing here?” he asks by way of greeting. He’s sitting on his porch in a robe and jeans as scruffy and bedraggled as ever. I haven’t seen this man clean shaven or in proper clothes since I was ten.
“Just checking in on you,” I say with a forced smile. “I have some wood for the pile,” I add.
“I don’t need that over-priced park ranger wood,” he says with a snort. We sell bundles of split logs at the ranger station to raise funds, and yes, it’s over-priced, but in addition to being a necessary source of supplementary income for the park, it also discourages inexperienced guests from taking an ax to a perfectly healthy tree and killing themselves in the process.
“It’s not from the station. A tree came down,” I say.
“I don’t like the smell of pine.”
“It’s not pine.” He’s so fucking picky about everything.
“If it’s not split, it won’t dry right.”
“It’s split.”
He looks away, and that’s the end of it. I move the wood to his pile out back, reorganizing it so that green wood is at the bottom and the stuff ready to burn is easy for him to grab.
I ask to come in. Sometimes he says yes, but most often he says no.
“I wasn’t expecting guests,” he says, even though I come every Monday and Thursday. Standing next to his rocker on the porch, I show him pictures of Darcy and Haisley on my phone, his granddaughter and great granddaughter. Haisley’s hair is really coming in now, and it’s a poof ball in all of my favorite photos. He pretends not to look, but I see his eyes darting over.
It’s time for me to head out, and as I’m leaving, I say, “Don’t forget, we’re all getting together for Christmas this year.” I’ve been giving him twice weekly reminders since the idea came to me—a Robins family Christmas. Everyone in plaid pajamas, hot chocolate, a tree with presents. We haven’t had one of those since I was a kid, but this is baby Haisley’s first Christmas, and I’ll be damned if it’s not perfect.
I backtrack to Last Hour Road and drive another twenty minutes until I come to the gravel lane that leads to Harty’s cabin, high up on the north-facing slope. It’s surrounded by dense trees, and built almost right up on the back wall of a corrie. It gets very little sunlight, and this area is always about ten degrees cooler than the sun-facing south side of the mountain. It’s a miserable little cabin, dark and chilly. Not a place I’d stay.
There’s no car parked out front, but from the driveway, I can see right into the kitchen. A light flips on, and I catch sight of a shadow moving across the wall. Looks like Harty’s guest isn’t dead after all. That’s a relief.
I check the time. I’m going to be cutting it close to get the Halloween candy before the shops close. Hopefully, this will be quick. I cut the engine just as a figure steps into the frame of the window, a stunning demoness with a familiar set of double horns. My heart stops, skips several beats, and then starts up again at a mad gallop, hammering, racing out of control.
It’s her.
Holy fuck, it’s her! She’s here. My head goes fuzzy with excitement, and I can’t remember what my reasons were for saying it was time to move on, but none of it stacks against the one simple fact that she’s still here. This changes everything.
I grab the door handle. My feet are ready to fly toward that cabin, but a question pops to mind and freezes me in my tracks. What do I say when she answers the door?
What do I say?
I reach for my notebook and start thumbing through it, tearing one of the pages in my frantic search for something good, something fitting for a moment like this. Something that’ll sweep her off her feet.
“What are the odds I’d find the most beautiful person in the world right here in the most beautiful place on earth?” I read the line outloud to myself.
Perfect.