Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
JADA
The man on the porch looks like he wants to murder me.
Not in a serial killer way. More in a "you have interrupted my carefully constructed isolation and I am personally offended by your existence" way.
Arms crossed. Jaw tight under a beard that's gone past intentional into "I stopped caring" territory.
Gray eyes locked on me with the warmth of a January sidewalk.
Six foot one, easy. Broad shoulders straining a flannel shirt that's seen better decades. Forearms thick with muscle, dusted with dark hair. Hands wrapped around a coffee mug like he's strangling it.
Lord.
My mama would take one look at this man, fan herself with a church bulletin, then tell me to get back in the car.
My mama isn't here. My mama is in Atlanta, probably on the phone with my best friend Tasha right now, comparing notes on how long it's been since I checked in.
Three days. A personal record for Jada Williams, the woman who once called her mother from a work trip bathroom to remind her to take her blood pressure medication.
"Hi," I say again, because he hasn't responded. Just stares at me from his porch throne with his murder eyes while his dog, who rolled belly up the second I walked over, squirms happily at my feet. "Your dog seems friendlier than you."
"He's not friendly. He hates strangers."
The dog's tail is going so fast his entire back half is vibrating. One giant paw bats at my hand. Big brown eyes beg me to rub his belly.
Kneeling down, I give the dog what he wants. Coarse fur, warm belly, a happy grunt when I find the sweet spot behind his ear. "What's his name?"
"Duke."
"Hi, Duke." The dog licks my wrist. "You're a very good boy. Yes, you are. The best boy on this whole mountain."
Duke wiggles with his whole body. The man on the porch makes a sound. Somewhere between a cough and a protest.
"He doesn't do that."
"He's doing it right now."
"I can see that."
Standing, I brush dirt off my sundress. The orange one.
My favorite. My "I quit my soul crushing corporate event planning job, sold my furniture, loaded my car, and drove across the country to figure out what I actually want from my life" dress.
Bought it at a thrift shop in Revelstoke two days ago because the color made me happy, which is a reason I've never used to buy anything before.
The man hasn't moved. Still on the porch. Still holding the mug. Still looking at me with an annoyed expression.
"Look," I say, putting on my professional voice, which is the voice I use when I need people to take me seriously despite being five foot seven with a smile my former boss once called "aggressively pleasant.
" "My GPS sent me up this mountain. It said there was a shortcut to Crimson Hollow.
There is not a shortcut to Crimson Hollow.
There is a road that goes up, turns to gravel, turns to dirt, then apparently dead ends at the cabin of a man who looks at human beings like an unwanted obligation. "
Nothing. Not even a flicker. This man's face is a closed door.
"My gas light came on twelve miles ago. My phone lost signal about twenty minutes before that.
So unless you want me to camp in your driveway and talk to your dog until someone drives by, which based on the state of this road could be sometime around the next presidential election, I'd appreciate it if I could use your phone. "
He takes a sip of coffee. Slow. Deliberate. Like he's got all the time in the world and plans to use every second of it making me wait.
"Don't have cell service."
"A landline?"
"Satellite phone. Inside."
"May I use it?"
Another sip. "You always tell strangers their porch needs work?"
"Only when it does." Pointing at the bottom step where the wood has splintered along the grain, I raise an eyebrow. "Somebody's gonna catch a nail through their foot."
Something shifts in his expression. Barely. A micro movement around his mouth that could be the beginning of a response or could be gas. Hard to tell with men this committed to being unpleasant.
He sets the mug down. Stands. And now I understand why my body went warm when he was sitting, because standing, he's a wall. Chest, shoulders, arms, all of it built from actual labor, not a gym membership. He moves past me toward the door without making eye contact.
"Phone's on the counter."
Inside, the cabin is clean. Spare. A kitchen with a coffee maker and a cast iron pan.
A bookshelf with warped paperbacks. A leather couch facing a stone fireplace.
Everything is wood, stone, and function.
No photos on the walls. No decorations. Nothing that says "a person lives here and that person has feelings. "
The satellite phone sits on the kitchen counter. Bulky, utilitarian. Picking it up, I dial the only number I know by heart.
It rings four times.
"Jada Elaine Williams, you better be calling me from a hospital or a jail because those are the only acceptable reasons I haven't heard from you in three days."
Tasha. My best friend since seventh grade, when she told Darnell Cooper to stop pulling my braids or she'd put him through a window. She was four foot nine. She meant every word.
"I'm alive. I'm on a mountain. My GPS lied to me."
"Where?"
"Somewhere in the Kootenays? British Columbia? I'm using a stranger's satellite phone."
"A stranger's? Jada."
"He's fine. His dog likes me."
"Serial killers have dogs."
Turning, I glance through the kitchen window.
The man, I still don't know his name, is back on the porch.
Sitting in his chair. Staring at the tree line.
Duke has abandoned his belly rub position and is now sitting at the man's feet, looking up at him with adoration the man is refusing to acknowledge.
"He's not a serial killer. He's just grumpy."
"You said Ted Bundy was probably 'just misunderstood' when we watched that documentary."
"I was nineteen. Can you look up the nearest gas station to..." Leaning toward the window: "Hey. What's the name of this road?"
He doesn't turn around. "Doesn't have one."
Of course it doesn't.
"Tash, I'll figure it out. Just wanted you to know I'm okay."
"You quit your job, sold your apartment, drove to Canada alone, and you're now using a stranger's phone on a mountain with no name. You are not okay. You are having a crisis."
"It's not a crisis. It's a soul cleansing summer road trip."
"Girl."
"I'll call you when I get to a town."
Hanging up, I set the phone back on the counter. That's when the first crack of thunder rolls across the valley. Deep, low, rattling the windows.
Through the glass, the sky to the west has gone purple. Fast. Mountain weather changes in minutes up here, I learned that driving through Jasper last week when a storm materialized from nothing and turned the highway into a river.
The man is on his feet now. Looking west. His jaw does that tightening thing again.
Stepping onto the porch, I follow his gaze. The clouds are stacking up behind the ridgeline, dark, heavy, moving fast. Already the temperature has dropped. Wind pushes through the pines with a sound that makes Duke press against his owner's leg.
"That looks bad."
"It is bad." His voice is flat. Stating fact. "Storm cell. Probably three hours of heavy rain. The road you came up on floods at the creek crossing about a mile down. Once it goes, you're not getting out until morning at the earliest."
Morning. Minimum.
"So I should leave now."
"You've got no gas."
Right. The orange dress suddenly feels insufficient.
He stands there, not looking at me, for a long time. Fifteen seconds. Twenty. Thunder rolls again, closer. Duke whines. The first fat drops of rain hit the porch railing.
"I've got a couch."
"I'm sorry?"
"One night. The couch." He's already walking inside. "Storm'll pass. I'll drive you to town in the morning for gas."
Duke trots in after him. Settles on a rug near the fireplace with the comfort of a dog who knows exactly where he belongs.
One night. On a grumpy stranger's couch. On a mountain with no road name, no cell service, and a storm rolling in.
Mama would faint.
I walk inside.