Lumberjack of Hollow Peak (Hollow Peak Mountain Men #3)

Chapter 1

one

. . .

Rosalind

The San Juan Mountains are trying to kill my car, and somewhere in Boston, my sister Margaret is closing on her second house.

I shouldn’t be doing math at eight thousand feet on a road that has turned to mud.

My brain runs on two tracks: The switchback ahead is tighter than the GPS implied, and my hatchback is older than my driver’s license.

Meanwhile, my older sister Margaret made partner at her law firm in February.

Mother has crowed about this ever since, even texting a screenshot of the announcement.

Rosalind, sweetheart, why don’t you come stay with Margaret for a while? She has the room. You could get yourself sorted out.

Like I’m a pile of laundry.

The wheel eases to the left. The hatchback fishtails on a slick of half-melted slush and finds its grip an inch from a rusted guardrail. My laminated route map slides off the passenger seat and lands face down on my emergency snack bag.

“Stay where you are.” I focus on my driving.

As the road straightens, the trees pull apart. I take two breaths to calm myself. Hollow Peak sprawls below, a miniature town crafted from toy bricks and timber. The math in my head stops.

Storefronts are painted faded blues and barn reds, and steam rises from the hot springs beyond the rooftops. The snowcapped San Juans form the background.

I descend into the town. Several minutes later, my car sits crooked on Main Street. With so many empty spots, there’s no need to straighten.

I adjust my eyeglasses. “Please let this contract work out.”

Unlike Margaret, who bills five hundred dollars an hour to argue with insurance companies, book collections speak to me like tarot cards. In a stranger’s living room, the books on their shelves reveal divorce, secret trysts, or a teenager’s well-being.

One Thanksgiving, after my sister won a massive case, Mother wanted to frame her bonus check.

When I mentioned that I’d spent two weeks on a rare 19th-century poetry collection for an archivist, Mother’s smile tightened.

She patted my hand and asked, “That’s lovely, sweetheart, but when are you going to turn all this book stuff into a real career? ”

Margaret is a quarterly earnings report. I’m a poem written in a language Mother refuses to learn.

I get out of the car, and the cool spring air hits me. Pine. Wet stone. Faint sulfur from the springs.

Binder tucked under my arm, Main Street beckons, the storefronts painting pictures of a future life here. The clouds have thickened overhead, and it smells like rain the forecast didn’t mention. At least it’s dry now.

A dark green pickup creeps over the uneven pavement.

The driver glances my way through an open window.

A man in a canvas jacket and a baseball cap, one hand loose on the wheel.

Dark hair at his temples. A scar runs from the edge of his cap down along the side of his jaw, raised and pale against weather-tanned skin.

His gaze drops to my cardigan, lingers on my chest, and drops to the curve of my hip where the binder is wedged. Then his eyes flick to my face, which burns.

His jaw thrusts forward. He faces the road, and the truck rolls past the hardware store.

My throat tightens, blood thrumming behind my ears. As I push my glasses up my nose, my fingers aren’t entirely steady.

Bluebird Bookstore sits halfway down the second block. A hand-painted sign appears before the door.

Inside, inviting shelves and overstuffed armchairs greet me under ceiling lights. Scents hit me. Lavender. The faint dust of paperbacks. Eyes closed, I inhale.

The smells anchor me, and I’ll cry if anyone asks me why.

Evelyn Lake meets me at the counter. Sixties, soft white hair pinned up loose, and a blue apron over a flannel shirt. Sharp eyes behind reading glasses attached to a beaded chain.

A smile creases her face, warm as a well-worn book. “You made it. How were the roads?”

“Educational.”

She laughs and waves me toward the back of the store, where two armchairs sit beside a small bar with wine and cider and a charcuterie board nobody has eaten from.

“Sit,” she orders. “I’ve been waiting three weeks to meet you in person.”

I take the offered seat and open my binder.

She nods at the color-coded binder tabs, a validation I haven’t had in months. Evelyn outlines her vision, her hand chopping the air, frustration with her current clipboard system evident in her movements.

“I’ve run Bluebird for twenty-two years,” Evelyn says, “but launching a backcountry delivery program for the cabins scattered through these mountains has eluded me for two. I need a proper community lending catalog.”

I tap my notes. “I can revamp the collection and build those routes for you in six weeks.”

Evelyn leans in, her gaze on mine. “If you pull that off, I’ll recommend you to three other indie stores in the region.”

The math clicks into place in my head. Three recommendations means I can stop the monthly rent scramble. “You’ve got a deal.”

An hour vanishes. Time to wrap up.

“Take time today to look over the town,” she says.

I nod. “I’ll be back next Sunday. I’ll be staying at the lodge.”

“Great!” She squeezes my hand. Her palm is warm. “I look forward to getting started a week from Monday.”

“Me, too.” As I open the door, a bell jingles.

I stand on the sidewalk, feeling aligned for the first time in forever. My binder goes into the back of my car. Now it’s time to explore Main Street. I lose track of time until the wind shifts.

The clouds press down. The air changes, and that scent of rain grows stronger. I head for the café before whatever is coming arrives.

The Switchback Café is the closest place I can stay dry and order a snack. A win-win. Cinnamon and vanilla tickle my nose before the door closes.

The woman standing behind the counter has a silver-streaked braid, flour on her apron, and a face etched with lines that speak of an unapologetic life. She places a mug in front of an empty stool. “You must be the book girl. I’m Mae.”

“Rosalind. Ros, mostly.”

“Sit, sweetheart. I bet Evelyn talked your ear off.”

She’s not wrong. I settle onto the stool. “I enjoyed meeting her.”

Mae slides a cinnamon roll the size of my head across the counter and fills the cup with coffee she calls the real stuff, not gas-station poison. “This is our specialty.”

“Thanks.” My teeth sink into the roll. A surprised sound escapes me.

Mae’s mouth twitches. “Yeah.”

“This is the best thing I’ve ever put in my mouth, and I’m not being polite.”

“I know you’re not. You’re not wearing a polite face. You’ve got that Jesus Christ look. That’s better than polite.”

Laughter bursts from my full mouth.

She leans on the counter. “Are you staying in town tonight?”

“No. Heading back to Denver after this. I wanted to meet Evelyn and scout the town.”

“Smart. Do you know much about Hollow Peak?”

“Only what I’ve read on the Internet. It’s my first time here.”

“And?”

“The town is… quaint.”

Mae laughs. “It is. Typical small town as in we have no secrets.”

“Sounds like a warning.”

“More of a heads-up, but if a man looks at you sideways like you owe him money, that’s Jace Redmond.”

“Should I be worried about him?”

“Not really. We call him Mr. Side-Eye. He has a scar he doesn’t want people staring at.”

The pickup. The driver with the scar. I lower my coffee cup. “I saw him earlier. Mr. Side-Eye fits.”

“Don’t take it personally. He’s been hiding up on the mountain for four years, and I’m about done with him.”

If he’s a recluse, he won’t cross my path again. Good. I bite into the cinnamon roll, silencing the questions about the stranger who’d only glanced at me.

The wind rattles the front door. Rain hits the window like gravel.

The café’s phone rings. Mae picks up, and then her face hardens. “Okay. Thanks.”

She hangs up. Looks at me across the counter. “Rockslide on the pass.” Mae sighs. “Took out a whole section. That’s the only road in or out of town, sweetheart.”

Unease prickles behind my eyelids. “How long will clearing it take?”

“Could be days. A week, maybe.” She watches my face. “Slide’s on the Denver side, sweetheart. You’re not getting home until they clear the road.”

That means I need a place to stay. I pull out my phone and hit call.

It takes two tries before someone picks up. “Ridgeview Lodge, this is Theo.”

“Hi. I have a reservation starting next Sunday. Is there any chance you have a room tonight?”

“Sorry. We’re full. Hikers booked every room the second the weather turned.”

“Okay. Thanks.” The call ends, and I blow out a breath.

Mae’s intense gaze bores into me. “Where are you going to sleep, sweetheart?”

My perfected twelve-year-old smile surfaces, a tight upward curve that’s more performance than genuine. It’s always been my way of saying: I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. I’ve got this. Even when I don’t. “My car’s comfortable enough for a night. Maybe two.”

Mae’s mouth opens, then she snaps it closed. Her gaze holds mine, a silent challenge, but she doesn’t argue. I pay my bill and head out, wanting to get situated before the weather worsens. I drive around until I decide on the trailhead lot.

It’s empty. My car sits in the middle of the row. The safest spot, I hope. Rain falls. All I can do is ignore it.

The back seat folds flat, giving me more room to stretch out, and I arrange my thin fleece. This isn’t so bad. But then wind rocks the car.

Rain lashes, relentless. Soon a chilling drip finds my left shoulder, a steady rhythm on the metal.

I shiver, cardigan damp, glasses fogged, my last granola bar gone.

The dark presses in, a claustrophobic prelude to Mother’s voice in my head.

“Rosalind, sweetheart, when are you going to stop being such an optimist about what you can handle?” I close my eyes, feigning coziness against the cold and the drumming. It isn’t working.

Right now, handling anything seems impossible. And I hate that. One success would prove them wrong, yet I lie trapped, shivering, and alone in my car.

Sleep eludes me. That means it’ll be a long, wet night.

At eleven, headlights sweep across the parking lot.

An engine idles, and a door opens. Footsteps crunch on gravel, steady in the rain, then a knock vibrates at my window.

I scramble into the front seat, open the door, and the storm hits me sideways.

Three feet from my car, a man stands. Tall. Broad through the shoulders. Rain-plastered hair under a soaked baseball cap. Water sluices down his worn canvas jacket. A thick seam of pale tissue runs from his left temple down along his jaw.

A dark green pickup idles behind him, headlights cutting through the dark.

My lungs seize. A wild tattoo thumps against my ribs.

His dark gaze settles on me. Not straight on. Angled from under the brim of the cap. His eyes drop to my cardigan for half a second before they snap back up.

Mr. Side-Eye.

“Mae called.” The words scrape out, rough as gravel. “I have a spare room.”

He turns and walks back to his truck without waiting for an answer.

Or for me.