Reaper Wolf (Return To Fate Mountain #8)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

Reed Bright pulled into the parking lot of Fate Mountain Brewery. It was early evening and the lot was already filling up. Music nights drew a crowd, especially now that spring had finally settled in and people wanted reasons to get out of the house.

He grabbed his guitar case and gear bag from the back seat of his Jeep. The bag had his recording gear, spare strings, and a small ambient mic. He’d been layering ambient sound into his live recordings, trying to capture a sense of place.

He walked through the front door and inhaled the scents of hops and barley. An old friend waved from a booth near the dartboard, and Reed waved back. On Fate Mountain, everyone knew everyone else for the most part.

The mahogany bar gleamed under Edison bulbs. Behind the taps, a chalkboard listed a selection of rotating offerings. Max Bach and his crew were always experimenting with new brews.

Fate Mountain Lager was a beloved constant. Reed’s new favorite was a brew called Wildflower Wheat. There was also a nice seasonal ale called Dandelion Gold, made from foraged dandelions.

The brick walls of the taproom were decorated with photographs and paintings of mountain landscapes, wildlife portraits, and a few artistic black and white shots of music nights.

Reed made his way toward the small stage in the corner. The fading evening light came through the windows illuminating the room in golden hues. Out the back door, there was a small crowd on the patio. People were gathered at tables with pints in hand, enjoying the spring weather.

Danny Gillis was already at the sound board, checking mic levels. Danny had worked at brewery music nights for three years, and he and Reed had developed a good working relationship. Reed nodded at Danny in greeting, and they had a quick discussion about the monitor mix.

“I’m trying something new tonight,” Reed said as he set up his mic. “I’ve been layering ambient recordings into some of my mixes. It adds an interesting texture.”

“Yeah?” Danny adjusted a fader. “That sounds really cool.”

Reed strummed a chord, listening to it come back through the monitors. Max Bach was behind the bar pulling pints with another bartender Reed vaguely recognized. Carl something. He’d seen him around town, working at different locations. The diner, the lodge, and sometimes at the brewery.

The taproom was filled with the usual faces, friends and family and locals he’d known all his life. He made the final tuning on his acoustic guitar, settling in on the bench where he typically started his sets. Reed adjusted the mic stand and waited for Danny to give him a nod.

He opened his show with “Wagon Wheel,” the Old Crow Medicine Show version everyone knew by heart. It was a warm-up song that got people singing along. By the second chorus, half the room had joined in, voices blending with his.

Glasses clinked and people murmured to each other between songs. But when he started singing again, the noise softened and the faces of the crowd turned back toward him.

He moved into “North Shore,” one of his originals.

It was a song about fishing at Lake Fate early in the morning when the mist still clung to the water.

It was about cold hands wrapped around a thermos, the patience of waiting for something to bite, and how it brought its own kind of peace.

A few regulars nodded along. The locals knew the lake, and they knew that quiet, peaceful feeling.

“Wildflower Season” came next. He’d written it last spring when the meadows above town had exploded with color. Lupin, Indian Paintbrush, and carpets of Yellow Balsam Root. The song was about that, but also about renewal. About things coming back to life when you’d almost forgotten they could.

By the time he reached the last song of the first set, the evening light had faded, and the world outside had descended into darkness.

“This one’s new,” Reed said, adjusting his capo. “I’ve been working on it for a while now. And it finally feels ready.”

He let his fingers find the opening chord.

“I keep my voice low and my breathing slow. I’ve learned the art of standing still. But there’s a thunder underneath my skin. That doesn’t bend to my will.”

A few people who knew him well would know what this song was about.

“I built myself a quiet life. Gentle words and careful ways. But something in me knows a different tongue. And it speaks on the hardest days.”

The chorus opened up, and he leaned into it.

“It’s out of my hands. When the moment comes. I’m not the one who decides. What I become. I can hold on tight. I can make my plans. But when the signal fires. It’s out of my hands.”

He could feel the crowd’s attention wrapped up in his words.

“I see the man I want to be. Steady as the morning light. But there’s a stranger wearing my face. When the world picks a fight.”

The bridge came softer. Almost spoken.

“Maybe peace isn’t found in the holding. Maybe grace is just letting go. Maybe I’ll stop fighting what I’m carrying. And learn to trust what I already know.”

He brought it home with the final chorus, letting the last chord ring out until it faded into the silence of the room.

“It’s out of my hands. When the moment comes. I’m not the one who decides. What I become. I can hold on tight. I can make my plans. But when the signal fires. It’s out of my hands.”

The applause came after a beat of stillness. A few people wiped their eyes. An old friend raised his pint in salute from a booth near the window.

Reed stepped off the stage and headed to the bar. Max poured him a glass of water without being asked.

“Sounding good up there,” Max said. “That last one was something else.”

“I had to dig deep to write it. But I think it’s one of my best.” He took a long swig of water.

“The summer schedule’s filling up. Let me know what dates will work for you.”

Reed nodded and finished his glass of water. Down at the other end of the bar, Carl was restocking glasses. His eyes kept darting around the room like he was tense.

“Reed Bright.” A hand landed on his shoulder. He turned and found Tommy Hendricks, his friend from high school. He worked as a mechanic in a shop downtown. “When are you putting out a full album? Not just singles on Soundcloud.”

“I’m working on it,” Reed said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“You’ve been working on it since junior year.”

“Good things take time,” Reed said with a grin.

The dartboard in the corner drew a small crowd, and the jukebox kicked on, playing “I Fall to Pieces” by Patsy Cline.

“How’s your dad doing?” Tommy asked.

“Good. Busy. He’s supposedly retired, but you know how he is.”

“How are Holly and Ivy? Is Ash still fire chief?”

“Everyone’s good. The littles are keeping the family occupied. Ash is still fire chief. He loves it, you know. Throwing himself out of helicopters into a burning forest. But being with Eliana has settled him down a bit. And he’s adjusting to life on the orchard with a family.”

“All your siblings have found their mates, haven’t they?” Tommy asked. Tommy was a mountain lion shifter. And he’d found his mate in high school without even needing to use . Reed’s dad Corey Bright had designed the dating website specifically for shifters.

Reed smiled. But it didn’t reach his eyes. He’d been on for seven years. And he still hadn’t found his mate.

“Still waiting,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets.

Tommy gripped his shoulder and squeezed. “You’ll find her soon. Maybe after you put out that album you’ve been promising, she’ll show up.”

Reed chuckled at that. Tommy turned away to rejoin his wife at the pool table. He felt the little recorder in his pocket, remembered why he’d brought it, and slipped outside onto the patio.

The air was cool and night had fallen. There were still a few people lingering at the tables, but most had moved inside. The sky had gone midnight blue above the mountains, and stars spread out over town.

His field recorder had a built-in condenser mic that was sensitive enough to pick up a whisper from across the room. He’d paid more for it than he should have, but the quality was worth it.

He breathed in the mountain air and listened to the sounds of people enjoying themselves drifting through the patio door behind him.

Fate Mountain was his home. As a part-time musician, he’d traveled around, seen other places, played other venues.

He’d even gone as far as Denver and Pheonix last summer.

But none of those places felt like home.

He found a spot on a wide ledge near some potted plants and tucked it back where no one would bump it or mess with it. He hit record and the little red light started blinking.

He went back inside and got on stage for the second set. He’d warmed up. And there was something about the later hour that made people more receptive.

Reed opened with “Fast Car” by Tracy Chapman. It was always a crowd favorite. Melancholy wrapped in hope. The audience swayed along, and a few voices joined in on the chorus.

“Fishing in the Dark” was next, a Nitty Gritty Dirt Band cover he always enjoyed playing. The room came alive, people grinning and nudging each other. Tommy and his wife slow danced in the corner.

Next was “Pine and Wood Smoke.” His love letter to Fate Mountain. To this brewery, this community, the smell of the air and the sound of the jukebox and the feeling of belonging somewhere.

He ended his set with “Take Me Home Country Roads.” The John Denver classic that never failed. By the second verse, everyone was singing, clapping along. The room was full of voices and warmth and joy that came from making music together. He sent them out with a high note.

The applause at the end was loud and warm. Reed thanked the crowd, thanked Danny, and thanked Max. A few people drifted toward the front door or out onto the patio.

“Good stuff tonight,” Danny said, handing him the memory card from the board recording

“I can’t wait to mix it at home.”

After he’d finished packing up his things, he went out onto the patio to collect his recorder.

The night had turned cool with the late spring chill from the mountains.

His recorder was right where he’d left it.

The red light was still blinking. He stopped the recording and tucked it into his pocket.