The Mountain Man's Reawakening
Chapter One
Ella
My vision is bleary as I watch the sun peek over the trees outside my kitchen window.
The aroma of the brewing coffee does little to perk me up.
My mouth waters, craving the bitter elixir as much as my mind requires the jolt of caffeine.
At this point I might as well start an IV of the stuff because I need a constant supply.
Sleep was elusive last night, same as it has been for the last several months. I had hoped being in a new place would help with the unrest plaguing me, but the change of scenery has done little to alleviate the persistent buzzing in my head. Too many life changes at once will do that to a person.
The gurgling of the coffee maker signals my saving grace is now ready for consumption.
I pour the inky liquid into my favorite ceramic mug—one I handcrafted myself on my pottery wheel—painted in golds, yellows, oranges, and reds.
It’s reminiscent of the sunrise I just witnessed, which was my goal when painting it.
I blow on the steaming brew before tentatively sipping a mouthful. Thank God for the person who realized grinding up the pungent beans and pouring hot water over them would produce a drink that fortifies so many of us. It’s one of my many gratitudes for the day.
After a few more sips, I pull out the ingredients to make pancakes. I grab eggs from the basket on the counter. Eggs which are fresh as can be, plucked from the nests of the chickens in the backyard yesterday. Another gratitude for the list.
The novelty of having the animals is as fresh as the eggs themselves.
They came with the property, much to the delight of my four-year-old daughter.
I know nothing about caring for chickens, but I’ll learn as there was no way I could possibly tell my sweet girl we were not keeping them.
Especially after seeing the absolute joy they brought her.
From the fridge, I retrieve milk and butter.
Before I close the door, my eye catches on the container of deep purple huckleberries we picked yesterday.
Yet another gratitude to add to the list. The area is rife with the bushes, which produce the tasty treats.
I’ve taken to keeping ziplock bags in my pocket when we’re out exploring our new property so we can pick them as we find the berries.
They’ll be perfect to add to Maisie’s favorite breakfast food.
The corners of my mouth tug up remembering her purple stained lips and hands yesterday.
She loves the little orbs almost as much as she loves the chickens.
I keep worrying she’s going to get a tummy ache from eating too many, but so far the fear has not come to fruition.
Seeing her flourish in just the few short days we’ve been here has me even more certain this was the right move to make. My heart aches for all she’s been through at such a young age. It tore me apart watching her have to deal with things she never should have and not understand why.
Mike wasn’t the best father around, but he was still her dad. When he didn’t fight for more than one weekend a month with our baby girl, I was enraged on her behalf. She doesn’t comprehend he’s already moved on with his life, and had done so well before the divorce papers were drawn up.
We’ll be just fine without him. Our marriage has been over for a while anyway. Staying for Maisie’s sake wasn’t the best thing for either of us. It’s not like it was doing her any favors anyhow. Now she’s thriving here in Coyote Creek.
I turn on the electric skillet before plopping the butter into a glass measuring cup and sticking it in the microwave to melt.
Dipping the scoop into the flour canister, I measure it out, and then do the same with the sugar, salt, and baking powder, whisking them together.
Pulling the melted butter out I mix it with the milk, eggs, and vanilla.
I combine the two bowls together to complete the mixture.
It’s not until I pour the last of the batter into the skillet I glance at the clock with a frown. It’s almost seven o’clock. Maisie never sleeps this late. She’s always been an early riser—much to my dismay. Hopefully the huckleberries haven’t finally gotten to her.
I flip the pancakes and turn off the skillet, letting the residual heat cook the other side.
Striding down the hall toward the bedrooms, I’m so focused on checking on Maisie I don’t notice the peeling wallpaper, floorboards that need refinishing, or the multitude of other repairs needed on this old farmhouse.
I’ve been cataloging the updates and work I’ll need to do on the place.
The excitement over getting to throw myself into making this old house a cozy home for the two of us has given me a purpose and kept me from otherwise spiraling.
Inheriting not only this property but a generous insurance payout from a father I never knew was a bigger shock than my divorce.
But it couldn’t have come at a better time.
The mile long list of things the house needs can wait for the moment. Right now I’m more worried about my girl than anything else.
“Hey baby girl, are you not feeling well? You never sleep this…” My words dry up after pushing open her bedroom door to find her rumpled twin bed in the corner empty.
Heart pounding double time, I turn toward the bathroom to check for her there and find it empty too. Dread pools in my stomach as I call out Maisie’s name.
“Maisie! This isn’t funny, please come out. Mommy’s worried.” This isn’t like her at all.
A frantic search of the house turns up nothing. I rush outside, not bothering to take the time for shoes, and check the chicken coop, but don’t find her there either. A quick search around the yard yields the same panic inducing results.
A sob tears through me and bile rises into my throat. My head frantically whips around as I scream Maisie’s name until my voice is hoarse. Having no clue where to start looking I stumble into the house to find my phone and call for help from people who do.