WALKER: The men of Whiskey Mountain

by Love, Frankie

  Yes, it's quiet out there, it's a good place to get lost. But last night I was found and the idea of going back there now, it kills me. I douse my hash browns in hot sauce thinking it's what Wavy would do. And yes, I'm sentimental, but my life's been hard, so I'm going to take sentimentality where I can fucking find it. And I can find it right here in a bottle of Tabasco sauce. I'll have it like she's having it. I'll take what she's taking. God, I want that girl back.

  She's nowhere in town, so I get in my plane, hating that this is how it's going to end. But there was nowhere left to look. There is a motel and a diner and a fueling station. Not much else. At the landing strip, I wish there were other guys out here. Other pilots waiting to do some deliveries. Because maybe someone knows where she went. There's a small outpost at the landing strip, where there is a carafe of shitty coffee and a logbook. It’s also where pilots jot down their name and the time and the date. It’s to let other people know where they're going, what they're doing.

  There's only one name above mine. A guy who delivered here yesterday. It's my buddy, Jameson. He landed late last night and left early this morning. He doesn't say what he was delivering, but it does say what he's taking: One passenger.

  I swallow hard, knowing if I can track down Jameson, I can find my girl.

  He doesn't answer, of course. There's no cell service in this shitty place, but he lives pretty damn close to me, so maybe at the end of the day, I'll be able to get in touch with him.

  I jump in my plane and start doing my job. But later, I'll be looking for Jameson. And I'll be finding out where he took my Waverly.

  * * *

  Jameson is hard as hell to track down. Sure, his is cabin close to mine, but he wasn't there when I arrived. Knocking on his door with a bottle of Jack Daniels in hand, I find his house is empty, cold. And it didn't look like he'd been here for a while. I get back in my 4Runner and head to my cabin, knowing it’s going to be a long-ass night. I don't have any more deliveries lined up, and for once I am anxious for work. I don't want to sit here on my porch looking out at the lake, and my seaplane, just waiting to go somewhere. I want to be wherever Wavy is. It’s lonely out here when you have the memory of a woman sleeping beside you in your bed.

  It's a long night and a long week. It kills me every time I hear a plane as I look up in the sky hoping it's Jameson. Finally, it is.

  I don't care if he just landed, I get in my 4Runner and I head down the trail, around the bend of the lake, ready to find out what he knows.

  Waving a bottle of whiskey, I call out to him. "Hey, Jameson, you got a sec?" I ask.

  He nods, grunts, and together we walk inside.

  "What's got your panties in a wad?" he asks.

  Jameson is about my age, barely thirty, with a chip on his shoulder. He's a little rough around the edges, which is saying something. But Jameson was born and raised in Alaska. He's a different sort of man. Sure, we both have big thick beards and can growl like a mother fucker, but he knows this place like the back of his hand and I'm jealous of that. Because while my cabin is my home, this wild land is still not mine. It's going to take longer than a year to get it to warm up to me. And the tall trees that surround my property, they're just learning my name. Same way as I'm learning theirs. It's a slow go around here; no one's in a hurry. Except for right now. Because right now I need to find out if Jameson knows anything.

  "Can I pick your brain?" I ask him as he pulls open the door to his cabin and lights a fire. I reach for two mugs and fill them with whiskey, adding more than a couple of inches to his.

  "It's been a long-ass week, Walker. What do you need?"

  "I need to know if you've seen a girl."

  Jameson laughs. Taking the whiskey and sitting in his armchair. "You want to know if I've seen a girl? How many girls do you think you might see out here in the middle of nowhere?"

  "I don't know, but you took a passenger last week, and I'm wondering if she might be the girl I'm after."

  Jameson gives me a long hard look. A slow nod. “You know that girl? Waverly?" he asks, saying her name like he knows her. And I'm ready to shove him back against a wall, to pull back my fist and lay it on thick. He better not have touched my girl. My baby girl. My one and only.

  "If you dared lay a finger --," I start.

  He cuts me off. “I didn't see shit," he tells me.

  "You didn't see shit or didn't do shit?"

  He raises his hands and laughs. "Walker, what's your deal man? Listen, I didn't do shit. Didn't lay a finger on that pretty little thing who had no business being up here in the middle of nowhere. She's going to get herself in trouble. Or worse."

  My fists curl and my blood boils. "Where did you take her?"

  Jameson raises an eyebrow, shaking his head. "You know that weird-ass hippie place? Few hours north? She went there."

  My mouth presses into a firm line. At least I know where she is. But why the hell would she go there?

  "She went out there? Where those crazy fools trip on ’shrooms every weekend?

  "I think it's every day, Walker. But I didn’t step foot on the property. I hear it’s full of sweat lodges. I don't know what they're doing out there. But they're doing it. A lot of it. Word in the bush is it's some kind of sex commune," he says cracking himself up, slapping his knee as if it's a funny ass thing.

  It's not.

  "A sex commune? What does that even mean, Jameson? I think you need to get laid."

  "Don't shoot the messenger. Shit, Walker, I'm just saying what I've heard. I just did my job and dropped the girl off, but I don’t want to go there and check it out, to some place where everyone is traipsing out half-naked. Doing cartwheels and some shit. Look, I'm not one to judge, but…

  " he shakes his head, sure as hell judging. "Look, if that pretty girl wanted to go someplace like that, she's not coming back for a man like you."

  "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

  "I'm just saying, Walker, you're not exactly a hippy-dippy, peace and love kind of dude, are you?"

  I look down, knowing I’m worse for wear. Dirty blue jeans and scuffed boots with a thick beard and muscles thick from chopping wood. I'm not some love guru, that's for sure. But I am a man. Her man.

  "She probably didn't know what she was getting herself into," I say.

  "Oh, she did, she hired me to take her there. It's why she came to Alaska. She was dead set on it and wouldn't tell me a thing."

  "You know how to get there?"

  Jameson laughs. "You're going after her? Dude, whatever you think you might've had with that girl, it's not true. She had no problem leaving and not looking back. Where did you meet her anyway?”

  "At a bar. I was there for the night, at the North Point Hotel. I think you were probably were there too."

  "Yeah, I didn't realize we were both there that night. Sounds like you had a lot more fun than I did," Jameson laughs.

  “Don't joke about her."

  "You for real?" Jameson asks, shaking his head. "I thought you knew better than that, Walker."

  "Better than what?"

  "Falling in love with a girl who has no place in Alaska. You moved out here saying this was your new home. A girl like that, in high heeled boots, skin-tight jeans, a jean jacket and nothing else, that girl is not going to last a winter here."

  "You don’t know shit, Jameson."

  But Jameson just shakes his head. "Look, I was born and raised here, I know how it works. Why do you think I'm single?" he asks. I try not to smirk, looking around at his dirty cabin. I could think of a few reasons.

  "Yeah, yeah. Laugh all you want, Walker, but I'm single because I know trying to land a girl who wants to live out here is hard as nails."

  "We'll just see about that," I mutter, pulling open his door. "I'll see you when I get back with the girl."

  And with that, I leave knowing there's only one thing I need to do. Find Wavy.

  Hell, I can't lose her to some sex commune, not after the night we had.

>   6

  Waverly

  The guy who drops me off at the commune, Jameson or whatever his name is, seemed safe enough as far as flying me somewhere goes. But I didn't like his vibe. I get that not everyone is going to be welcoming, but he had a chip on his shoulder that I didn't exactly appreciate.

  I know I'm not wearing the most Alaska-friendly attire, but it's not like I had much time to prepare. I jumped the first bus I could find leaving Baja and went up the west coast. My goal was Alaska; not looking like I stepped out of a North Face catalog.

  Jameson though kind of rolled his eyes and smirked, thinking he knew me better than I knew myself. Like I was a fool who was never going to make it, and that was before I told him that I was wanting to go to the commune.

  "I told you I was headed there when I hired you. I don't know why you're acting like this is so strange now," I said to him as we got into the bush plane.

  "I get it," he said laughing. "You want to go have some wild adventure in the middle of nowhere. Have at it, sweetheart. But keep my number, because I have a feeling you'll soon be looking for a radio to get a hold of me to get you the hell out of here."

  Those words made me bristle. Was I really going to regret coming here?

  Maybe. It's not like I exactly knew much about it. Except for a location. That's all I had. All Jemma had. But she'd known someone who came up here. A friend of hers who was tired of being a yacht girl like my sister was and had the year of her life at this place. I guess figuring out what ‘year of her life’ meant might have been important before jumping on the first bus out, but I didn't have the luxury of asking all the questions.

  All I knew was this: I had seen my sister die. The man who helped do it was holding a gun. And I had ten minutes to get the hell out.

  So, I did and I didn't look back.

  I have a bad feeling he's coming for me. Or his hitmen are. Sound dramatic? Good, because it is. We're not dealing with some rich guy who has a fancy boat. We're dealing with the leader of America’s number one drug cartel. Basically, the epitome of trouble. And I know they are looking for me. God knows they have enough reason to be. And it's not because of my sister. It's because of what I took before I left.

  So, when Jameson drops me off, I refuse to hesitate. To reconsider. To question this choice. If Jemma was alive, this is where she wanted to come. She wanted to see what her friend saw. A friend who lived up here and was so happy to have left Los Angeles and the grind of the yacht girl lifestyle; who wanted more than being an escort.

  But as I walk alone down the only road leading the commune, do I begin to doubt my choice. I could have turned to Walker, asked him to protect me, take me in -- and I bet he would have. But I am not his duty, his obligation. Besides he thinks he knows me, but he doesn’t.

  Still, part of me wonders if this is all a mistake. Walker’s strong arms could have held me and right now I’m not feeling so steady.

  Jameson has flown away, high in the sky. There's no one here to rescue me. I'm on a tiny little island in the middle of a big blue lake in the middle of a massive state, so far from civilization, it's not even funny. Which is good because no one is laughing. Certainly not me.

  My body is still weak from the night before. Walking away... rather, tiptoeing away ... from Walker this morning, was the hardest thing I've done in a long time. And that's saying quite a lot. Considering.

  Leaving him was hard. A man I just met, who fed me whole slices of pizza and cracked open my beer and laughed when I said it was way too stout for my taste. A man who kissed me and held me; touched me and made love to me, if that's possible. Can you make love to someone you've just met? I don't know. But he did.

  Still, I left. Because Walker wasn't a promise. He was a fleeting moment of fun. He was a Band-aid to a deeper wound. And if I have any hope of fixing it, I needed to come here. To this place. The place my sister longed to go.

  LOVE IS HERE, is in big block letters on a huge sign over a house. A farmhouse. A large, white house and there really is a farm. There are chickens and cows and a donkey. I see some goats. And people. All ages and sizes and shapes and colors. I'm guessing a hundred of them in all. They're coming over to meet and greet me. To welcome me here. Welcoming me to the family.

  "We can't wait to hear how you found us," says a man wearing a beaded necklace and long braid down his back at the same time wrapping his arm around my shoulders. He smells like juniper berries and spruce trees. It's not an unwelcome smell. But it's not familiar either. Still, I am determined to keep an open mind. After all, I came a long way to disappear. I'm guessing the hitmen won't come looking at this place.

  "I bet you're starving," a woman with rosy cheeks and bright red hair says coming over to me. "Lenora will get your things and set them in a room. We’ll get one all ready for you, sweetheart. You just come on inside the house, so we can have a meal and you can tell us all about yourself and you can get settled in."

  I set down my backpack, my shoulders relaxing somewhat. Oddly feeling safe here with these people as they usher me into the farmhouse. There's lentil soup on the stove, freshly baked rolls, and children laughing. Children. When was the last time I'd been around kids? I can't even remember.

  It feels good; someone wraps a hand-knitted shawl around my shoulders and sits me down in a hand-carved chair. A ceramic bowl of soup is placed before me with a thick silver spoon.

  “Are you thirsty?” the woman with the red hair asks. Her name is Sarah. And she has freckles on her cheeks. And she doesn't scare me. She settles me. She's probably only a few years older than I am, but her eyes seem wise. Like she's seen things. I've seen things too.

  "I'd love something to drink," I say, and she smiles broadly, a cute gap between her teeth. And she opens the refrigerator and pours me what appears to be iced tea. "Here you go, love," she tells me handing me the ice-cold glass. "Drink up."

  And so, I do.

  Because it's been a long time getting here.

  Because it's been a hard life before that.

  Walker took care of my body last night, and for that, I will be forever grateful.

  But these people, who are looking at me with warmth and affection, I feel like they'll take care of my soul.

  And right now, that's exactly what I need. If I can’t have Walker, this is a good second.

  7

  Walker

  The morning after talking with Jameson, I don't waste any time. I load up my bush plane and head out toward the place where I know Wavy is. There's not much use in locking up my cabin, seeing as no one is going to come so far out here. Still, old habits die hard and I lock up the place before walking down the dock to where I taxied my plane. It's a gorgeous day and that means something considering I spent most of my life in Mexico, running up and down the Baja doing the dirty work for my father. The ocean is beautiful, everyone knows that. Especially, with white sand beaches and blue water as far as the eye can see. There's a reason people travel to tropical locations. But there's also a reason people come up north. To the great beyond. It's a different kind of beauty. And one that doesn't make my skin itch or crawl.

  Back when I was doing runs for my family, I was always looking over my shoulder, wondering who was following me and what it would mean if they caught up. Here though, no one's chasing me, no one is worrying about me at all. And that's because everyone up here is minding their own goddamn business. We have our own lives to lead, our own reasons for living off the goddamn grid.

  I thought it would be enough, being by myself and living out my days in solitude. But as I get in my plane and take off, with the crystal-clear water below and the bright blue sky above, one thing is clear. Coming back here by myself is going to be a hard pill to swallow. After meeting Wavy, I want to bring her home.

  I want to make love to her in my cabin, with the windows open and the pine trees' fresh scent wafting in. I want to take her out on my boat and make love to her in the middle of my lake. I want to jump, hands held, into the clear water.
I want to find a waterfall and make love to her under it. Kissing those pouty pink lips and making sure she knows just how special I think she is.

  Some people wouldn't understand this. Jameson, he doesn't. But he's not like me. He hasn't tasted Wavy, held her in his arms.

  I have and I know. I need her to survive.

  Might sound kind of desperate, but I don't think there's anything wrong with desperation. It moves people. It makes them do things they wouldn't otherwise consider. It makes them get in a plane and fly from a lake to a remote stretch of land and look for a girl. For Wavy.

  Wavy.

  I fly for a few hours, taking the route Jameson laid out for me, and thankfully, since flying planes is my life's work, it's not hard to navigate the terrain. I see the small island in the distance, and I make my landing at the dock Jameson mentioned. It's a short walk to the entrance of the Love Is Here Ranch, or whatever you call it. A farm, a commune, a place where people run to get away. I understand that. I just want to make sure whoever these people are they aren't doing Wavy any harm.

  I know if she's not with me, she's vulnerable. Might sound like a cocky-ass statement, but the sentiment is true.

  I need her the same way she needs me. Together.

  I walk onto the property knowing I look like an outcast. Like I don't fit in. Sure, all the men around me have beards, but they also have glassy eyes and an overly friendly demeanor.

  One man comes up and shakes my hand the moment I step foot under the arches of the ranch.

  "How can I help you?" he asks looking me up and down. The scowl on my face needs to be wiped off, if I have any hope of earning their trust.

  "I'm here to see a friend," I tell him pasting a smile on my face although it's hard as hell.

  "A friend, you say?" The man frowns. "Does this friend have a name?"

  "I was under the impression this is a friendly refuge," I say. "I thought all people were welcome here?"