Safe on the Mountain: A Mountain Man Romance

by Alexandria Thayer

  Safe on the Mountain

  By Alexandria Thayer

  Prologue

  The weight of my senses is overwhelming. Everything is pungent, loud, jarring, but distant. I wake nauseated and dizzy, feeling like lead is dragging through my veins.

  The smell is off in my bedroom. It’s a mix of cheap cologne and the outdoors. There’s a damp, green smell, the same scent as when I leave my windows open all day. My thoughts are sluggish, but I realize I must have left my balcony open. I’ve got to close that door. I try to move but sleep holds me down.

  A shuffle of feet across the carpet jolts my brain awake.

  My legs won’t move. My arms can’t push me up. My eyes can hardly roll open. When they do, I see him.

  My chest feels like a chains have been pulled tight around my lungs. My legs and arms are lifeless. They might as well be a thousand pounds. The only part of me I have control over is my eyes - they see everything.

  I hear grunts and mumbles, but they’re much more distant than this room. My sheets are pulled back and shorts removed, letting a rush of humid air wash over me.

  I feel sweat drip down onto me as my body is shifted and rolled without my permission. My mouth makes noises I can’t claim as my own. When his weight is on me, I drift backwards, away from this. I opt out as far as my brain will allow.

  I force myself to look. Just for a moment. Just to pick out enough details to report. Then I close them again. I wait, choking on words I can’t form, paralyzed, as this horror happens to me.

  Callie

  There's a little slice of the day, every day, that reminds me that this cabin might not be my worst decision to date. After hours hunched over my laptop, I move to the back porch with a glass of sweet tea to enjoy my daily sunset. By the time my sips are mostly water, I realize it's too cool out here to stay. Sunset on the mountain means the temperature plummets. It definitely beats the heat of Austin, though.

  I made the trip up here with everything I could fit in my car after my "incident." And that came at the most opportune time after I lost my mom to breast cancer. It wasn't an easy decision to leave everything I knew in Austin and stake my claim on this mountain, but it's my best chance at getting away while still feeling close to her. Austin might have been our home, but this mountain town was our escape. I can at least keep that tradition alive for her. Before I let my mind wander too far, I decide to move inside.

  My thighs stick to the seat as I stand. I groan out loud, telling myself for the thousandth time that I'll start working out tomorrow. Always tomorrow.

  While the sunset might offer a little retreat, my biggest mental focus has been my puppy. I got her right before I moved here and she's been the best decision I could have made. I desperately need the distraction. And the puppy kisses.

  Tonight's dinner: leftover pasta from a client lunch a few days back. It's not much, but I don't have the energy or appetite to cook something for myself. Losing my mom - and her tried and true cooking advice - left little of my cooking desires.

  I pop my leftovers in the microwave and shift as I watch the seconds count down. Staring mindlessly, not even bothering to calculate how long 3-day old pasta actually needs to be reheated, a tiny paw nudges my ankle.

  "Cookie! Are you hungry? Oh good lord, you're out of food! Hold on," I coo at my puppy, a chubby French Bulldog who knows just how to get me with those puppy eyes. She waddles behind me, clearly excited to see me opening the food crate. I swear as I realize it's empty.

  Well, shit. If I were still in Austin, I could literally step outside my apartment building and see the pet store. Here, it's a 20-minute drive through blacktop roads and trees to the nearest town - and even that is hardly considered a town. 2,000 people, a few stores and restaurants, and one actual stop light does not make a town.

  I'd usually get Cookie's food in Denver, but seeing as that's over an hour away, the local feed store will have to do.

  I'm immediately searching for the open hours of this teeny community's ag supply. God, I miss having everything at my fingertips twenty-four-seven. This little mountain town has been good to me, but not having Whataburger and Target within a five-minute drive is annoying, to say the least.

  Thankfully, the mom-and-pop store is open for another hour. Good old Mcferrin’s Feed Supply. I silently thank whoever is looking out for me and run to throw on actual clothes. Shorts and a giant hoodie wouldn't go over well in this weather. And I need the general public to see my spreading thighs like I need a hole in the head. I gather up Cookie and hope the sun lasts long enough to see the roads.

  -----

  At least the daylight isn't completely gone, but it probably will be by the time I come back up the mountain. I hate this drive at night. I've already encountered dozens of deer and rabbits and a few surly moose. I don't want to chance hitting a wild animal, much less someone else's pet.

  Cookie is already drifting into a nap on her little nest of towels on the passenger seat, so I have some time to think. Driving has always given me a chance to clear my head, but these last few months have been more than a simple drive could handle. While I usually will turn on some old school country and sing along as I drive, I decide to let Cookie sleep and turn on a podcast. Maybe this nerd droning on about business strategy will keep my mind from wandering too far.

  I dig into an old bag of M&Ms I left in the cup holder. I shove a few in my mouth, knowing I’ll be mad at myself later for snacking on junk.

  The therapist says I’m subconsciously trying to gain weight so I’m less attractive - less noticeable to men. I had to laugh at that. It’s a conscious decision and one I’m not exactly happy with. Part of me misses working out, going for runs, feeling fit and satisfied after a good sweat. But leaving the house is a mental feat - much less going to the gym in skin tight clothes in front of horny, testosterone-driven men.

  Nope, I’ll stay thick, thank you very much. I’ve always carried my weight well. I’m about 5’10’’, so gaining a few pounds is hardly noticeable...at least to everyone else. I can feel my hips getting wider every time I get in the car. I now touch both the console and the door with the spread of my ass.

  My fingers feel around into the cupholder and I audibly groan when I feel the bottom of an empty bag. Cookie’s ears perk up at my noise and I apologize for waking her up. I’m well aware that I’m obsessed with this dog. But that’s the whole point, right? To find a positive distraction?

  Brock

  This "quick" trip into town has turned into an all-day excursion. It might be necessary to come get supplies from this place, but that certainly doesn't mean it's enjoyable. It's annoying enough to make all the stops, much less have to talk to everyone who knows my name, family history, and the shit I'm trying to disassociate from my own life.

  The assistant at McFerrin’s store is a goofy teenager who clearly couldn't care less about this job. Anyone who gave a shit could find a some fly repellent in the storeroom in a two minutes, not the 15 I've been waiting. I'm wandering around the store, bored and irritated, and end up gawking at stupid clothes for pets. Who actually dresses an animal in things like this? And why do we need it in a mountain town?

  I'm checking the price tag on a glittered dog t-shirt that says “Mom’s Favorite Troublemaker,” groaning inwardly at the stupidity. My thoughts of pure annoyance are interrupted as I feel the weight of a paw on my boot.

  A tiny gremlin of a dog is looking up at me - all ears and head, a flat face and a round, puppy body - some sort of bulldog. And of course, it's wearing a sweater. Nothing as stupid as the glitter shirt in front of me, but still unnecessary. It couldn't be more than a couple pounds. This
thing will probably never break 30 pounds at its full size. What possible purpose would a dog like this serve? If it can't hunt or protect, I don't see the point of a dog like this.

  This little creature cocks its head and looks at me, seeming to know I'm thinking about it. Then it hops onto its back legs, stretching its front paws onto my calf. What is this thing trying to do?

  Just as I'm calculating how hard I can shake my leg without hurting the thing, hands reach out to pluck it away.

  "Oh, good lord, I am so sorry! She's barely four months so she doesn't have all her manners yet," drawls a sweet southern voice.

  I look up, wondering what type of hick would end up this far north into Colorado, when I get a glimpse at the voice's source.

  It’s a woman, probably in her late twenties. She seems tall for a girl, and it shows in her long legs. Muscular thighs stretch up to rounded hips. She’s got an oversized sweater, hiding most of what I can imagine to be more delicious curves.

  Bending lower to place the dog on the ground, I get a glimpse of ridiculous cleavage and the mess of wavy, dark hair on top of her head. But when she stands, I forget about the hips and thighs I'm already obsessed with.

  She's got glowing skin. Her cheeks are a little flushed and her big eyes are wide, taking me in. I know I'm intimidating, especially to women. Being six-foot-eight with a mountain man beard makes you look terrifying to almost anyone. I think I see a smirk on her face as she looks me over before she ducks down again to clip a leash to the dog.

  "I'm sorry again," she says, finally looking me in the eye. Fuck, if those eyes are mesmerizing. Dark green around the edges melting into a lighter shade, with flecks of gold and copper across them. They almost glow. The same coppery colors are sprinkled across the bridge of her nose in the form of freckles.

  I finally get my shit together and mumble something about it not being a problem. What an idiot. I should have something better than that up my sleeve.

  "What kind of dog is this?" I ask, trying to keep my focus on the dog and not the burning eyes of this woman.

  "She's a Frenchie. A French Bulldog? Her name is Cookie," she says, turning to smile at the little animal. I get another bit of an accent from her - definitely not from around here.

  "Well, uh...hello, Cookie," I say. "Where's that accent from?"

  "Texas. I never realized I had an accent until I got up here," she smiles, looking me in the eye again. I get a chance to examine her closer. Pink, full lips, and I see more freckles across her cheeks. Locks of long hair fall down her chest to her waist, glossy and chestnut brown. This woman is a work of art.

  Clearing my throat, I realize I haven't even responded. Dumbass.

  Just as I'm about to ask what brought her up here, the incompetent shop assistant shuffles over with my order.

  "This is the last of our fly spray. You'll have to come back tomorrow when the next shipment comes in," the little twerp mumbles, not even bothering to finish the sentence before he's on his phone again.

  "What a glowing personality," I hear this southern belle mumble to herself. She notices me watching her and smiles. "Well, I better get going. This little girl is starving."

  She walks away, giving little tugs to the leash as she pulls the dog along. Cookie? What a fucking name for a tiny potato of a dog.

  My thoughts on canine naming conventions disappear as I get a glimpse of her from behind. Thank the good Lord for yoga pants. They hug every curve of her thighs and ass, leaving little to my imagination. She sways as she walks, likely unaware at what effect she’s having on me.

  The bounce of her ass is mesmerizing, but I pull myself together enough to follow her up to the register.

  “Yes, sir. She likes those bones you had last time,” she says to Mr. McFerrin. They chat about the puppy and the weather, and I stand behind her like an idiot eavesdropping. From the conversation, it sounds like she’s new to Colorado climate and definitely new to town.

  She slips her card through the reader and picks up the bag of dog food, huffing as she hoists it up on her shoulder.

  “Can I help you?” I ask. Obviously, I want to help the woman. But if I can get a look at those glowing eyes again, I wouldn’t complain.

  “Oh… that’d be nice,” she says, turning to face me. She’s got her hands full with a wallet, keys, phone, dog leash and this huge sack of food.

  I take it from her, easily carrying it in one arm. She smiles and thanks me, suddenly not making eye contact. Is this not the right thing to do?

  She turns to say her goodbyes to Mr. McFerrin and readjust all her things.

  “Um...should we… I mean I can get the door if you wanna...” she rambles. Is she nervous?

  “I’ll follow you,” I tell her.

  I nod, reaching to hold the door open for her with my free hand. She has some trouble getting the puppy away from the box of toys by the front door and out into the parking lot, but we make it in one piece.

  She clicks her key fob and the back hatch of a mid-size suburban opens. It has Texas plates and a silver Texas Longhorn on the back panel. She’s a Texan, that’s for sure.

  I lay the food into her car and try to think up something to say. She’s already put her stuff up front and is next to me again, ready to close up the car.

  “Thank you. Cookie is a handful sometimes,” she says, her vowels dragging out with her accent. “And sorry about her jumping on you. We’re still working on that.”

  “No, don’t worry. She’s cute,” I say as I extend my hand. “I’m Brock.”

  “Callie,” she says, laying her hand into mine. She barely lets our palms touch before she’s pulling away. “It’s good to meet you. I’m gonna get going before it’s dark.”

  I nod and step out of her way, headed back into the shop to pay up. She seemed rushed. Or maybe she’s nervous. I can’t tell for sure. All I know is she gets the dog settled, clicks her seatbelt in, and drives off without a glance my way again.

  ------

  My phone buzzes in the cupholder as I finally leave Mcferrin’s parking lot: Mom.

  I could let it go to voicemail and tell her the mountain service kept me from answering. As much as I’d like to, I know I’d feel guilty. I swipe across the screen to answer her anyway.

  “Hi, mom,”

  “Brock, sweetness, how are you?” she asks, her Texas accent not near as cute to me as Callie’s.

  “I’m fine, mom. I’m about to go up the mountain, so we may lose service,” I tell her. I know I’m a dick, but this will make the call faster. I don’t really care to chat with anyone.

  “Oh... alright, well I’ll just cut to the chase: what are you doing tomorrow night?”

  Shit. I knew they wouldn’t call me unless they wanted something. Before I have a chance to answer, she continues.

  “Because you’re father is having a fundraiser at a country club on the west side of Denver and we thought it’d be an easy trip for you to join us. You know how having the whole family show up makes a difference to the press and -”

  “Mom, I’m not going to be a puppet at a fundraiser so dad can ass kiss to more rich people,”

  “Brock Thomas Skinner, you know good and well that’s not what this is about. If your daddy has any chance at making the Senate, we have to put on a good face to the media. I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you’re gonna- “

  Here we go. When she uses my full name, she means business. I zone out, ignoring the rant she’s giving me as I make my drive into the mountains. Whether she knows it or not, this call will be over soon thanks to the nonexistent cell service out here. Thank goodness.

  “- and I expect to see you there, in a suit, at 8 tomorrow night,” she finishes up as I’m making my turn off the main highway. Just another minute or two and this call can be done.

  “We’ll see mom. I’ve got the horses to deal with, so I can’t guarantee anything.”

  “Oh good night nurse, those damn horses. Hire an assistant, Brock! You’ve got the money,” sh
e says, always finding a way to boss me around in my own life.

  “I….going...up the mountain...cell service,” I sputter out, letting long pauses span between the words. I thank all my stars that she doesn’t understand technology enough to catch onto my ruse.

  “Fine. You better call me back when you have service,” she barks across the phone line.

  “Yep, will do. Bye, mom.”

  If I could imagine the ninth ring of hell, it would be stuffed into a suit at a political party, pretending to love the corrupt games my parents play. My mother has extended these invitations countless times, knowing I won’t show up. It’s a game she plays - it lets her have something to complain about.

  My wonderfully obedient brother will be there, no doubt. He can play the role of supportive son. I’ll happily be the black sheep they don’t discuss in front of donors.

  This evening could turn into another night of self-loathing with several glasses of whiskey. But I turn my thoughts to Callie. Reminiscing about her thick hips and sweet accent might be able to distract me from this shitty situation with my parents.

  Callie