Pleased to Meet Me

by J. L. Salter

  “I write something I enjoy reading,” she explained. But Beethoven did not reply and the large, heavy, barred door only groaned from the gusts of mountain breeze through dark trees.

  And Scarlett shuddered.

  Over what seemed like the next few hours, Scarlett got up several times. No way would she get any sleep being alone in the middle of dark nowhere. Somehow she was certain she’d feel safer in Cody’s large, heavy chair in the approximate middle of the cabin. But the rooster had it staked out and she didn’t want to touch him. Moving too far away from that seat, however, heightened her fear, so she shoved the small couch over ‘til it nearly touched. One frightening foray from that safe island was for munchies; another was for the southeast corner behind the hastily hung curtain.

  All exterior noises were amplified. Outside darkness intensified. She began to worry the lamps might run out of kerosene.

  Having decided she was a writer gave her some small comfort because she instinctively knew writers were imaginative. “I must be a resourceful person,” she told the shadowy, heavy door. “If some unusual situation arises, a writer would know what to do. If I’ve written things, that means I’ve also researched many subjects.” Her thread of logic unraveled and she trembled with the fear that she actually had no resources whatsoever. Maybe she was, as Wilder had suggested, a pampered socialite.

  With three of the lamps as near as surfaces would allow, Scarlett clutched the battery lantern in her lap and closed her eyes. Not to sleep, she assured herself, but merely to rest her eyes.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Monday morning

  Noise outside! The writer who knew herself as Scarlett jumped from the chair as the battery-powered lantern fell to the plank floor. A clattering vehicle entered the clearing. She stumbled to the nearer front window and peered out cautiously. It was scarcely past daybreak and she saw a 4WD something grind through the muddy lane and pull to an abrupt stop within a few feet of the cabin porch.

  When Beethoven flapped and crowed, Scarlett jumped again.

  A dark shape exited the vehicle and stomped up the steps. She froze. Where had Wilder left his shotgun? If he was a hunter, he must have a rifle somewhere. But where? Where was an iron skillet?

  A loud knock on the massive oak door. “Scarlett, I know you’re up because I saw your shadow move.” Another pound. “I can’t find my release cord. Let me in.”

  She nearly wept with relief. Scarlett slid away the heavy bar with so much force that it crashed to the floor. Then she yanked the door open. “Cody! I thought you’d never come.” Before she could stop herself, she launched into his tall, muscular body and held him so tightly she could barely breathe.

  “You act surprised.” He sounded different—maybe chillier. “I told you I’d be back either late or early the next morning.”

  The rooster hopped down with a flutter of wings and waddled over to say hello.

  “I know, but I, uh, got worried.” When she realized she was still clutching him she pulled back her arms.

  But Wilder still held on to her. “Did you take care of Trigger?”

  She nodded and ran her fingers below her eyes. “In the stall with bridle and saddle off.”

  “Heavy grain?” He held her now at arm’s length.

  “If that’s what he eats from the barrel, then yeah.”

  “Good girl.” He let her go, dropped his gear, and spoke to Beethoven. Returning his attention to Scarlett, he asked, “How about some breakfast?”

  “Yeah, I’m starving, too, but first tell me what you found out.”

  “Well, at least let’s get the coffee started. Not sure we can both handle this news without caffeine.”

  “What news?” She grasped his elbow.

  “You put away the groceries,” he said, pointing to the porch, “and I’ll make the coffee.” He shrugged off his jacket. “You can wait another three minutes.”

  No, I can’t. But she did anyway. He’d brought more bread—so he didn’t bake his own. Also a few staples like flour, sugar, and oats. It didn’t take long to shove those into place in his pantry. Then she stood behind Cody watching his broad shoulders move as he dealt with the grounds and water and stoked up a fire from the cool embers in the iron stove.

  “Okay. It should be ready in a few minutes.”

  “I can’t wait for the caffeine. Tell me what you found out.” She pulled him toward the table where they both sat.

  “Well, I borrowed that crate from old man Hoop. It’s as cranky as Hoop is but he said I can keep it long enough to get you down the mountain.”

  “I don’t care about his vehicle. What about me?”

  His expression looked pained as he pulled a folded piece of paper from his jeans pocket and placed it on the table.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I found these posted all over town.”

  “Somebody has been looking for me.” Her eyes filled too much to read. “What does it say?”

  He slid it, still folded, closer to her but kept his sturdy fingers on top. “Your real name is Stacy Bishop and you’re from Johnson City, in Washington County.”

  “That’s wonderful,” she said, sniffling. “I’m pleased to meet me. I like my name.” She rolled it over in her mouth and then added, “I’m Stacy Bishop. Pleased to meet you, too, Cody Wilder.”

  He ignored her outstretched hand and instead unfolded the paper. It was a homemade flyer with her photo, name, and address. There was a sizeable cash award for information leading to her whereabouts.

  Her smile was fading rapidly and she’d only glanced at the paper. Her eyes were on Wilder’s sober face. “Something’s wrong.”

  “Read the flyer. See the name of the person looking for you?”

  “Bishop. That’s my last name.” Tears poured as her right hand groped at her bare ring finger. “I’m married?”

  ****

  Cody had wanted to break that news in a gentler fashion...and after coffee. It obviously shocked her. Good shock or bad shock? Couldn’t tell. With a woman, tears could mean she was overjoyed to be married and have a husband searching for her. But they could also mean she was horrified to be tied down. He wanted to ask which—if either—but there was no way to phrase it. When he got up to check on the coffee, he also escorted Beethoven out to the porch.

  Stacy stared at the flyer and appeared to read it a dozen times. “These were all over town?”

  Returning to the table, he nodded.

  “Did you run into my husband anywhere?”

  “Nope. When I spotted the first flyer, I checked in with the town constable…”

  “So now the officer knows where I am?”

  Cody nodded and continued, “I told him. Wyatt just said a man named Bishop had come down from the mountain looking for you and said he was putting up flyers. Does his name ring a bell?”

  She shook her head silently. “Did you get a description?”

  “Wyatt said he looked well-to-do. An older man.”

  “Older? Maybe he’s my father.”

  “Don’t think so.” Cody shook his head. “The constable asked several questions before he agreed to the flyers. Mr. Bishop had an ID with the same address that’s on the flyer.”

  Her right hand covered her left ring finger securely as though it might escape. “How much older is he?”

  The coffee was finally ready and he poured two mugs. “Is that important?”

  She nodded, tears starting to form again. “If he’s old enough, he could still be my dad.”

  Cody slid a mug toward her and reclaimed his seat at the table. “He’s in his mid-fifties. Too young for you to be his child.”

  She gulped. “How old am I?”

  “In October, you’ll be forty-three.”

  “I can’t be over forty!” Her face drew in tightly. “So your county fair guesswork was pretty close.”

  “I don’t usually miss by much.” He watched her carefully as he sipped the scalding brew. “That borrowed four-wheel drive was ac
ting funny on the way up the mountain.” He pointed out the near front window, but she appeared not to be listening or looking. After pondering his phrasing for a moment, he said, “From what I’ve read, a person with memory impairment who suddenly re-learns important things...uh, sometimes needs a few minutes to collect herself. Take all the time you need, Stacy. I’ll go check on Trigger.”

  “Thanks.” Her hands robotically smoothed the flyer as she stared.

  Wishing they could have worked breakfast into the mix, he took another hasty sip and left nearly half a mug of hot coffee on the table as he grabbed his jacket and exited the front door. Before he headed to the barn, Cody took one quick look through the front window. Mrs. Stacy Bishop was sobbing, her face down on a copy of the flyer that had been spread all over Boar Mount by Ronald Bishop, who’d been looking for her since he made it down the mountain very early Saturday morning.

  Chapter Seventeen

  While her host was outside chatting with the rooster and tending the horse, Stacy took stock. She should feel relieved to know she was married, evidently financially secure, had a place to go, had someone looking for her, et cetera. But somehow in these nearly three days, she’d found a comfort in the instinctive feeling that she was single. Not just single but available. Available to whom? Nobody in particular, but certainly one name which might cross her memory-impaired mind was the simple-living survivalist whose cabin she’d shared, whose bed she’d slept in (though alone), and who’d unselfishly taken such good care of her.

  No reason to assume he felt the same way, but they had established considerable rapport in those sixty-two hours of days and evenings, out in the middle of nowhere in general. It was quite a shock to be yanked back into somewhere in particular, presumably to pick up where she’d left off with the man who shared her name but felt like a total stranger. What would it be like to embrace him again? Would his touch rekindle her memory of their life together? His kiss? Their passion? What kind of life had it been? Have I been happy?

  She studied her bare ring finger. “If I’m still in love with that man down there, wouldn’t I remember him?”

  Stacy heard clanking and occasional whirring outside. She opened the front door to investigate. The vehicle’s hood was up and Cody was bent over the fender, reaching deeply into the engine compartment.

  She grabbed her borrowed jacket and stepped out to the porch. “What’s wrong?”

  “I was afraid of this...the stupid thing won’t start.”

  The attentive rooster, perched on the vehicle’s roof, nodded his concurrence.

  They hadn’t yet had breakfast, so why was he already trying to start the vehicle? “It was running half an hour ago.”

  “Yeah, but it’s cranky, like I told you. Probably the only reason cranky old Hoop let me borrow it.”

  “Can you get it working again?”

  “I’m trying. But I don’t exactly have a fully equipped garage up here. If I still owned a truck, maybe I’d have all the stuff to fix it.”

  Testy. Stacy descended the porch steps and walked toward the vehicle. Even in the chilly April morning air, the engine had not yet cooled from its earlier trip up the mountain. “Maybe it just needs a rest after that climb.”

  “Maybe so. Guess I’ll try it again later.”

  “What do we do in the meantime?” She had nothing to pack.

  “Well, I need to see about Trigger’s shoe, for one.”

  It took a second to picture shoes on a horse. “Oh, yeah. Need any help?”

  “You ever shoe any horses before?”

  “Don’t think so, but while you were gone I did remember something.”

  “What?”

  “I’m pretty sure I’m a writer.”

  “Great,” he said with a dour expression. “That should help a lot.”

  She ignored his sarcasm and paid little attention to the horse, its hoof, the shoe, the hammer and nails. She was monitoring Wilder. He was strong, quiet, capable, and self-reliant. Didn’t have anything to prove to anybody. Content to live as naturally as any modern human could. No particular axe to grind, just didn’t want to be bothered by civilization. No obvious entanglements. Wait. What about his relationships?

  “You know, Cody. Now that we’ve worked out my, um, status...I was wondering about your love life.”

  He stopped whatever farrier fiddling he was doing and moaned. “Why do women always want to talk about relationships?”

  “This is my third day here, and my first personal question.”

  “No it’s not.” He straightened and rubbed his lower back. “Not by a long shot. I’ve already been interrogated at length.”

  “Well, my first query about your former girlfriends.”

  He examined two nails closely before choosing one. “I was engaged briefly to another teacher, while I was still teaching.”

  “How briefly?”

  Whack. Whack. Two swift, firm applications of his hammer. “Until she realized I was serious about moving back to the family mountainside.”

  “I can imagine that would scare off a lot of women.”

  He took a harsh-looking rasp and smoothed something on the shoe. “Would it scare you?”

  “Before I stumbled into your cabin, I would probably have said yeah—terrified. But since being here for these sixty plus hours, I think I kind of like it.”

  “Your stay has been just the blink of an eye in mountain time.” He let Trigger’s hoof down gently. “You think you could live off the grid?”

  “Not sure, but I guess not. I have a feeling, back home, I’m probably plugged-in like most other women my age.”

  “There, you remembered something else.”

  “Not an actual memory. More of a feeling that I network a lot.”

  He grunted. “Ugh.”

  “So, other than the teacher who didn’t want to go pioneer, who do you network with?”

  When he turned his head suddenly, it startled Trigger. Wilder calmed the horse with a soothing pat on the rump. Stretching his back, obviously cramped from all the bending, Wilder replied, “What did you ask me?”

  “You know, female companionship...since you left the grid.”

  “Well, I’m not a monk, if that’s what you want to know.”

  She nodded. It is. “But who are you not a monk with?”

  “Gosh, you’re nosy.” He sounded exasperated. “If you must know, there’s a certain individual down in Boar Mount.”

  “Maybe I’ve met her. Does she have a name?”

  He was so slow to reply, it seemed as though he might not. Then he said, “Bambi.”

  Sounds like an exotic dancer. “So you see her often?”

  “Unless I’m out of something, I usually only get to town about once a month.”

  “And you see this Bambi person while you’re down there shopping and such?”

  He propped a dusty boot on the wooden crate nearby and leaned forward with an elbow on that thigh. “If Bambi’s not busy, she usually has me over for supper.”

  “I see.”

  “And sometimes breakfast.”

  “Oh.” She gasped as her hand went to her face.

  “Are you really shocked?”

  “Sorry. I just thought mountain men were pretty much celibate.”

  “Not by preference, I’ll wager.”

  “No, I suppose not. So this woman, this Bambi...has she ever been up here?”

  He put away his horseshoeing tools and supplies. “Sure.”

  “Frequently?”

  “Very nosy, aren’t you?” He smiled before continuing. “Oh, a few times.”

  “Really?”

  “You are shocked.”

  “No. I mean, yeah. I guess so. I mean, that’s practically like an engagement...albeit with the distance up and down the mountain factored in.”

  “Not much different than one party living in Johnson City and another living in Boar Mount. Probably less than thirty miles, as the crow flies.” He paused to calculate. “About forty-f
ive minutes in a decent vehicle.”

  “Hmm. I see what you mean. Only that’s horizontal rather than vertical.”

  “Don’t see any difference, Stacy. Time is time, distance is distance.”

  “I suppose so.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Abruptly dropping that relationship thread and leaving Wilder to the outside chores, Stacy figured since they’d only had coffee before, perhaps brunch would be in order while they waited on the vehicle to cooperate. Didn’t feel like messing with that heavy skillet for eggs, however.

  Using the older partial loaf of bread, she made crude sandwiches with the cured ham and a cheese she couldn’t identify. After about fifteen minutes of domestic labor, Stacy was satisfied at her efforts. She leaned out the front door and called, “Brunch.”

  Wilder looked over from the distant barn and grinned. “Be right there. Just finishing up.”

  In a few minutes he ambled inside, pointedly kept the rooster from entering, washed his hands at the kitchen sink, and dried them as he took his chair at the table. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

  “Well it wasn’t cooking so much as assembling, but I have a feeling I’m able to get around a kitchen. My own kitchen, that is.”

  “The one in Johnson City?”

  She nodded. “Presumably.”

  “Do you have some mental picture of it?”

  “Not a shred.”

  “Any memories return about your husband or your Washington County life?”

  “None whatsoever. Did that constable have any clues about what I was doing up on this mountainside?”

  “Oh yeah. Meant to tell you earlier, but we got, uh, sidetracked.” He bit into his sandwich.

  She waited expectantly as he chewed aggressively.

  “You and Mr. Bishop were hiking. He was hit by a tree limb and knocked out.”

  “I don’t remember that.”

  “Along with a lot of other stuff, it seems.” He eyed her face carefully.