by Carly Keene
HELD BY MOONLIGHT
Moonlight Ridge Mountain Men 2
CARLY KEENE
THISTLE KNOLL PUBLISHING
Copyright © 2020 Carly Keene. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author. The only exception is that short excerpts may be quoted in a review.
Cover designed by GraphicDiz at Fiverr.com.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
NOTE: The Green Bank National Observatory, Monongahela National Forest, and the Radio Quiet Zone are all real. Snowshoe Mountain Ski Resort, located in that general area, is real as well, but Moonlight Ridge and its ski resort exist only in my dreams.
ONE
Tia
“And don’t forget to make sure each guest signs up for a resort activity each day, because AraTech’s CEO is insisting on that. I know it’s spring, but Moonlight Ridge tells me they still have snow for skiing. Horseback riding, hiking, golf, spa, swimming lessons, a basic cooking class offered by the hotel chef—it’s all available,” my boss Louise instructs me, reading off her tablet. She pulls her red reading glasses down to her nose to stare at me through the camera lens on her laptop.
We’re meeting via Zoom, because I’m at the resort in West Virginia organizing an executive retreat and she’s still in our office in Chicago. If I know her at all, she’s propping her Jimmy Choos up on her smoked-glass desk and probably terrorizing some junior assistant into bringing her skinny lattes extra-extra hot.
“Got it,” I say, hurriedly scribbling “MANDATORY DAILY ACTIVITIES” on my scratchpad. Some people can probably take notes on their phones while they’re participating in a meeting, but I need to write important things by hand.
“Is the resort aesthetically pleasing?” Louise wants to know. “I saw the website pics, but you know sometimes those things can be misrepresented.”
“It’s gorgeous,” I say truthfully. “I love the vibe; it’s rustic, but elegant. They bring the outdoors in with big windows in all the rooms, and the views are stupendous. Also, they have this really great lobby furniture, all handmade by a local guy—”
“Great, great. Now, I’ve sent you all the other pertinent documents,” Louise says. “Do you have any more questions for me?”
“I don’t think so. No, wait. I have to work up this seating chart for dinner?” I ask, incredulous that a bunch of high-paid executives aren’t trusted with the right to choose where they want to sit.
Louise sighs. “Apparently the CFO was sleeping with the HR Director’s ex-wife and things got unpleasant in the head office.” We exchange a commiserating glance. “You already know to watch out for the sales directors.” Louise holds the firm belief that sales guys are all handsy lechers. Based on my three years of experience as an event planner, she’s right. They’re worse than drunk uncles at a wedding.
I’ve learned how to say no politely without making them angry; it’s a useful skill. “I’ll look out, then.”
“Get in touch if things go to total shit down there in the wilderness,” she says wryly. “There’s WiFi and cell service at the resort, but remember that when you step foot off resort property, you got nothing.”
“It’s because of the Radio Quiet Zone,” I explain briefly, letting her know that I am at least familiar with the resort and the big radio observatory nearby.
“Stay safe in Deliverance territory,” Louise says, quirking her eyebrow at me before she disappears.
I sigh. Back to work.
The private jets carrying AraTech executives should be arriving within the hour, and according to the resort staff, everything is set up according to Louise Craft Events standards, from meeting rooms to the AV equipment to the menu for tonight’s banquet. Theoretically, things should go smoothly.
Six hours later, I’m reminding myself that executive retreat events never go entirely smoothly.
And that executives are, so very often, complete jerks. Which is probably the reason why executive retreats never go smoothly.
It’s all stupid stuff, too: the A/V equipment isn’t the brand that the marketing director prefers to work with, although no brand was specified in the contract with us. One VP has brought his wife without registering her, so the meal count is off. Another VP is ticked off that his room’s windows face north. And so on. All easily dealt with, but damn, these people are entitled.
I’ve already dodged three handsy sales guys at the opening night’s banquet on my way to check in with the CEO’s executive secretary. “Hey, Nicole, everything going okay?”
Nicole’s face is extremely tight, but she relaxes just a tad when she sees it’s me. “Just fine. I mean, it’s chaos, but that’s normal for one of these retreat things. Eight million minor problems, nothing I can’t handle.” We share relieved smiles. “No, really, this venue is terrific. The resort staff is really on top of things, and you’ve done a fabulous job.”
I nod in agreement and a little bit of professional pride. As the CEO begins his first speech of the retreat, I excuse myself and head out of the banquet hall, dodging two more execs who seem to want to pat me on the butt.
Outside the banquet hall, I stop dead. The corridor is constructed of large wooden beams, accented with steel, framing giant windows that show a breathtaking view of the mountains. It’s gotten dark, and there are so many stars in the night sky that it appears encrusted with diamonds. It’s gorgeous. I walk out onto the adjoining patio and stare up, ignoring the bite of the spring wind on my arms and legs.
I’ve always lived in cities. I’ve always liked living in them. But I can’t deny that this place feels magical: it’s open to the sky, but the mountains seem to be embracing me, holding me securely. I stand there looking at the stars, my chest tight with longing for something I can’t even name. Out of nowhere, the words of an old saying echo in my ears: “Children need both roots and wings.”
I would have said I had both those things, but just being here on this mountaintop staring at the stars is making me question it. I want more. I want to be held, and I want to fly, and I want those things with someone I love—someone who loves me. I stand there and dream a while. Only the night chill drives me inside, and then I lie in my cushy resort bed alone, still wishing for someone to love.
The next morning is more of the same: fixing “problems” for the AraTech executives. I get two execs moved from “substandard” rooms to “better” ones. I figure out that one of the morning’s visioneering sessions is going to be more crowded than the other, and I make sure the more popular one is moved to a slightly larger room. I personally hassle several executives who haven’t bothered to choose a mandatory daily activity.
Ron H., one of the sales directors, gives me a leer. “Let’s go swimming, sweetheart.”
“I’m not available during daily activities,” I say coolly.
“Hot tub? Swimsuits optional.” He waggles his bushy eyebrows at me.
“Sorry, I’m on duty then.” I make a note on my tablet. “Okay, you’re signed up for swimming lessons this afternoon.” And I’m out of there before he can protest. Not my problem.
As I’m giving this list of participants i
n daily activities to Jeff, the hotel’s activities director, he asks me if I’ve got a minute to chat.
“Sure,” I say. “Everything seems to be in train for the evening sessions, so I’m free for the next couple of hours.”
He invites me into his office and offers me a seat. “So, Tia, how’s it been working with our staff here? Is there anything else you need?”
I’m pleased to be able to tell him it’s been great. Everyone’s attentive, easy to work with, ace in handling problems.
“Thanks, that’s good to know. Do you have any constructive criticism for us, anything we could work on here at Moonlight Ridge? We’re really working on ramping up our events capacity. The outdoor banquet area and the wedding chapel are slated to open this summer, and we have a few events scheduled already.”
I think a minute, and then offer a minor suggestion for moving chairs from one meeting room to another more quickly, as well as one to streamline the software interface for scheduling meeting rooms. “But that’s all I can think of at the moment. Really, everyone here is very professional. It shouldn’t be too tough to attract an events coordinator.”
Jeff smiles at me, pleased. Then he shocks me by offering me the job.
TWO
Tia
Events coordinator here at the resort?
I won’t deny that I’ve been dreaming of getting out from under Louise Craft’s (very capable) thumb. I think every events coordinator wants to do things her own way, eventually.
“No need to decide right away,” Jeff says. “We just wanted to float the question and see if there was interest on your part.”
“I’m interested.”
Jeff gives me a level look. “Keep in mind that you’d be living here. Moonlight Ridge is gorgeous, but it’s also pretty isolated. There’s no mall shopping—unless you count the resort shops—within two hours’ drive. Not much nightlife, either, unless again you count the resort.”
I look past him to the mountains, glowing blue-green in afternoon sunlight, and feel that curious sense of peace and longing that I felt last night. “I’m interested.”
“Good,” he says briskly. “Jennifer Williams, the resort manager, would like to discuss the position more fully with you, and she’ll get into terms and compensation, stuff like that. But since you’re interested, I’ll try to get you on her schedule. Tomorrow afternoon?”
“Sure.”
“Good,” he says again, and smiles. “Now. Since everything’s under control, would you be interested in an afternoon activity yourself, just to experience more of the resort than you’ve seen already? On the house. What would you like to do?”
My gaze goes past him again, and I see people leading horses out of the stables. I haven’t ridden since I was a little girl. “Horseback riding?” I bite my lip, reconsidering. I am a bigger girl. “If you think they can handle someone my size.”
“Sure,” Jeff says without hesitation. “Let me call the trail riding instructor and set it up. We have boots and helmets on hand for rent, so you won’t need anything special. There’s a ride leaving in, lessee, twenty minutes.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m making the acquaintance of a large gray gelding named Duke. “He’s a good guy, ol’ Duke,” the stable girl says, stroking his nose. “He doesn’t mind a heavier rider, and he’s pretty calm. But he likes to eat, and if he stops to snack on something beside the trail, you need to give him a good kick in the ribs to make him catch up to the rest. Otherwise, he’ll dawdle and keep eating. He’s stubborn.”
I nod, giving Duke a pat. He doesn’t protest at my weight on his back, and he responds to the reins well. Getting on a horse after so many years isn’t exactly like riding a bicycle, but I find that I haven’t forgotten how to ride. It’s delightful.
On the trail, I keep thinking about the resort job. I could direct weddings. Do extended-family reunions and vacations. Sure, there would be lots of executive retreats to handle, but I deal with that anyway while I’m working for Louise.
But could I live here? Is there a reason to leave Chicago?
I mean, okay. There are tons of cool big-city things about the big city: fashion. Restaurants. Arts galleries, concerts, nightclubs, somebody always awake. I have friends there.
That I never seem to have time enough to hang out with. I’m always working.
And to be honest, if I get vacation time, I’m spending it somewhere else, outside the city. I backpacked in Maine last summer. A couple of years ago I snagged a special airfare and went to Hawaii for ten days. After two days in Waikiki, I was desperate to be somewhere outside the city. I wound up in a B&B on the east side, wondering why more people didn’t live on the non-beachy parts of the island because they were beautiful. In fact, I’m scheduled to take a vacation immediately after this conference, assuming everything goes well, and I’d planned to fly to Florida and spend three days lying on a Gulf Coast beach.
There’s no boyfriend in Chicago. It’s a city. If you’re not a size-8 or smaller, guys tend to pass you by, and there are always plenty of younger, fitter, skinnier girls for them to choose from. That’s the real rat race.
So: at home, I’m super-busy, not great at socializing outside my job, and too fat for a boyfriend. Here, I’ve been too immersed in the beauty of nature to even worry about my weight.
I never see stars at home like I saw here last night.
I sigh.
Only when I look up from my inner contemplation do I realize that Duke is head-down in a patch of clover and some other growing stuff by the side of the trail, and there’s no one else in sight. Oh crap. I pull on his reins and kick him gently in the flank, but no dice. He’s chomping away and completely uninterested in what his rider wants. The stable girl warned me about this.
I get off and start trying to lead Duke out of the clover patch and back to the trail. He doesn’t want to comply. He raises his head and looks me in the eye, saying no silently.
“C’mon, big guy,” I tell him, “let’s get back on the trail and I’ll find you an apple. Treats, okay? But we gotta join the group.”
He stares into my face. Think again, honey, he seems to say. I’m bigger than you, and you can’t make me.
I heave myself back up in the saddle and kick him more sharply. “Let’s go, Duke.”
He snorts, and starts walking very slowly. We head back toward the trail, but then he strikes off at an angle, heading for a patch of something with little pink flowers, down the slope. He picks his way carefully, and no matter how I pull on the reins, he won’t stop.
And then…
We pass by a fallen log with a lot of insects buzzing around it. I don’t know exactly how it happens, but suddenly Duke whinnies loudly and breaks into a near-gallop, heading down the slope, and I’m terrified. This ground is uneven, I don’t know where we are, and I can’t control my horse. I’m not even sure I can keep my seat.
Sure enough, I don’t. I fall off. My last sight of Duke is his tail flying out behind him as he runs away, leaving me on the ground and nursing an aching ankle. I sit there for a minute, sweating and cursing under my breath.
I’m gonna have a bruise on my ass the size of a dinner plate. Worse, it’s all my fault, and that makes me madder than anything.
Then the sound of a chainsaw destroys the peace of the afternoon, and I can’t decide whether to be relieved that help is nearby or annoyed that somebody is logging on national forest land. That’s illegal, right? Gotta be. I get up, painfully, and start limping toward the noise.
THREE
Wyatt
I’m on National Forest land cutting deadwood for my woodstove, minding my own damn business, when she shows up. This curvy young woman in jeans and a red top, long dark hair tousled on her shoulders and the iciest blue eyes I’ve ever seen in my life, spitting cold blue sparks at me.
She’s tall and what’s the word, statuesque? A girl and a half in every direction, my personal dreamgirl, like Wonder Woman come to life, so beautiful that I have an imm
ediate physical reaction in my pants. She’s standing in my clearing and yelling at me for “despoiling nature” and “stealing from the citizens,” all tree-hugger bullshit that has nothing to do with reality. I’m so gobsmacked that I accidentally kill the chainsaw, but the minute I do it I realize it’s a good thing because now I can really hear her and she can stop yelling.
“Hey,” I say, as annoyed at her save-the-trees nonsense as I am about this unintentional hard-on, “what the hell is your problem, lady?”
“You’re cutting trees!” she yells, hands in fists at her sides and her spectacular rack heaving.
I raise my eyebrows at her and tell my dick to knock it off. “I don’t see that it’s any goddamn business of yours, but I have a permit,” I make myself say calmly.
“A permit for what?!” she snaps.
“I have a permit,” I repeat, and stop talking in order to remind myself that I cannot just walk over to a strange woman and take her mouth with my own to shut her up, “to cut deadwood in the Monongahela. Issued by the Forest Service, totally legal.”
She takes a step toward me, her ankle wobbling, and I realize she’s injured.
“You hurt your ankle?”
“It’s not that bad. Where is this so-called permit?”
“In my truck.” I jerk my head toward my black truck, sitting off to the side with its bed half-full of stovewood.
“Let me see it,” she orders, crossing her arms. “Bring it to me.”
“Nope,” I say without thinking. I take the six steps that separate us and sling her up in my arms like a bride, ignoring her yelp and struggle. She’s a hell of a woman, all woman, and it’s a good thing I’m a big guy. I take her to the truck cab and set her down gently. She smells wonderful, all feminine and floral with something darker and muskier underneath. I manage not to bury my nose in her hair. “You need help.”
