Page 150 of Rough and Rugged

Groaning, I pull back, unzipping the small pouch in my wallet and peering in, my eyes widening comically when I see a lone, folded bill among the pennies I’ve picked up on my adventures. Grabbing it, I grimace when I see the deep creases. Running it on the edge of the vending machine to force some of the kinks out, I smile when it’s sucked into the slot and isn’t immediately spit back out.

Giddy at the prospect of food, I push in the number for my pretzels, grateful they’re only a dollar, and wait for the coil to recede so my dinner can fall into my starving clutches. It doesn’t.

“Son of a biscuit!” I scream, wincing when I realize it’s the middle of the night, and other than the squealing ice machine, only the crickets and tree frogs are making noise out here. When no one yells for me to shut up or comes running to my rescue, I try my luck, smacking the front of the machine with the palm of my hand, unsurprised when nothing happens.

Turning away with a glare at the thieving machine, I trudge back to my room, trying to remember if I have a half-eaten bag of peanuts in my car. Telling myself it’s not worth it, I return to my room, locking the door behind me and flopping onto the thin mattress in defeat.

When I’d made the reservation, I didn’t expect a lot from a place that offered such cheap weekly rates, but this place is so underwhelming that I can’t help the snort that escapes when I look around the room.

One threadbare towel.

One dining chair with questionable stains.

One bedside table that must double as a dining table.

One double bed, old enough that I can count the springs beneath me as I move.

Fantastic.

At least the bedding seems clean. Thank the lord for small mercies.

Stomach growling, I curl into a ball and fall asleep quickly.

My eyes open and blink against the light coming through the thin curtains hanging in front of the small window. I sit up, stretching the knots in my back from the ancient mattress. The sounds of slamming car doors and people moving around the parking lot piques my interest, and I climb off the bed, moving across the room to peer through the window. I watch as families scurry around, several strapping kayaks and canoes to the roofs of their minivans.

My stomach rumbles in protest, reminding me it’s been nearly twenty-four hours since I’ve eaten. Rubbing it absentmindedly as I turn from the window to get ready, I look around the room, experiencing its underwhelming glory in the harsh light of day.

I grab my toiletries as I walk into the bathroom and hop in the shower. I’m pleasantly surprised with the water pressure. The water doesn’t get hot enough for me, but it does the job.

Minutes later, I’m dressed and ready to explore. The lodge doesn’t offer breakfast, but I head toward the office anyway. After I win the fight with the ancient, heavy door, I’m elated to find a middle-aged woman behind the desk.

“Mornin’, honey,” she greets cheerfully as I walk to the counter.

“Good morning… Sandy,” I grin, taking in her polished name tag. “I was hoping you could recommend somewhere that serves breakfast.”

She nods emphatically, reaching for a pen and grabbing a folded map from a clear plastic stand with a large chunk missing. She opens the map, a colorful, hand-drawn version of the town that makes it look quaint and cheery rather than sparsely populated.

“The best place for breakfast is Sweetie’s, hands down. It’s popular with the locals, but tourists are usually in a rush to hit the river, so you should be okay. Tell Sammi that Sandy sent ya. She’ll take care of ya.”

Her smile is contagious, and I realize I haven’t stopped grinning since I stepped inside. “Thanks, Miss Sandy. Have a great day.”

I take the map she hands me and leave, looking at the blue line on the map from the lodge to a small building just down the main street. It’s walkable, so I hitch my bag higher on my shoulder and start the short walk to Sweetie’s, stopping along the way to take photos.

Chapter Three

Emmett

Imakethelongtrek into town every week or so, braving the smiling denizens of Shady Rock to get the necessities. The famed southern hospitality was the biggest culture shock when I moved here, a complete one-eighty from the cold indifference of the north where I was born or the inorganic camaraderie of the military.

I’m a big guy—nearly six and a half feet tall and muscular, thanks to the rigors of living in the mountains. If my size wasn’t enough to draw the attention of nearly everyone I pass, the long scar running from my right eyebrow down to my chin, only partially hidden by my dark beard, is. The locals are used to me by now, and generally, aren’t offended by my silent nod as I pass, but visitors often cross the street to avoid walking too close to me.

I stopped by the post office when I arrived in town, collecting my mail and the packages I’d been waiting for while avoiding the curious stares from the lone employee at the desk.

I tend to be perceived as a growly loner. I’m not, really. I’m quiet, and it’s hard for me to trust people enough to have many friends. My brothers-in-arms came closer than anyone has to becoming like family, and even they don’t know much about me. Not the important stuff anyway.

Leaving the post office, I cross the street, weaving my way between a string of minivans toting kayaks and screaming children, and I feel a pang in my heart that I’ve never felt until recently. Shaking it off, I clench my fist tightly around the envelopes in my hand and head toward Sweetie’s.

While I was building my homestead, the kitchen wasn’t functional for nearly six months, and I often made the drive into Shady Rock to eat. After the first few days, I grudgingly chatted with the friendly—and persistent—waitress, Sammi, and she introduced me to her husband, Cal, the cook. Despite my prickly exterior, a tentative acquaintance was struck.

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