Page 12 of Rescue in Misty Mountain

All at once.

* * *

Whiskey and I wander the town until I check back at the mechanic’s office. Unfortunately, the issue with my car doesn’t sound as simple or straight forward as any of us would like. It sounds like Whiskey and I might be sticking around for a few days.

Not wanting to get down in my dumps, I continue our walk through Misty Mountain.

It’s cute and exactly what you’d expect from a small Colorado town. It’s more Hallmark than Tombstone, including the people who seem friendly enough offering curious waves as we cross paths.

I pass a cozy-looking bar tucked at the end of the block. Wood-paneled, a little weathered, with flower boxes under the front windows and a hand-painted sign swinging overhead: The Rusty Elk Tavern.

It smells like hickory smoke and whatever heaven would serve as a side dish.

Out front, a man in a faded baseball cap and cargo vest is taping a sign to the window.

HELP WANTED — SUMMER SHIFT

The man catches me looking and straightens up. Broad shoulders. Weathered hands. Yet his eyes betray a hint of kindness behind his otherwise gruff exterior.

“You new in town?” he asks.

“Just passing through,” I say, offering a half-smile. “Car trouble.”

He nods like that explains everything. “Name’s Hank. I own the place.”

“Tessa,” I say, extending a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

“You bartend before, Tessa?”

I blink. “Yeah, actually. A couple summers in college. And some weekend shifts back home.” I give a little laugh. “I actually named my cat Whiskey.”

“A cat named Whiskey. That’s pretty legit.” He jerks his chin toward the sign, “We’re short-handed this season. The tourist rush is picking up, and I need someone who can pour a beer and not take crap from the regulars.”

I laugh. “I do have experience in both.”

He grins. “It’s just for the summer. So, if your ‘passing through’ turns into something longer, come see me.”

I nod, surprised by how the offer makes my chest feel somehow lighter.

“Thanks,” I say. “I might just take you up on that.”

“Door’s always open,” he says, heading back inside.

I glance once more at the sign, then at the warm glow spilling through the tavern’s windows.

Just for the summer.

That doesn’t sound so bad. Maybe there’s a reason my car chose to stall out here rather than anywhere else.

FOUR

GAGE

After making a few stops in Misty Mountain, I meet my brother outside the cafe. The morning air is damp, and the remnants of a wood-burning fireplace lingers in the air. It’s the kind of scent that sticks to you, even after you leave.

If you ever leave.

In my experience, most people don’t leave this town once they get there. It has a way of getting under your skin. At least, that’s what my grandparents used to say about how they landed there.

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