Page 63 of Orphan Girl's Mountain Men

"But that’s not his fault!" I interject.

"Of course not. But that’s not how it works, is it? People around here—well, they know full well how she died, and that it ain’t hardly the fault of Lennon, nor anything to do with little Grace, but that doesn’t make for a good story, does it? Peoplelikea good story. One with a villain in it, by preference. So they turned it into something suspicious, into something people like to whisper about behind our backs."

I nod slowly, seeing his point. People prefer interesting gossip to boring truth. I’d seen it myself, both at the accountancy firm I’d worked for, and even at the school in Sudan.

"And finally," Dean concludes, "we’re big and tough and mean looking, and we don’t back down, or take any shit from anyone. So yeah… take your pick."

"Wow," I mutter, forcing a small smile—though there's a hollow stone settling in my stomach. Not that I didn't know Reed had a colorful past, but still… hearing it spelled out like that? Yeah, it stings a little. Assuming it's true. But is it true? As Dean has pointed out so clearly, these small towns love their gossip—sometimes it's hard to separate fact from legend.

"That's a lot."

"Yeah. Lennon's the only one of us who tries to get along with them," Dean says. "Mostly for Grace's sake—despite the whispers about how Georgia met her death."

We drive in comfortable silence for a while. I roll down the window, close my eyes, and take a few deep breaths—letting the wind wash over my face, the scent of pine needles filling my lungs. There's something about the air up here. Crisp. Clean. Pine-scented. It's one of my favorite parts of these trips—the sense of freedom, of space, and of endless possibility.

"Looks like you're enjoying yourself," Dean says after a moment.

I open my eyes and turn to him. "I am."

Through the hard labor, I haven't complained once, because truly, I don't have much to complain about. The work is tough but honest, and I'm trying to show him that I'm not joking about running my farm. I want to prove it to him, and myself, that I'm capable of doing this.

It's become more than that, though. It's become something… something much bigger in my life than I had anticipated it could ever be. The place feels right. Those summer vacations with my parents all those years ago are still some of my most precious memories. Being here once again has brought those memoriesback in much more vivid detail. I realize that I feel closer to my parents here than I ever felt in Aurora or even when travelling.

My parents loved to travel. As an anthropologist, it was my mom's work that took her abroad so much. My father was a lawyer, had his own practice in Aurora, but he had been a keen amateur anthropologist himself. That's how my parents met, in fact. They had both attended a conference on the Ute tribe where a leading expert was giving a lecture on social and spiritual aspects of Ute tribal art, crafts, and ceremonies. Apparently, they had been sat next to each other at the lecture, and it was pretty much love at first sight.

Their mutual interest in the Ute tribe and their love for Ute tribal art had been what drew them to vacation in the San Juan County area of Colorado, which had always been a sacred area for the Ute. At some stage they had somehow acquired the True Heart property, presumably selecting it because its location associated it closely with the Ute.

Now, having come back and spent a few weeks here as an adult, having slept here, swum in the lake, breathed the fresh, pine-scented air, enjoyed the peace and quiet of the countryside that is such a contrast to busy downtown Aurora, or even to most places I've traveled to, I have begun to understand why they loved the place so much. Why they wanted to make it their home. And now, this connection to my lost parents makes me all the more determined to make things work for me here, come what may.

Besides, there is a mystery here that I have yet to solve. A mystery that is bound up in the land, in the Ute tribe, and in something that happened to my parents here, twenty or so years ago. I have received hints in my mom's letters about something that Mom and Dad buried here, it seems, but I have still to unravel its meaning. At the very least, I cannot go until I unravel this mystery. And then? And then there are these three boys nextdoor, and darling Grace too. Could I make a life for myself here? Could I have found the home that my soul has always longed for? I am not yet sure… but more and more, I feel the pull of the land, calling to me, exactly as my mom had said I would.

As we drive past my own little cabin, en route to the guys' lodge, I spot Reed heading toward it with a tool bag slung over one shoulder. My heart gives a little flutter. He's been finishing his chores early the last few days so he can work on repairs at the True Heart property. I've told him more than once that he doesn't have to—that I could hire someone—but he refuses to listen. Says the contractor I was considering is ripping me off. Says he wants to help. Says he likes making me smile.

That's the thing about Reed. He's more than drop-dead gorgeous—he's got this soft, golden-retriever soul. Big, warm, loyal. Always helping people. I've seen him pitch in to help out the farmhands, fixing cars, cleaning and repairing tools, giving them rides. He's the guy everyone calls when something breaks or goes wrong. The guy who shows up.

And yet… and yet there's his other side. His playboy persona. The rumors. The whispers. The possibility that he's been with half the town—married women included. I don't know what to believe, and that's what ties me in knots.

The more I learn, the harder it is to sort out what's real—and what I want to be true. My feelings are a mess, tangled up in curiosity, attraction, and a big old dose of confusion.

Every new facet I discover makes it harder to stay away. I shouldn't feel this way. I already promised myself—and Dean—that I'd keep my distance. My feelings toward all three men are too tangled, too dangerous, too confusing.

Not to mention the fact that Reed might hate me now. He knows about Lennon and me. I figured it would change things—make things weird—but it hasn't. Not outwardly. He's still kind. Still friendly.Still Reed.

Perhaps, by some miracle, he doesn't hate me. But even if that's true, it doesn't give me the right to keep drooling over him. I need to accept his kindness, find a way to repay it, and move on.

Dean turns into the driveway, and Reed catches sight of us. He cranes his neck to follow our path and gives a friendly wave. I wave back, trying to keep my expression neutral—even though my stomach's doing somersaults.

Why is he still being so nice to me?

That question clings to me as the afternoon unfolds. Even at dinner, while Grace sits in my lap and insists I help feed her, I keep catching Reed's gaze flickering my way. And Lennon's too. There's something going on between them—not words exactly, but looks. A kind of silent argument playing out in stolen glances and tight expressions.

I'm not the only one who notices.

"What the hell is wrong with you two?" Dean asks, narrowing his eyes at them across the table.

"Nothing," they say at the same time, then shoot each other a loaded look.

Reed's is amused. Lennon's is anything but.

---