Page 8 of Orphan Girl's Mountain Men

"I'm not so sure about that," I murmur.

He leans in and whispers, "It's okay, I won't let anyone bite you."

His deep brogue sends a shiver down my spine as I stare into his playful eyes. I catch a scent of cedar, tobacco and musk, and something stirs within me, traveling through my body. Of course, I know what it is. Just because I haven't been with a man in ages doesn't mean I don't know what desire feels like.

It's way too early to have feelings like this for a man I hardly know. Especially after everything I've been through—the homecoming, the memories, and the grief. What is happening to me? Have I lost all sense of decorum? Where are my standards? What would Aunt May and Uncle Roger have said if they saw me now, getting into a truck on a deserted mountain road with three men I don't even know?

What would Mom and Dad have said?

The thought of them pulls at my chest the most of all, but it doesn't stop me from feeling this strange sensation in my gut. It's confusing. Unsettling. And part of me resents it.

On the other hand, I'm exhausted. I've barely had time to process my aunt and uncle's passing, let alone the fact that I'm back here, in this place, surrounded by ghosts of the past. I'm cold, both physically and emotionally. I just want to get to the cabin, get under the covers, and shut the world out for a while.

I take a breath, trying to steady myself. I can't let myself fall apart, not now. Not like this.

I tear my gaze away from Reed, forcing my thoughts back to the present. It's not the time for all this confusion. "We should get going," I say, my voice tight. I hope he doesn't notice the crack in it. I hope I don't notice it.

"Yeah, we should." When I look back, Reed's eyes are glinting with mischief, as if he knows exactly what I'm thinking.

He's way too good-looking for his own good, I think.

I end up in the back seat of the rust-brown truck, Reed's bulky form wedged next to me. In the driver's seat, the older guy with the commanding attitude and eyelashes that any right-minded girl would kill for, turns to give me a hard stare.

"I hope you know what you're doing, lady," he says. "This place ain't no country for young girls to be flouncing around in." And with that, he turns back to face front as he starts the engine.

Though there's a bit of space between us, I'm very aware of his presence and the way he keeps shooting me glances through the rearview mirror as the truck ambles up the mountain.

The other man—the big unit—stares straight ahead, but I catch him looking at me through the side mirror, and I wonder idly how often he gets to see a woman, living out here in the sticks. It sure seems like it's some kind of novelty. I stir a little uneasily in my seat at this thought. But then Reed starts talking again, and my attention turns back to him, which is a welcomed diversion from the stern hulk and grumpy driver up front.

"So," he starts, "where are you from? You're new here, right?"

I shrug. "New and old. My parents owned the Lodge, and they used to bring me here for vacations. But that was a long time ago. Then I grew up and went abroad. I moved around a bit after college."

"Moved where?"

"Here and there," I say noncommittally, "kinda moved around a lot."

"You one of those hippie types?"

I chuckle. "I prefer 'free spirit,' but yeah, if you like. Backpacking around the world for a few years, then volunteering to teach at a school in Africa. That's where I've been for the last year or so."

"Sounds neat. What brought you back?"

I meet his gaze. "Death."

He seems unsure how to respond. I don't blame him. Most people are awkward when it comes to talking about loss. But Reed doesn't do the thing I hate, which is to quickly change the subject to lighter topics or—worse—to give me that pitiful look. Instead, he lets the word hang for a moment, giving it time to sink in.

"That sucks."

It's a simple phrase, not particularly eloquent or insightful. Yet it resonates deeply with me. I chuckle bitterly.

"Yeah," I say, "it does."And life seems determined to keep giving me more of it.

"I know how it feels," he continues, his voice uncharacteristically low, the words hanging in the air. "I lost my brother when I was eight. He and I were only a year apart. We were like twins—like blood brothers as well as actual brothers. Went everywhere together, did everything together. Partly because we just clicked, and partly because Mom and Pa… well, I guess they were pretty cray parents. Drunk most of the time, off their heads on coke the rest of the time. Violent all the time—Paespecially. We stood up for each other, covered for each other, defended each other sometimes."

His gaze drifts for a moment, as if lost in the past, and I can see the pain there, the weight of a memory that's never left.

"Then one day he dropped dead. Brain aneurysm, they said. He was playing a school baseball match. Just fell to the ground and stayed there. We thought he was joking at first, but when he didn't get up… so yeah, I get it. Like I say, that sucks."

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