Page 2 of The Mountain Man's Retribution

I barrel as far away from Big Man, Malaketh, and Kael as possible. In all truth, I’d rather fling myself from a cliff than go back to that dark, repressive world. The sky darkens, smoke billowing and covering the stars.

Unable to find Polaris any longer in the smoky tumult and long past winded, I stumble across a huge cabin and homestead with impressive architecture. A large, white truck with double wheels on the back indicates that this is the home of a town person.

I can’t be far from civilization. Exhausted and feet aching, no longer able to continue, I find a hollow log a distance from thehouse and wedge myself inside. Curling up and making myself as small as possible, like a little fawn, as Big Man used to say.

Sobbing quietly, I pat the pages in my pocket, drawing strength from the tales of my heroines. Of pretty Elizabeth with her witty banter and flirtatious glances. Of Jane with her quiet resolve and long-suffering, yet indomitable spirit.

Though I have lived the entirety of my remembered life with crude, cruel, domineering men, the pages also hold my hopes. Hope of a Mr. Darcy or a Mr. Rochester. A man who will surmount his devil and put my happiness first. Men like that must exist, right? They cannot be relegated solely to the pages in my pocket. But as I silence my sobs, lying in my forested cache, ambivalence fills me.

I am alone. Completely on my own, and I don’t know the first thing about town or what surviving there involves. I feel nauseous even thinking about it. But I can’t return to Big Man or the cabin, my past rising with the flames of the inferno.

A door squeaks open, and I cover my mouth, watching in horror and the smoky haze of night as a giant of a man saunters out. Massive, muscular, dangerous, I’m convinced he’s as tall as the trees surrounding me. Terror grips me as I watch him climb into one of the tallest ones beside me. Quiet settles over the land.

No doubt the man watches the fire, mindful of its direction. The peaceful strength of his energy lulls me to sleep until the crawling rays of dawn find me.

New fears seize me. I doze off repeatedly, my bladder fuller with each awakening until I’m no longer able to hold it, wetting myself. I can’t move, ashamed by the action but too terrified to reveal my presence to this stranger.

Chapter Two

BODIE

Long night and a heavy heart.

Nothing saddens me like nature destroyed.

I climb down from my perch in the tree where I sat much of the night, watching fire creep across the land. Smoke woke me about three-thirty, announcing the blaze, way back in the woods where the real creeps live.

Those with few teeth and even fewer morals. The moonshiners and convicts, kidnappers and inbreeds. The people who came to Northern Idaho to disappear, along with unspeakable sins. For all I know, one of their stills exploded or a DIY meth lab incinerated.

The outside world would scarcely see a distinction between the backcountry people and me, I suppose. Though I came here to escape from my family, my obligations, my time in military service, the commercialization of the entire fucking world—not some past or present evil.

Until ten this morning, I sat in the tree, a good fifty feet off the ground, swaying in the wind, rough bark pressed into my back, watching, waiting. Ready to scramble down the branches should the tide turn and the thin line of defense made by the hot shots working the blaze break, sending ravenous flames my way.

Straightening and groaning, I stretch my arms to their full length, puffing out my chest. Walking towards the edge of the flat clearing around the cabin, I unzip my fly, pissing into the woods with a relieved moan.

A whimper catches my ears. The tiniest sound. Almost imperceptible. Songbirds sing around me, their celebratory overtures filling the air. As if they’re praising the Universe for the quick conclusion to the fire. I hear it again, cocking my head to the side and listening intently.

My eyes scan the woods, sensing eyes on me. They could belong to anything—a deer, a bear, a bull moose. But no, this breathy sound reminds me of a baby animal cry. Shaking my dick, I stuff it back in my boxers, zipping the fly and listening without moving. Absorbing the energy of something else pressing into me, observing me.

Stepping quietly back a few paces from where I peed, I crouch down, surveying the ground for a broken branch, an overturned leaf, a disturbed rock, or a fresh paw print.

To my amazement, my eyes settle on a series of boot prints, the marks dainty. They lead into the forest only a few hundred feet from me. Straining for sight of the whimpering figure, I blink slowly, my eyes settling on the culprit.

A small, soft form dressed in green and denim lies rolled in a ball in the hollow of a log, face straining to stay silent, tears tracing wet streaks diagonally across her cheeks. Big billows of brown hair frame her face, and large, mahogany doe eyes blink rapidly. Her rosebud lips press into a firm line as if she’s holding her breath, and she shuts her eyes hard the moment we make eye contact.

I weigh my options, sitting back on my heels. Clearly, she doesn’t want to be found. But is she hiding from me or something more terrifying? The hairs on the back of my neck stand up as I glance over my shoulder, surveying the tree linebehind me. Wouldn’t that figure, me focusing on a girl who’s hiding from the grizzly sneaking up on me? The thought makes me chuckle darkly.

If she’s not afraid of anything else then perhaps it’s me. I’ve been called scary by more than one local, and I know rumors fly about me and what I’m doing living in such a remote wilderness, though still a step closer to civilization than the backwoods.

I came up here to help an old man named Flint five years ago. Formerly of Appalachia and drawn to Idaho by its pristine allure, Flint showed me how to live off the land, set traps, fish, and farm in a way that’s biodiverse and easily forgiven by the land. And he taught me about herbs and medicines grown in nature to keep me robust and heal aches, pains, and wounds.

When Flint passed, the whispers started. Ugly ones about how I put him in his grave, stole his land. Because people will always choose the salacious over the ordinary. Every fucking time. So, I suppose this girl could be someone from town, curious about the man called the “Mountain Murderer,” convicted in the public imagination without evidence, judge, or jury.

I glance her way again, watching how she closes her eyes frantically when they meet mine. As if not seeing me will make her invisible in return. I could walk away, pretend I never noticed her. But she needs help, and she’s terrified as hell. So, I decide to coax her out. See if I can get her story.

“Bodie Falkirk,” I say, patting my chest and watching the way her flesh quivers at the sound of my croaky, unused voice. “Fire last night,” I nod toward the backwoods. “Up on the distant mountains. Less than ten miles away.”

She says nothing, pressing her eyes tightly together, though another little whimper escapes her mouth. The sound lays my heart bare, and I swear that whatever or whoever has her scared, I will slay for her, restore peace to her world.

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