Page 40 of Trapped with the Mountain Man

All I have to go on is her name, city, and the fact that she’s a junior high teacher.Wasa junior high teacher.

I’ve scoured every last ounce of press coverage on the shooting, even though I feel sick to my stomach every time I read about what happened to her that day. I know the story like the back of my hand, but it hasn’t offered any clues to finding her, aside from the name of the school where she used to teach. I’ve called the office to ask for her contact information already, but they said they couldn’t give me any information. I knew it was a long shot. Schools probably aren’t too forthcoming with teachers’ private contact info, especially when the teacher is Abby. I’m sure they’ve gotten their share of calls from the press trying to track her down.

I’ve tried to find her parents’ names, her sister’s name, anything that might be useful, but so far…nothing.

I’ve even tried social media. I’m now the very unhappy owner of every type of social media account imaginable. All of my profile pictures are trees and all of my news feeds are empty. She’s not on a single social media site – or at least not on any of the ones I’ve ever heard of.

It’s beginning to feel hopeless.

As the workday comes to an end, I scroll through my email one last time before logging off. My inbox is as full as ever, but at least I’ve read most of the messages now. All of them except for the annoying journalist that keeps pestering me for an interview.

Glancing down at the bold text interspersed between office memos and timecard reminders, I have an idea. Maybe not a good idea, but hey, at least it’s something.

Three days later, I’m at the airport waiting to board a flight to Portland.

In all the digging I did to find Abby’s contact information, I guess I forgot to figure out what I should say to her once I actually found her. I have about seven hours to figure it out.

I wander through the terminal. There’s still about an hour left until the flight starts boarding. In my nervous excitement to see Abby, I arrived at the airport way too early.

A familiar book cover catches my eye as I walk past the sundry shop. It’s that damn book – the one that brought Abby to me in the first place. The image of it curling and turning to ash in my fireplace flashes across my brain. I always thought destroying that book would bring me immense joy, but it ended up being one of the worst moments of my life. That moment is the exact reason that I’m flying to Portland to beg for Abby’s forgiveness instead of paying her a casual, romantic visit like we had discussed.

Of course, she has no idea that I’m coming. The magazine that arranged this entire thing wouldn’t tell her and wouldn’t give me her information so that I could tell her myself. It’s not ideal, but it’s all I’ve got.

I pick up a copy of the book. It’s only right that I replace it. Maybe it will even help my case a little when I see her. I flip through the meager card selection but decide that a greeting card would be overkill. None of them say ‘Sorry I was an asshole and threw your book in the fire’ anyway.

An hour later, a crowd swells around the gate as our boarding groups are called chaotically. It’s been a long time since I’ve been around this many people at once, and even longer since I actually flew anywhere.

I luck out as my group is called and I get selected for an exit row. Once I settle into my seat, I do something I rarely ever do: turn my attention to my phone to tune out all the people around me.

The last few passengers trickle onto the plane almost twenty minutes later and the flight attendants start making their final passes, running their hands over the overhead bins to ensure they’re latched and repeating the same instructions to the one idiot in each row that still hasn’t managed to fasten their seat belt. By the time we all settle in for take-off, we’re already a half-hour behind schedule.

Just as the flight attendants instruct us all to turn off our electronic devices, a text message appears on my phone from Ryan: “Abby just called the station. Call me back as soon as you land.”

More than two months without a word, and now she calls? Does she know I’m coming? I try to type out a reply quickly, but I’m interrupted by a flight attendant tersely reminding me to power off my phone.

I sit back and take a deep breath, wondering what awaits me when I land in Portland.

Chapter 21

Abby

When the reporter from the magazine tracked me down and asked for an interview, I flat-out refused. At least, I tried to refuse. Then she told me how much money they were offering and – even though I tried – I found it impossible to refuse after that.

The school district offered me short-term disability pay after the shooting last year, but that ran out months ago. I haven’t seen a paycheck since then, save for my one-day career as a substitute teacher and a couple of sporadic tutoring gigs I’d picked up since then. Needless to say, it was impossible to turn down a sizeable check for what was essentially an hour or two of my time.

The magazine was a reputable women’s magazine and the reporter had promised that the story would have a positive spin to it, focusing on women working through trauma in unique ways. It seems like a win-win. But when she mentioned Hunter by name, I couldn’t help but wonder if she was after a different kind of story.

Since my ordeal on the trail, I’ve been asked more than once about spending four days stranded with the mysterious, attractive forest ranger from the photos. Not just by the press, but even by my own mother. I haven’t let anything slip to anyone besides my sister, but I wonder if my tone gave something away.

Either way, I know Hunter is going to come up in the interview, and I know I owe it to him to give him a heads up. Or maybe it’s just an excuse to finally speak to him. A safe, practical reason to reach out to him that doesn’t involve a very real possibility of rejection.

My fingers shake as I dial the number that I tracked down to the ranger station where I last saw him. After a few rings, a man answers.

“Smoky Mountain Ranger Station,” he announces. Boredom leeches out of him with each drawn-out word.

“Hi, I’m trying to reach Hunter Shaw please.”

“Uh, he’s out of the office on vacation.”

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