Page 4 of Runaway for the Mountain Man
Bentley
I should leave the Hollow Oak. The storm outside howls like a living thing, rattling the windows with each gust, but I stay rooted in my seat. It’s not just the weather keeping me here—my home’s not waiting with anything better, just a disaster waiting that I’ll have to face alone.
Around me, the last stragglers of today’s gathering linger, nursing drinks and trading grim predictions about the storm. Some mention tornadoes. Some worry about the thunder. It all makes me grimace.
Eden weaves through the thinning crowd, balancing a tray of greasy bar food—cheese-drenched fries, sliders oozing sauce, the kind of comfort that sits heavy in your stomach and heavier on your conscience.
“Kelsie’s sending the kitchen crew home soon,” she says, sliding the tray onto our table. “Last call for cravings, unless you wanna brave the storm to stick around for dinner.” Shenods toward the windows, where rain lashes the glass in sheets. “Supposed to get worse. She might kick us out too, once the place clears.”
I grab a fry, globs of cheese and bacon clinging to it like an afterthought. My stomach twists, but I hold it between my fingers like an excuse—something to do instead of answering, instead of thinking.
Around me, the others debate how hard the town will get hit, their voices sharp with forced laughter. I don’t join in. I just watch the storm through the glass and wonder how long I can keep waiting.
Better to get home soon before I’m stuck in town. The climb up the mountain is already going to be one hell of a challenge.
So, once the chatter dies down followed by empty plates, I’m one of the last who get up.
“You get home safe now, Bentley.” Kelsie slides the receipt across the bar, her smile tight with something between concern and exhaustion.
The Hollow Oak’s nearly empty—just the die-hards and the desperate left—but she’s still playing hostess, still pretending she isn’t running this place on fumes.
I almost ask if she’ll be alright. Almost.
Then I feel it—the slow, weighted press of Hayes’ stare from one of the stools at the bar. The man’s got a cane leaning next to him like a warning. I’ve seen him use it for walking. I’ve also seen the way his grip shifts when someone looks at Kelsie wrong.
My lips press shut. Some concerns don’t need words. If he’s lingering, I’m sure she’ll get home safely.
Bidding the last few a goodnight, I leave the bar and grimace at the way the clouds have eaten up the sun. Shaking my head, I slip in my truck and rush home, like most of the people I pass in town.
By the time I reach the cabin, the rain is heavy enough to make seeing more than twenty feet an impossibility. Abandoning my truck, I jog to the porch to try to avoid getting soaked. With the weather’s determination, I fail.
Entering my home, I shut away the storm and sigh out of relief. Hard to believe the worst of it hasn’t hit. That’ll come in a few hours at most.
Kneeling to untie my boots, the motions of my fingers instantly slow when I notice something different.
Staring down at a pair of sneakers caked in mud that are too small to be mine, my skin prickles instantly.
My home is as quiet as I left it. Even as I hold my breath and listen for any signs of life, there aren’t any.
I don’t like it. Someone’s been in my home, and they wouldn’t have left without their shoes.
Carefully moving to stand, I steady my breathing to calm my heart.
Reaching behind me, I unstrap my knife. Don’t trust myself with a gun, so this is the best I have to fight off the intruder if they’re waiting to catch me off guard.
Clutching it and my hand, I carefully enter my home to search for the owner of the shoes.
My living room is empty, looking untouched. Doesn’t seem like a single hair is missing. If they wanted to steal something, most of my valuables are in here. At the same time, I don’t own much to begin with.
Checking the kitchen next, it’s clear. Wandering through, my brows furrow at the bowl and spoon resting in the dish drainer. Dishes that weren’t there before I left earlier. The same bowl I know held my future dinner in.
Now not only has this person broken into my home, but they have also stolen from me. I can’t say I’m a fan. With a frown forming on my lips, I turn.
Jolting to a stop, I stare at a filthy white dress draped over one of the wooden chairs at the table. Blinking, the dress remains. Approaching, I look around to make sure this isn’t some distraction before reaching out to graze pale pearls sewn in.
On the other side of the dress, there are a few silky ribbons sliced up, the strands hardly cut with grace.
I’m having a hard time trying to figure out who could have decided to make my home their own. If their clothes are abandoned, I’m not going to come across some naked fiend, am I?
