Page 24 of Grumpy on the Mountain
Everything in this space has purpose, has meaning.
The coffee table I built from the hood of a '67 Mustang a fallen brother of our unit treasured dearly. The woven blanket from a grateful family in Afghanistan.
They gifted it to me after I helped rebuild their home when a missile strike demolished half their village. The mother had pressed it into my calloused hands with tears in her eyes, insisting despite my protests.
Sometimes at night, when the memories crowd too close, and the mountain silence feels like a weight, I wrap myself in its rough-spun warmth and remember that even in the darkest places, humanity finds ways to create beauty.
I've lined the walls downstairs with a series of black and white photographs I took during deployment. Landscapes only, never people. Never the chaos or the bloodshed.
I drop my shirt on the counter and grab a glass of water, downing it in three long swallows. The emergency radio scanner that's trekked all around the world with me sits on the windowsill above the sink.
I switch it on out of habit, always needing to know what's happening around me, always making sure I'm prepared.
Static crackles, then Jamie Striker's voice cuts through, reporting to someone about vehicles still stranded in town after the storm.
I could call in, offer to help.
They've been trying to recruit me to Mountain Rescue since I arrived, and I've complied a few times before it got too much to handle.
Like I need more lives in my hands anyway. I've failed enough people already for one lifetime.
I move to the bathroom and turn the shower to scalding, trying to burn away thoughts of Molly, thoughts of the past, thoughts of everything beyond this mountainside.
When I get out and towel myself off, my phone rings, cutting through my routine like an ambush.
I glance at the screen, prepared to ignore it like I do ninety percent of calls.
But it's Sienna Wright's name lighting up the display.
And that… gives me pause.
Sienna only calls when it's important. When a pipe bursts or her security system malfunctions while David is away. Sienna respects my boundaries, which is why I haven't blocked her number like I have so many others.
I let it go to voicemail anyway, expecting Sienna's voice to come through the speaker.
Instead, when I press my phone to my ear, I hear the sweetest, most annoying and ridiculously cute voice of Stone River's most adorable little girl.
"BEAU! Hi! It's Maisie! Aunt Molly needs her keys for the car man! And her suitcase with all her clothes because she keeps wearing Mom's and Mom says they make her butt look big but I'm not supposed to tell Aunt Molly that part. Can you please please PLEASE bring them? I'm making you a new treehouse picture! Okay byeeeeee!"
I stare at the phone.
Molly needs her keys. And her suitcase. I've been expecting this call for days, but that doesn't make hearing it any easier.
I glance at the keys on the counter, then out the window to my truck where her suitcase sits in the back like a ticking bomb of complications.
"Shit."
Twenty minutes later, I'm navigating my truck down the winding mountain road, freshly showered, clean flannel shirt buttoned to my throat, and a scowl so deep it might be permanent.
Molly's designer suitcase sits in the passenger seat, securely belted in like precious cargo.
She would have nice panties. I'm sure of it.
The town of Stone River Mountain unfolds closer and closer with each bend in the road. Smoke rises from chimneys aspeople emerge from the snowstorm's forced hibernation, and by the time the chains on my tires hit Main Street, it's all been plowed.
I pull onto Sienna's street, noting that hers is the only driveway that hasn't been cleared of snow. I approach the house and see Molly and Sienna in the front yard, examining what appears to be a section of fence that's collapsed under the weight of the snow.
Molly's wearing jeans that hug curves I shouldn't be noticing, and a tightly fitted sweater that's clearly Sienna's, hanging a bit loose around the shoulders but snug across her ample chest.
