Page 7 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
"I can give you a ride," Jed offers, jingling a set of keys from his pocket. "Got my truck right around back. No point in you walking when you've had such a rough day already."
His kindness catches me off guard. In the city, strangers don't offer rides. They don't look at you with genuine concern in their eyes. But Jed seems to operate on a different frequency, one tuned to small-town helpfulness that I've forgotten exists.
"That would be great, actually. Thank you." I glance back at my car, sitting forlorn in front of the garage. "Will it be okay here overnight?"
"Nobody's gonna mess with it,” Jed assures me. “I'll pull it into the garage before I close up."
I grab my overnight bag from the trunk, leaving the rest of my hastily packed life inside. Jed leads me around to a battered blue pickup truck that's seen at least as many miles as my car, maybe more. The passenger door creaks when I pull it open, and the leather seat is worn smooth from years of use.
We drive in silence. Through the windshield, I watch the mountains turning purple against the darkening sky.
"So," Jed says, "what's got you heading to Wyoming all by yourself?"
I consider how much to share with this stranger who's been nothing but kind. "I caught my boyfriend cheating. With my boss." The words still taste bitter on my tongue. "I decided I needed a change of scenery."
Jed lets out a low whistle. "That'll do it." He doesn't offer platitudes or unwanted advice, just a simple acknowledgment of the pain.
The truck slows as we approach a weathered wooden building set back from the road. A neon sign glows in the twilight: "Devil's Pass" in red letters, with a smaller sign beneath it that says "Bar & Grill." The parking lot is half-full, a mix of trucks, motorcycles, and a few sedans.
"Here we are," Jed announces, pulling up near the entrance.
Devil's Pass looks like it grew out of the mountainside itself—all rough-hewn timber and stone, with a metal roof that's developed a patina of rust along the edges. A covered porch runs along the front, with a few patrons sitting at picnic tables. Through the windows, I can see the warm glow of lights and the shadowy movements of people inside.
"It looks... rustic," I say, searching for a polite word.
Jed chuckles. "Don't let the outside fool you. Place is clean, food's good, and the owners don't tolerate any nonsense. C’mon, I’ll go in with you."
I follow him up the wooden steps, the boards creaking beneath our feet. When he pushes open the heavy door, a wall of sound greets us—laughter, conversation, the clink of glasses, and the low thrum of music from a jukebox in the corner.
Inside, Devil's Pass is larger than it appeared from outside. A long bar runs along one wall, stools occupied by a mix of people—most in T-shirts and jeans. Tables are scattered throughout, most filled with patrons eating or drinking. A small stage sits in the far corner, empty now but set up with microphones and amplifiers.
What strikes me most is the décor—a strange blend of biker bar and family restaurant. Motorcycle memorabilia hangs on the walls alongside vintage signs and framed photographs of mountain landscapes. The lighting is dim but not dark, casting a warm glow over the weathered wood interior.
I stand just inside the doorway, clutching my overnight bag, suddenly aware of how out of place I must look. A few heads turn in our direction, curious gazes taking in the newcomer.
"That's Griff behind the bar," Jed says, nodding toward a bearded man pouring drinks. "He and a couple other guys own the place. Come on, I'll introduce you."
I follow Jed through the crowded room. I've spent the past several hours making snap decisions, running on pure adrenaline and anger. Now, surrounded by strangers in an unfamiliar place, reality is catching up to me. I'm broke, my car is falling apart, and I'm about to ask if I can stay in a room above a bar in a town I'd never heard of until today.
The man behind the bar looks up as we approach. He's tall, with broad shoulders and a thick beard. His hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and his forearms are covered in intricate tattoos that disappear beneath rolled-up sleeves. I find it hard to look away.
"Jed," he greets, voice deep and gravelly. "The usual?"
"Not tonight, Griff. Actually, I'm here to ask a favor." Jed gestures to me. "This is Skye. Her car broke down on the way to Wyoming—'67 Mustang with a blown head gasket and a cracked cylinder head. Parts won't be in for at least a week. She needs a place to stay. Thought maybe your room was available."
Griff's direct gaze shifts to me, assessing without being intrusive. "You want to stay upstairs?"
I clear my throat. "Just until my car's fixed."
"Sure. It’s currently unoccupied," Griff says. "Includes breakfast. Bathroom's shared with the office, but no one's in there most of the time. It's not the Ritz. Just a bed and a dresser, but it does have a nice view of the mountains."
"How much?" I ask cautiously.
“It’s free,” he says, giving me a small smile that includes a dimple deep enough to drink a beer out of it. “Only catch is you have to work here.”
Chapter 3
Griff
