Page 20 of Comforted By The Mountain Man
Ezra, who the brothers called Ghost all last night, no clue why, walks in carrying darkness in his stern frame, but when he sees me, he softens just enough to make me comfortable.
The three of us spend an hour going over the different departments, they show me their system, Ezra hands me the company laptop to take home and get familiar with. When he tells me what I’ll get paid bi-weekly, I almost choke on the sample whiskey.
I want to deny it, say it’s too much, but Asher steers the conversation away before I could. The look he gives me tells me he knew exactly what I was going to say.
I’m still reeling about what life could look like with that kind of money. Steady income. And it’ll be just mine to build a life for my son.
We follow Ezra down the mountain to town to visit their brother West’s bar, which they supply for. Part of my job will be gathering numbers from them as well.
The town is straight out of a wholesome, small town TV movie. Red brick buildings with stone pavements line quiet streets with the most breath-taking view of the mountains framing the center of town.
Is this place for real?
We walk into the most rustic, quaint, warmly lit bar I’ve ever seen. I’m used to dirty, stained, dank and dark bars. This? This is rough brick walls, beautifully crafted pure wood slab counters line the windows. The rustic, wooden barstools are thick and sturdy, stained a dark espresso.
“Of all the bars in town, you walk into mine,” West leans on the bar counter and greets.
“You’re an idiot,” Ezra mumbles.
“Ghost,” West clutches his chest. “You wound me, brother.”
“Good to see you again, West,” I smile.
“You too, Miss Sierra. Where’s my favorite little man?” he asks.
My chest tightens with unexpected gratitude for the thought. I smile, “Grace picked him up a couple hours ago. He’s in heaven, I’m sure. Doesn’t miss his Mama.”
“Of course, he misses you,” Asher says in my ear, causing a shiver to run down my spine, too delicious to be experienced in public.
West gives a knowing grin before they all launch into the business side of our visit. Just as I’m settling into a serene state and dare I say, joy, my spine stiffens.
I’ve always heard that a woman always knows.
The prickle of awareness at the back of your neck.
The anxious flutters in your chest.
The acceleration in your breathing you try to mask and control.
Multiple people could be looking at you casually, but there’s something different about being watched by someone with nefarious intentions.
6
ASHER
West is explaining the monthly inventory system when I notice Sierra's entire body go rigid beside me. One moment she's relaxed, even smiling at something Ezra said about the whiskey aging process, and the next, she's transformed into a statue. Her breathing becomes shallow, controlled, like she's forcing herself not to hyperventilate.
I've seen this before. In combat veterans, in abuse survivors, in people who've lived with constant threat. Fight or flight response kicking in, adrenaline flooding the system.
My eyes sweep the bar, looking for whatever triggered her. West's place is mostly empty at this hour, just a few locals nursing beers and watching the game on the mounted TV. Nothing that should cause this level of alarm.
But Sierra's scanning the room like she's looking for exits, her hand gripping the edge of the table so hard her knuckles are white. Whatever she's afraid of, it's real to her.
"Sierra?" I keep my voice low, non-threatening. "You okay?"
She turns to me, and I can see the panic barely contained behind her eyes. "I need to leave. Now."
"What's wrong?" West asks, immediately picking up on the tension.
