Page 4 of Unwrapped By the Grumpy Mountain Man
“You live in a warped world, Sanford. Hell no.”
“Hudson, you need this. This is serious. We need an edge to get those girls away from Silver Lakes. At least think about it. I already emailed you their information. And I spoke with their CEO, Christine Lawrence. She’s willing to expedite this.”
This conversation is the cherry on top that’s causing my entire system to shut down. I want to get off this call, grab my whiskey, and go to bed.
“I’ll look into it. But no guarantees. Find another way to get my girls, Sanford.” I want to rush him off already. I have no interest in looking into shit. I’m not risking my girls with some desperate stranger looking for love.
I tried that once. I never even loved Kristy. Not truly. I convinced myself I did. She was always there, eager to take care of me, supposedly to love me. When she got pregnant with Silvie, I promised myself to stick around and try. We fell into routine and comfort.
The only love I have room for is for my three angels, who brought me back to life. They’re what I live for now.
I hang up on Sanford and do just as planned. I clean up the kitchen, regretfully toss out a now-wasted steak, grab whiskey from the highest shelf in the pantry, and head to bed.
This weekend, I get my girls. And every weekend after that, now. It’s a win. But I won’t settle until they come home to me as their primary guardian. I want the court to force rehab on Kristy if she’s ever to keep my girls overnight again. I want our lives to finally begin.
That’s all I want for Christmas.
CHAPTER TWO
VIOLET
The ancient floorboard creaks under my sock-covered foot as I tiptoe toward the front door. My childhood home has character, as Mom always said. I call it stubborn. The hundred-year-old Victorian has weathered more storms than most marriages, and I've loved every imperfection since I was a little girl.
I peel open the rusted mailbox, wincing at the high-pitched whine as familiar as my father's snoring after a whiskey binge.Bills, bills, more bills.I sort through them with practiced fingers, anxiety creeping up my spine with each official envelope.
That's when I see it. Bold red letters stamped across the mortgage statement.
FINAL NOTICE.
My stomach drops as I slide my finger under the seal and unfold the paper. The amount past due makes my head spin.
"Son of a bitch," I whisper.
Four months behind and counting. I knew Dad was struggling since the old sheriff, Jones, kept punishing him when he’d ask too many questions, but I’ve been giving himmoney to help with the payments for months from my freelance assignments. How the hell did we fall behind so badly? This is catastrophic. The foreclosure warning at the bottom of the page might as well be written in neon lights.
I march back inside, tossing the other mail onto the kitchen table while clutching the mortgage notice. The house is quiet this morning, Dad likely still sleeping off whatever he drank last night at The Crossroads Bar. The silence amplifies the hammering of my heart against my ribs.
This house is all we have left of Mom. Every faded wallpaper pattern, every scuffed banister, every creaky step holds her memory. I run my hand along the chipped kitchen counter she used to bake on, feeling the smooth spots worn down by years of kneading dough. I can still hear her humming while making cinnamon rolls on Sunday mornings.
My laptop sits on the dining table where I left it last night. I plop down, pushing aside a stack of my handwritten notes for various newspaper articles. Being a freelance writer for the Eden Ridge Newspaper doesn't pay much, but it's steady work that lets me maintain this house while Dad... well, while Dad tries to drink himself to death.
Ivy’s dad’s death really did a number on the whole Sheriff’s department, with most of the original staff either suspended or fired. I had expected the news when Dad came home that day and was grateful he’d only been suspended, but knowing my father knew of the sheriff’s corruption and continued to keep silent really hit me hard.
Even then, I’d have at least expected him to man up and help me maintain the house for mom’s sake, instead, he sought refuge at the bottom of several whiskey bottles and continues searching every night.
Sighing, I open my email, needing the distraction of work to calm my racing thoughts. A new message from my editor sits at the top of my inbox.
Violet,
New series on unconventional relationships in Eden Ridge. See attached assignment sheet. You get first pick of the articles since you pitched the series. Let me know which one you want by tomorrow.
I click on the attachment,scanning the list, each with attached starter resources. Mail-order brides in modern America. Speed dating for seniors. Polyamorous mountain communities. Arranged marriages among immigrant families.
The piece on mail-order brides catches my eye. I’ve read about this happening in historical romance novels, but in modern America?That’s the one.The resources themselves reveal a list of existing agencies in and around Oregon, some with newsletter alert options for possible opportunities.I may as well get started.
I’m looking through the third website when a new email notification pops up from the first agency I subscribed to. The subject line reads,MOUNTAIN MAN SEEKING MAIL-ORDER BRIDE - $50,000 COMPENSATION.
"What the hell?" I mutter, clicking it open.
