Page 1 of Her Mountain Man's Christmas Lie
CHAPTER 1
Séamus ‘Shea’ Lonn
After loading another stack of supplies into the back of my Ranger Raptor, I straighten. Pretending to work the kinks out of my left shoulder, I glance up and down the street. I’ve got that damn feeling again that I’m being watched. Same feeling I’ve had the last two times I’ve come to town. I don’t see anyone.
I’m accustomed to the towns people gawking and rushing past like they’re scared of the boogie man. I’m sure the rumors have run rampant since that first day. No one cared then to hear the truth, they sure as hell haven’t since.
The feeling today is different. More a controlled surveillance, a planning. Like the way a sniper lays in wait, not moving, not giving away his position, just taking it all in before he pulls the trigger.
Some of my buddies from the service warned me the first few years out are rough after seeing battle. Especially if you’ve been injured. That you can see and feel things that aren’t there because you’ve been constantly on guard, wired to react. For those of us going back to nothing, it would be even harder to make connections. I didn’t pay enough attention. I was one of the lucky ones. I had someone waiting for me at home.
Turned out I was wrong.
Shooting one more glance behind me, I go back inside the store to pay my bill and get the last of my supplies. The coming storm promises to be a bad one and I don’t like spending any more time than I need to in this town where I’m not wanted. Guess I never was. The troublemaker no one wanted or noticed, till Martha took me in.
Once I’ve paid my tab, John the owner looks at me. “I’m sorry about Martha. She was good people.”
I nod. Hefting the last hundred pounds of chicken feed I head to the truck. I should have enough supplies for two months.
Stopping at the gas station, I fill the tank and grab more butane. Storm is gonna hit hard. I’d like to be up my mountain road before it does. I’m three miles from the cabin when the sleet starts. It’s slow going but once I’m home, I pull under the canvas lean-to I repaired last week. I’d replaced it two years ago, the last time I was back I fixed it again. I knew then Martha was failing. She was a task master making sure everything was in place and in good repair. The fact the lean-to was in disrepair spoke louder than words.
My spring leave was the last time I saw her. In typical Martha style, she had everything arranged. They told me the night she died, she’d called the ambulance and when they picked her up, she told them to take her to the funeral home then quietly passed away before they could get her to the hospital.
I was deployed at the time. My last mission. The one where I got injured and lost Chris. It took a while before I got word and then found out she’d left everything to me. She never formally adopted me. Just took in her troubled student when she found out my old man drank himself to death. I suppose in a bigger town authorities would have been called, but in our little community no one argued with Martha. She’d taught in the high school for over fifty years and had most of the people whoowned business or held public offices in town as students. Even the everchanging principals never argued with her.
I miss her. Her no nonsense, her wisdom. Her hugs. For a kid who never had any, the first time she pulled me in for one it had been an awakening. Better than the booze I’d been lifting from my old man. That hug changed my life and made me want to be better for her.
Removing the chicken feed first and taking it to the hen house, I come back for the next load. Damn, I must not have packed very well. Everything has shifted, including the tarp I keep rolled up on the side. A gust hits me from behind and ice seeps under my collar. A shiver racks me. Grabbing more supplies I make three trips as quick as I can, but I still end up drenched.
I stoke the fire and after adding a couple logs, I go to the bathroom and strip, pulling on a pair of sweats and dry socks. I hear what sounds like a knock on the door. Man, the wind must be hitting hard. Before I can grab a T-shirt, the sound comes again. What the hell?
Padding to the door, I throw it open. I can’t believe my eyes. Shaking my head, I squeeze my eyes shut and try again. Cady Bernard is standing on my porch, shivering, soaking wet, wearing nothing but jeans, a T-shirt, and a hoody. I glance behind her but don’t see anyone waiting. “What the hell are you doing here? You don’t belong here. Go home!”
“I came to….”
“I don’t want you here. Go home.”
“Co-co-cold,” she stutters.
Shit. She’s soaking wet. I look out into the yard again and there’s no car. How the hell did she get here? The dense snow is driving down hard. Damn it!
Scooping her up bridal style, I kick the door shut behind us and carry her straight to the shower. Helping her slide herbackpack off, I put it in the sink. “Kick your shoes off while I adjust the water temperature.”
Once it’s warm, I turn on the overhead letting the warmth spray down on her. “Strip and toss the wet clothes in the corner, I’ll get them later.” I pull a towel from the cupboard and put it on the sink. “Get warm. I’ll put clothes outside the door for you. Then we’ll get you back where you belong.”
I put her tennis shoes on the hearth to dry before going to my dresser. She’s going to swim in any of my clothes. I grab two pair of tube socks that will go to her knees, a pair of cut off sweatpants with a draw string, a T-shirt ,and pullover hoody. Placing those by the bathroom door, I tap the frame. “Clothes are out here when you’re done.”
I start water on the stove and pull a teabag from Martha’s canister. I wonder if tea goes bad. If it was coffee I’d drink it, I reason. Plopping a bag in a mug I pour the boiling water over it. The shower goes off. I brace myself to confront the younger sister of my ex-fiancé.
More importantly, the cherished sister of my best friend. The friend I didn’t save.
Fuck my life.
CHAPTER 2
Cady Bernard
As soon as he’d taken the first load to the barn, I’d slipped out of the truck and ducked behind a tree. I was completely soaked by his second trip. My hands are still shaking—not from the cold but from what I’ve done. What I’m about to do.
