Page 1 of Mountains Divide Us

CHAPTER ONE

FRANK

A WHILE BACK…

“This cabin should be in a damn magazine,” Max said. “What’re you gonna do now?”

We’d just finished the last task on our renovation list—installing new gray and white granite countertops with rock edges.

I shrugged. “Dunno.”

“Any other projects you wanna work on? We could start plannin’ the barn you were talkin’ about? Get you a horse? You got enough room on the property for it.” He patted me hard on the back. “Turn you into a real cowboy? You’re from Texas; you should already be one. You got the hat.”

I laughed. “Naw, man. Thanks, but I think I need to sit with this place for a while. Get used to it. We pretty much overhauled the whole thing.” I’d only lived in the house for a month before Max and I’d started ripping shit up.

I wasn’t one to make friends easily, but through his generosity and his willingness to work for beer, Max Gordon had wormed his way in. I knew now, if I ever needed help with anything, all it would take was a phone call. It went both ways. Friendship like that wasn’t something a man took for granted.

I could count on one hand the people I held in a similar regard. My boss, Carey Michaels, the sheriff of Teton County was another. My partner, Abey Lee, made the list too, but I would never, ever tell her that.

“Yeah, we sure did,” he said, looking around, appraising all the work we’d done on our evenings off and weekends for the last nine or ten months. Max had his hands full out at Milson Ranch every day as the ranch foreman, and he’d given up plenty of side gigs on the weekends as a carpenter to help me. I was grateful.

The stone fireplace and the foundation of the fixer-upper I’d bought a year ago were the only parts of the house that didn’t feel different. New drywall, new reclaimed wood floors, new kitchen and bathroom. Almost everything was new.

But that old fireplace was a thing of dreams.

As a younger man, I’d pictured long nights cozied up on a couch in front of a fire, snuggled up with a woman, drinking a beer, maybe watching a movie, our kids making a mess on the floor with Lincoln Logs or a highly contested game of Monopoly. Christmas stockings hung over the edge of the mantel, with twinkling lights from the tree in the window, casting the whole room in a warm glow.

Unfortunately, in order to have that family, I’d need to find a woman to share it with. And that definitely wasn’t part of my plan.

It’d taken me a long time to get here—to reno the house, but more importantly, to get to a place in my life where I didn’t look at every woman I met with distrust. Didn’t automatically assume they would take what they could from me and then hightail it out of Dodge.

It was too late for me now anyway. Surveying the cabin, appreciating the sturdy beams, new windows, the built-in bookshelves, and all new appliances—it was my biggest fear that I’d die alone in this house. It was also what I’d already accepted would happen.

Two more years, and I’d officially be an “old man.”

Max lifted his hat from my side table next to the couch. “Alright, well, take it easy. Stop by the bunkhouse out at Milson’s for a beer here sometime soon, before the weather gets bad. Buckey keeps bitchin’ about the money you owe him for that poker game. He plans to rob you blind next time, although you could probably just arrest him.”

I laughed, offering a hand. “Thanks, Max. This house is… It’s a thing of fuckin’ beauty. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help.”

At least I could die in peace in a house that was well built and clean. It suited me. And I’d chosen my new home carefully—far enough outside town so I wouldn’t be bothered by people knocking on my door all hours of the night.

“It was nothin’. You did most of the heavy liftin’. All I did was hammer a nail or two.” He shook my hand. “Enjoy it. That’s all the thanks I need.” Looking over my shoulder, he added, “You better get some books for them built-ins. Place looks empty without somethin’ to break up all that dark wood.”

My phone rang on my kitchen table, and when I closed the door behind Max and grabbed it, I saw it was my adoptive mom calling.

“Hi, Mama K.”

“Hi, Frankie. How are you, honey?”

I tried not to scoff at the nickname. I wasn’t thirteen anymore. In fact, when I was thirteen, I’d hated when she called me “Frankie.” It was too personal, too intimate, something my mama would’ve called me, and Mama K wasn’t my real mama. At least, that was how I’d seen it back then.

“I’m fine. How are you and Eugene doin’?”

“Oh, can’t complain too much. Listen, I wanted to ask you about the invitation I sent to Krista’s party. Do you think you’ll make it this time? We’d love to see you.”

I had been hoping to avoid this phone call. I was sure she knew I’d sent her to voicemail the three times she’d called about it before. “Don’t think I can get the time off work.”

“Hm. I guess that Carey fella works you to the bone, huh?”

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