Page 142 of Ten Mountain Men

I call my roadside assistance service and get them to bring me some gas. Then, once that’s sorted and I’m filled up and good to go, I pack up my things and check out, ready to head to my apartment that is not a home.

I see the sign for thePiney Grove Trading Post and General Store.Luke said this is the only place the brothers sell their work. Impulsively, I pull into the lot, the need to buy something to remember my mountain men by too strong to resist.

The bell above the door jingles as I step inside. I go straight to the carved bear that got my attention the first time I was here.

“Looking for something specific?”

It’s the same woman who was here before behind the counter, tiny with sharp eyes.

I hold up the bear. “Can you tell me who made this?”

“Local artist.”

“Does the local artist have a name?”

“You look like someone who’s lost something,” she says, her voice low and skeptical.

Again with the psychic stuff.

I try to shrug it off. “I guess you could say that.”

She steps out from behind the counter, coming closer, her gaze never wavering. “You’re Goldie, aren’t you?”

Holy shitballs, maybe she is psychic. The bear slips from my fingers and I almost drop it. Gripping it tighter, I freeze. How could she know? Does she know?

After all, she did tell me I would get eaten on the mountain and I flush remembering Lynx’s head buried between my thighs. She wasn’t wrong about that.

“You’re the one that’s been up on the mountain with my boys.”

“Your…”

“My sons.”

“Your…”

I have lost all ability to word.

“Luther made the bear.”

Luther. Luke. Of course.

“I didn’t mean to…I didn’t want to cause any trouble. I didn’t want to hurt them,” I whisper, my throat tight.

The woman sighs, the sharpness in her gaze softening. “Look, Goldie, I don’t know what happened up there, and frankly, I don’t care to know all the details. But my boys are hurting without you. Especially Luther.”

I shake my head, because that’s not possible.Luthermade me promise to never come back.

“I’d like to buy the bear,” I say. “Please.”

She rings me up and wraps it up.

“Thank you for your business. Come again soon,” she says, even though I think we both know I won’t be coming back, ever.

I’m barely back on the road when the opening notes of that old Hall & Oates song, “Maneater,” fill the car. Mother’s ringtone. My phone’s paired to the convertible’s audio system. I accept the call.

“Hi, Mother. I’m sorry I didn’t call you back, I haven’t—”

“Oh, darling. Don’t you worry about it! I know you’ve been busy with your documentary. And I’ve been busy too. I decided, no, I am not letting Clive go. So, honey, forget what I said. This marriage is far from over.”

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