Page 97 of Ten Mountain Men

I glimpse at him over my shoulder and tease, “Does this lead to the basement where you keep the bodies?”

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, it does.”

“Damn, and I was hoping it might be some kind of sex dungeon,” I joke, just to see that adorable blush.

I step into the pantry, and my jaw drops. It’s like I’ve stepped through the back of the wardrobe into fucking Narnia.

It’s…immaculate. Impeccable. Like, shockingly pristine. The rest of the cabin might be a mess, but this space? It’s like Martha Stewart herself came through and sprinkled her domestic goddess magic everywhere, with Marie Kondo in tow. Rows upon rows of vegetables preserved in Mason jars, canned goods, homemade jams, spices. Everything in neatly labeled containers. Everything in its place. I’m stunned.

“This has to be Martha’s work,” I whisper, running my fingers along a row of canisters of flour and sugar and…cornmeal?

“Who’s Martha?” Rusty asks.

“Martha Stewart is like the high priestess of perfection. She can take a humble sheet of paper and turn it into a meticulously folded napkin that says,I spent way too much time making this look like a swan, but isn’t it fabulous?” I’m gushing mindlessly as I marvel at this little slice of heaven right in the midst of the cabin I thought was my own personal hell when I walked into it. “Her magic lies in making everything, from soufflés to centerpieces, look effortless, like she waved a spatula-shaped wand and turned a regular Tuesday night dinner into a five-star dining experience. It’s not just cooking, decorating, or organizing—it’s Martha-fying. She’s a celebrity.”

“Oh. Do you know her?”

I laugh. “No, I don’t but…what’s that?” I point to what must be a five-gallon bucket that’s filled with something that looks like peanut butter. Kind of?

“Sunflower seed butter,” Rusty tells me. I glance at him. He’s leaning in the doorframe and he takes up every inch of it. His hazel eyes gleam with pride, and the streaks in his copper-colored hair and beard seem even more like flickers of flames than usual. “Made it myself. Goes real good with the plum jam Ranger makes.”

Just when I think these men can’t get anymore fascinating, boom, they do. They make their own sunflower seed butter and plum jam. Who needs farmer’s markets and Trader Joe’s?

“Do you have any—” I begin, but then I spot what I think I’m looking for.

Not one, but nine—no, ten, of course—gigantic round loaves of bread, each wrapped carefully in linen cloths. They’re stacked on a wooden board, carefully arranged.

I step closer, drawn by the sight—and the smell. That warm, earthy scent of freshly baked bread fills the air, and my stomach growls in response.

I lift the corner of one of the cloths, revealing a thick, crusty loaf underneath. I can already imagine the crunch when I tear into it. It’s got that perfect texture, firm but with a soft give. Each loaf looks like it could feed an army—which, in this case, is exactly the point. I smile, shaking my head.

I reach for one of the loaves, surprised at how heavy it feels in my hands. “Think one or two will do for sandwiches?” I ask Rusty.

“Might better bring all of ’em, Rose-Gold. Want me to get the sunflower seed butter and jam?” he asks.

“Yes, and…hmmm.” I press my lips together, thinking. We need to be quick, but I want to do more than a fancy PB&J. “Let me go check the fridge.”

“There’s an extra fridge on the side porch and we’ve got a couple big freezers out in one of the sheds,” he says.

In the refrigerator in the kitchen, I find some crisp lettuce, gorgeous tomatoes, and best of all, bacon. We’ll do BLTs too. Thankfully, there’s a clean frying pan now. By the time I’ve got the stovetop on and found what I think is lard, Rusty’s got everything else laid out on the now clean countertop.

I can feel Rusty watching me. And I can feel the cameras watching us, like prying eyes, recording everything we say, everything we do. And I have no one to blame for that but myself.

“You know, Rusty,” I start, grabbing one of the loaves, “you don’t have to stick around. I’ve got this.”

Rusty leans casually against the refrigerator, crossing his arms, that playful smile tugging at his lips. “You really think you can handle making sandwiches for ten ravenous mountain men all by yourself, Rose-Gold? You’ve seen how much we eat, and we all skipped breakfast. And we’ve all worked up bigger appetites than usual today. Some of us more than others. Brooks and Hunter are some lucky bastards.”

I glance at him. “Well, I’ll take that as a compliment. And don’t you worry, Rusty. I’ll be happy to make you a lucky bastard too, soon.”

“Why, Rose-Gold Locke, soon can’t come soon enough. But…for now, will you let me help with lunch? And, uh, maybe I can give you a hug?”

I still.

When I was growing up, hugs were trotted out on one occasion and one occasion only—at the moment of each of Mom’s marriages when it wasoverover.Rose-Gold, baby, Mother needs a hug.I don’t think she ever asked if I needed one, or offered to hug me just because she wanted to.

“Rose-Gold?”

I start to remind him that only Mother calls me that, but I like the way it sounds in Rusty’s voice. And I would love a hug. I love that he asked. I love that he wants to hug me.

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