Page 22 of Ten Mountain Men

Rusty groans. “It’s an expression, you Neanderthal. I wasn’t calling her a literal elephant because she’s big-boned or whatever. And I’ll swear all I damn want, because this is my house too, dammit, and in case you’ve forgotten, she—” He uses his fork to point at me, taking a bite of the potato on the end just before saying, “—doesn’t belong in it. I mean, a bath and a meal is one thing, as long as it’s only one bath and one meal.”

I’ve been called worse, honestly, and I’m happy with my body, so their back-and-forth doesn’t bother me. Well, except for the part about me not belonging here. I don’t know why, but that part stings a little.

It’s baffling, because I just met them, and yet I feel such a sense of coziness and, yes, belonging in their house, sitting around this table. Despite the clutter and chaos and Junkstore Cottage Core. The feeling is undeniable. Probably something to do with the concussion.

“Gold is hurt. She belongs wherever there’s someone who’s capable of taking care of her,” Lynx says. “And I am quite capable of that.”

“So you’re saying we just bring strange women home now?” Rusty’s eyes narrow, and I swear the fire highlights in his hair practically glow orange, as if they’re actually ablaze.

“Hey, who are you calling strange?” I protest, trying to lighten the mood.

“Well, it’s not like any of you could find a normal woman to bring home,” Grumpy Luke says, and I swear he almostalmostcracks a smile.

“I’m not kidding, Luke.” Rusty folds his arms across his chest and leans back in his chair, looking disgruntled. He narrows his eyes even more at Grumpy Luke, then turns the squint on me. “The real question is—who are you, and why are you here?”

This time it’s a demand. I try not to frown, because he sounds nearly as grouchy as Grumpy Luke.

“I asked who you all are first,” I remind him.

It’s Grumpy Luke who finally points to each of the other guys and says their names. “Clay, Buck, Nash, Lynx, Ash, Ranger, Rusty, Hunter, Brooks.”

He goes around the table, saying their names so fast I can barely keep up, but at least I’ve had a head start learning some of their names, and I’m generally good with names. But I should make sure I have an adjective to go with each of them, like Grumpy Luke, Cat-Eyed Lynx, Long-Bearded Brooks. Redhead Rusty? Bubble-Bath Rusty? Hot-Buns Rusty?

“Nice meeting you all,” I say.

I glance around at them all. Brothers, they said. Biological? I can’t help but wonder. From the looks of them, there’s a vast gap in ages from the oldest to the youngest, and a wide array in between.

Rusty, like Grumpy Luke, doesn’t bother allowing any time for niceties before blurting out, “Well? It’s your turn to answer my question. Who are you and why are you on our mountain?”

“That’s not a question, that’s two questions, dumbass.” Clay grabs a roll and tears it in two, making me remember my own. I take a bite while Clay tosses half of his at Rusty, bouncing it off his forehead. I can’t help but smile, despite Rusty’s ire. I like Clay already. “Just sayin’.”

“Who are you and why are you here?” Rusty says, and this time it’s a demand.

I glance around. Everyone, even Grumpy Luke, is waiting for my answer with rapt attention.

Luke has achieved full-blown silver fox status with fine lines around his eyes and mouth. He has to be in his forties. Hunter and Brooks both have a few streaks of gray woven into their beards. But Rusty can’t be more than twenty or so. There’s a baby face buried underneath all that beard and brawn. Luke—though there is definitely a stud underneath all that hair—looks old enough to be Rusty’s dad.

Curiouser and curiouser, I think, feeling indeed like I’ve fallen into some kind of rabbit hole or fairy tale.

Which is an eye roll in itself considering my next line.

“My name,” I tell them, “is Goldie Locke.”

Chapter 7

Goldie

Their immediate response to my name is nothing new. Around the table, their faces all register surprise.

It’s Grumpy Luke who comments first, which is pretty much to be expected at this point.

“Your name is Goldielocks?” he asks with a scowl. “And what, we’re the ten fucking bears?”

“You’re puttin’ us on,” Rusty says.

I roll my eyes. “No, I’m not, and it’s not Goldielocks. Very original, definitely haven’t heard that one a million times before.” I shake my head. “My name is Rose-Gold Locke, but only my mother calls me Rose-Gold. Everyone else calls me Goldie.”

My name is another one of my mother’s messes, a name she thought sounded pretty without thinking through the consequences of what it would do to me during my school years. I changed my nicknames all the time as a young teen as I settled into my identity. Rose, Rosie, RG…but after a lot of experimentation, I discovered my natural hair color suits me best, and with a head of curls like mine, Goldie always fit the best too. And after nearly thirty years, I’ve actually grown attached to Goldie Locke. It’s who I am.

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