Page 1 of High Frequency

One

Dan

I take a last look at the sun going down over the mountains on the other side of the Fisher River; a view I’ll never tire of.

Time to wrap up this quiet celebration for one.

Picking up my hat from the pile of logs I set it down on, I slap the dust off, and fit it back on my head. Then I tuck the two empty beer cans in my saddlebag, take Blitz’s reins in my left hand, and swing myself in the saddle.

Blitz isn’t mine—he belongs to my boss—but I’m the only one he’ll tolerate on his back. Every so often I take him out for some exercise, giving my regular mount, Will, a well-deserved break.

Despite getting up there in age, the prized Arabian stud still dances restlessly, shaking his head when I settle my weight in the saddle. It’s mostly for show these days—a lot of his younger fire has dissipated—but I indulge him with a tug on his reins and a firm, “Whoa.”

Then I press my legs in his sides and steer Blitz back toward the ranch, leaving my newly cleared piece of land behind. Monday we’ll break ground.

Six years ago, Jonas Harvey—my boss and owner of the High Meadow Ranch and High Mountain Trackers—parceled off a wedge of his land bordering the Fisher River. His former Special Ops teammate and friend, Sully, bought six of the twelve-acre parcel—the widest section closest to the highway—and built a new house there.

That left the narrower stretch along the river farther away from the road. I was blown away when Jonas offered that to me at a steal.

Never in a million years could I have dreamed of owning an actual piece of these beautiful Montana mountains. Me, a high school dropout, forced to get a job when my mother was fighting a losing battle with colorectal cancer. The only one I was able to find was as stable help at High Meadow Ranch. Jonas gave me a chance, and even though I almost blew it several times, I’m still here now, after all these years.

I’m still part of the crew responsible for managing the daily running of the ranch and breeding facility, but for the past decade or so have also been a proud member of the High Mountain Trackers, Jonas Harvey’s mounted search and rescue team. A far cry from the teacher I once aspired to be, but I wouldn’t trade this life for the world.

And now, six years after I bought my own little slice of paradise, I’ve saved up enough to start building my dream home.

I plan to do a lot of the work myself, and some of the guys have offered to help as well, but for the foundation and framework I’ve hired contractors. A family-owned specialty log construction company in Heron, Montana—a little over an hour from here—is prepping the logs that will make up the walls of my house, and a truckload of lumber we cut from my land went to a mill outside of Libby to be cut into planks for flooring.

Ideally, we should’ve broken ground back in the spring, but getting the schedule for the different trades to line up had been a bit of a challenge. As a result, we got a late start, and the house likely won’t be move-in ready before winter hits as I’d hoped, but we should be able to get the roof on before the first snow flies.

So for now, I’ll stay living in one of the employee cabins at the ranch. I’m not really in a hurry, although I know someone who may disagree, even though it shouldn’t impact her either way.

Which reminds me, if I’m supposed to meet Shelby at eight at The Salt Lick, a local hangout in town. I’d better hustle or I’ll be late.

Forty-five minutes later, showered and cleaned up, I stop the truck at the end of the driveway to check traffic on the highway before heading toward Libby. To my left, I catch sight of an older, burgundy Jeep turning onto the dirt road that leads to Sully’s place and my property beyond that. I don’t recognize the vehicle, but the brief flash of blond hair behind the wheel seems familiar.

The image of a pair of stormy blue eyes, a slightly upturned nose, and the stubborn set of a shapely mouth immediately comes to mind. Followed closely by a confusing collection of emotions I have no interest or time to examine.

Whoever is driving that Jeep, it’s none of my business.

I shake my head to clear it before pulling onto the road to Libby.

I have an appointment to keep.

“Oh. But I thought…”

She lets the sentence trail off, a blush crawling up her face as realization sets in.

“I probably should’ve been clearer,” I volunteer, even though I’m not sure how I could’ve made,“I’m not in the market for anything long term,”any more straightforward.

To my horror, tears pool in her eyes and threaten to spill over. Oh no. I don’t like crying, at all. It makes me very uneasy.

“Look, I’m sorry if I misrepresented myself in any way,” I try.

“I guess I thought you were including me in your future when you asked my opinion on the house,” she explains with a sniffle.

I remember she was at my place a month or so ago and asked about the drawings for the house I had spread out on my kitchen table. At the time, I was deciding whether to go with a simple front porch or to wrap it around one side to where the door to the mud/laundry room is going to be. I mentioned my dilemma and she pointed out it might be handy to have a dry outdoor spot to drop muddy boots before tracking dirt into the house.

It was a valid point and I opted for the wrap porch as a result, but it seems like an awfully big leap to go from there to planning a joint future.

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