Page 43 of Shared By the Mountain Men

I shook off the thought. Jack didn’t like me. In fact, he had been pretty much rude to me nonstop up until today.

Then again, in second grade I picked on the boy I liked in class to try to get his attention.

“Order thirty-three,” a deep voice rumbled next to our table.

I did a double-take. Ash was looming over us, wearing an apron stained with grease and holding two trays of food.

“No bacon burnt ends today?” Jack asked him.

“Ran out,” Ash muttered while placing the trays in front of us. “Ten minutes ago.”

“Just my luck. I would’ve been here in time if I wasn’t dragging all these ducklings along.”

Ash grunted in whatmighthave been humor, then walked back to the kitchen.

“Does he work everywhere in town?” I demanded.

Jack picked up a piece of a rib and frowned at me. “No.”

“So far I’ve seen him working here, at Marlene’s Diner, and as a via ferrata guide.”

“Those are the places he works,” Jack said plainly. “He also gives mountain biking lessons.”

I chewed on that while chewing on my barbecue. The chopped brisket was very moist, and the pulled pork had so much flavor that I didn’t even need to add any sauce.

“What’s Ash’s deal?” I finally asked.

Jack sighed. “What deal? Why does he have to have a deal?”

“Was he in prison?”

Jack froze with a rib halfway to his mouth. “He told you?”

I gasped. “I didn’t think he was serious!”

Jack lowered his rib and wiped his hands with a napkin. “He never tells anyone.”

“About going to prison?”

“Aboutanything. But especially about that.”

I felt my stomach go tight. I had entrusted Ash with my life on several occasions—he had carried me down from the mountain when my ankle was busted, he had given me a ride home from town, and he had guided me along the via ferrata. And the entire time he was aconvict. I tried not to judge people by their appearances, which had taken a lot of willpower with an enormous, tattoo-covered man like Ash. But it turned out his intimidating exterior wasn’t just a facade.

I glanced in the direction of the kitchen and then whispered, “What did he do?”

“Melissa…”

“Did he rob a bank?”

“Stop it.”

“Or did he… he didn’t murder someone. Right?” I leaned closer. “Right?”

“You guessed it. He murdered someone and only spent two years in prison for it. Because that makes a lot of sense.”

I waved my hand dismissively. “Tell me what he did.”

“No.”

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