Page 17 of Forever with the Mountain Man

“I’ll take a large Mexican Mocha, hold the whipped cream, and I also want to see if you can help me locate someone in town.”

The teen lifts her eyebrows.

“Fierce Amestoy.”

“Oh, Fierce?” She laughs, filling me with undeniable curiosity.

Stacey returns to the cash register, excusing the barista to stand by the espresso machine.

“She’s getting a large Mexican Mocha, no whip,” the girl calls, making the espresso machine hiss as she twists and turns parts of the device before loudly tamping on the counter. She adds, “You should introduce her to Jess. They both write for the Chronicle.”

Stacey nods.

I add, “I’m also looking for Fierce Amestoy. Any idea where I might find him?”

“Oh, Fierce?” Stacey says with a sad laugh. Why is everyone laughing about this request?

“I hope you have hiking boots. He’s probably out with his sheep at this time of day.”

This is what I’m afraid of. But I can’t let anything stop me. I have to get this story, which means tracking him down, no matter what.

“I can give you directions to the Amestoy Ranch,” the blonde says, her face still pinched and her eyes red. “But get ready for a drive. I hope you have a vehicle that can handle muddy off-roading and rough terrain?”

“I have a Jeep. Thanks.”

“What kind of clearance does it have?”

My eyes round. “I don’t know.”

“Well, I’ll give you directions. But proceed at your own risk. It’s wild out that way.”

I spend an hour at the cafe, soaking up the ambiance and writing about my observations. I take detailed notes about the location’s vibrant interior and two employees, the sad-faced Stacey and her sarcastic partner in crime, Suzy. At least, I gather that’s her name after hearing them talk back and forth a couple of times.

Counting the last of my money, I grab a BLT with hummus for lunch, one of the best sandwiches I’ve ever eaten, munching on it quietly as I people-watch and get a feel for the place. I’m dragging my feet, putting off the inevitable of meeting Fierce. Not only does he sound unreachable. But what if my surprise is unwelcome? Either because he’s cheating or because he’s lying about himself?

The directions Stacey gave me don’t include a physical address, which makes me wonder how the man gets mail. But then again, I passed a small post office on my drive to the cafe, so maybe he has a PO box. She also scrawled Jess’s phone number on the back of the card, saying she’s somebody I would do well to know. I’ll have to run her name by McDuffey at the Chronicle.

Checking my messages, I see a new voicemail from Fierce, his usual morning one right on the dot at nine.

I listen, savoring his deep, rugged voice. “Good morning, Firefly.”

I feel bad I didn’t call last night or this morning, but the sleepover with Callie and driving four hours nixed those plans. And honestly, I need to meet him in person and find out what’s going on before surrendering my heart further.

As I leave the cafe to the tinkle of bells tied to the door, Stacey and Suzy yell, “Good luck with the Amestoys.” That sounds a little ominous.

You’ve got this, Felicity.I start the Jeep and follow Stacey’s fascinating hand-written directions. She uses everything from unique trees to significant rock formations as markers. When I turn onto my first in a series of rugged, bumpy dirt roads, I pray my old Jeep can handle it. Mud splashes onto my windshield and makes my tires slip and slide. It doesn’t help they’re bald. I take it slowly, wondering what in the hell I’ve gotten myself into.

Each passing mile into some of the wildest terrain I’ve ever seen makes me feel more overdressed and uncomfortable. After all, I’ve got a lacy hot pink bra and panty set on with a gray pencil skirt and a tight-fitting, long-sleeved, lacy black top that shows off my ample cleavage to a tee.

Callie helped me do my makeup perfectly, so I’ve got cool cat eyeliner with bone-colored eye shadow and scarlet lips. Between that and my curled locks, I rock a slight nineteen-sixties Italian diva vibe, complete with heeled black leather riding boots and a white and gray plaid swing jacket. Think Sophia Loren. I’ve never felt sexier in my skin, but I’m also completely and utterly out of my element. Talk about a fish out of water!

I pass a field with donkeys and llamas and then another with waves of fluffy white sheep. Great! I’m dressed to the nines for livestock.

Nearly fifteen minutes later, the dirt road ends at a large, white, two-story Victorian house with a windbreak of leafless cottonwoods to the side. A crowd stands outside, watching the strangest thing I’ve ever laid eyes on—a group of bare-chested men with curly black hair and wild beards wrestling in the mud in the middle of a pasture.

This is like something out of a cultural anthropology documentary I watched while attending UNR. I park next to a muddy, silver Ford F-250 and emerge, trembling. Older couples, younger women, and young children stand a distance away,watching and laughing at the wrestling scene. When they see me, they turn, eyeing me suspiciously.

“Kaixo,” I greet timidly in my best Basque accent. It means hello and is among a handful of words and phrases I learned while living in Pau. It’s embarrassing that I didn’t pick up more, but to say the Basque language is unique and challenging to master is an understatement. As I pick my way across the pasture towards the spectators, my heels sink into the mud, and I try not to plant myself face-first into the mire.

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