Page 32 of Forever with the Mountain Man

A very pregnant, very blonde woman dressed to the nines eyes me curiously. She holds the arm of a gorgeous, dark-haired, bearded man. Her face looks confused, but she smiles.

“I also write for the Chronicle,” I clarify.

She nods business-like. “Let me order my drink, and then let’s chat.”

I don’t know if I can stand a conversation with anyone right now. But ten minutes later, we sit together at a table, her husband, Logan, a little distance away, reading in a chair. She explains he’s staying extra close these days because of her impending due date.

“You have a good man,” I squeak, trying to hold back tears.

“What’s wrong, Felicity?” To my surprise, reciprocal tears flood Jess’s mint-colored eyes. “I’m sorry,” she adds. “Pregnancy hormones. I cry over everything these days.”

I don’t know if it’s the newness of what happened or the tears in Jess’s eyes, but I do something highly uncharacteristic outside of friends like Callie. I tell her everything that happened with Fierce and me. The first time I mention him and the Amestoys, her eyes round, and she sits up straighter, looking slightly uncomfortable. By the end, her face appears shell-shocked, mirroring my inner turmoil.

She shakes her head, retrieving more tissues from her purse and offering them to me before grabbing a couple more for herself. We both have scrunched up piles in front of us.

Inhaling sharply, she says. “So, first off, I should disclose that the family I’m married into are bitter rivals of the Amestoys.” She motions Logan over, confirming, “The Amestoys?”

He shakes his head, his eyes darkening. “What about them? I can’t stand those guys.”

“See,” Jess says with a frown.

Logan frowns, too. “They have a longstanding grazing rights issue with my family, and it’s gotten violent a couple of times. Although it’s usually Fierce and Christian who fight it out. Christian’s, my older brother, and the sheriff of Gold County, by the way.”

“Thank you, baby,” Jess says matter-of-factly, dismissing the burly man to his reading chair. She whispers, “Now that that’s out of the way, I’m so sorry. What a mess!” She reaches across the table, taking my hand.

“It’s my fault. Everything was fine with his family until I showed up.”

She cocks her head in thought. “No, it wasn’t alright if they were trying to control him that way. If they’re still trying to control him that way. How awful!”

I nod sadly. “I feel terrible leaving Fierce to deal with their wrath alone. But he didn’t give me a choice.”

“Family,” she exclaims bitterly. “As a little self-disclosure, I’m from an alcoholic family. We’re talking lots of daily drama and yelling. Unceasing yelling, really. Abuse, toxicity, all of it. Of course, Fierce wanted to shield you from that because he loves you. I would do the same.”

“But now he has to deal with them all alone.”

She nods. “And no one’s better suited than him for the task. Fierce is a tough guy. Again, I don’t have the most favorable impression of him, but he can handle this. I’m certain of it. But as for you, what are you going to do about your article? When is it due again?”

“I meet with my editor again on Friday morning.” I shake my head. “So, if I drive home today, that gives me all of Thursday to complete it.” Normally, that would be more than enough time, but my thoughts are swirling, and I don’t know where to begin. I press my fingers into my temples. “How will I get it written in time? How will I get my thoughts straight? All I know is that I can’t write what my editor wants.”

Jess’s eyes narrow. “Well, of course not. You have to write the truth, guided by your heart. Send me the article as soon as you’re done with it. Who’s your editor again?”

“McDuffey.”

She frowns. “Good luck with that asshole.”

“Have you ever worked with him?”

“Thankfully, no. But I’ve heard enough through the grapevine. I’ll see what I can do to pull a few strings over at the Chronicle.”

“Seriously?” I gasp, staring at her.

“Let’s just say I have some friends in high places.”

“Wow! I don’t know what to say. Thank you so much.” I stand, rounding the table to hug her.

“You’re welcome, and I hope it helps.” She retrieves a business card from her purse. “Call or text when you email me the article, and I’ll get right on it. Oh, and best of luck to you. You’ll need it with an Amestoy.”

I sit in my editor’s office on Friday morning, my head hung low.

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