Page 1 of Guardian of Misty Mountain

1

ADRIAN

"Let's get this over with," I mutter as I park my truck in front of Misty Mountain General Store.

Rolling my shoulders and stretching my neck, I look at myself in the rear-view mirror, grimacing at my reflection. Blue eyes that have seen death and destruction stare back at me, the scar cutting through my left eyebrow an ever-present reminder of the horrors of my past.

I tear my gaze away, not wanting to relive those memories. I’ve had plenty of practice shoving my time in the military into the dark corners of my soul. What I haven’t figured out is how to keep them there for good.

Walking around to the bed of the truck, I pop the tailgate and grab several bundles of firewood before making my way into the store. Jack Gregory, the owner, is in his usual spot behind the register, almost like he hasn’t moved since my last trip into town three months ago.

“Adrian,” he greets, giving me a warm smile. I tip my chin down, nodding slightly in acknowledgment. “I see you’re as talkative as ever.” The man tugs at his long beard, a habit of his for as long as I can remember.

“At least there are some constants in this world,” I reply, setting the wood bundles on the nearly-empty shelf next to the register. Just as I’m heading out the door to gather more firewood, Jack stops me.

“You know, we have a hand cart. Might be more efficient.” After a pause, he adds, “It would help get the job done faster.”

He knows me all too well. I suppose he would, after years of me supplying firewood for his customers. Like clockwork, I come into town once a quarter to drop off wood, custom furniture from my shop, and other trinkets for local shops to sell. If I could cut my visits to once a year, that would be preferable. As it is, the demand for my services puts me here every three months.

I grab the cart and wheel it out to my truck, loading the remainder of Jack’s order inside. Once the shelves are full, I put the cart away and go to the register, bracing myself for a social interaction. It’s not that Jack is an asshole or anything. Just the opposite. He’s always been kind and understanding, as well as a reliable customer.

It’s me who’s the asshole. I can’t help it. I don’t mean to be short with people, but I know how I sound. Clipped sentences. One-word responses. A harsh tone, even when I try to soften my voice. I blame it on the claustrophobia of being in someone else’s space. My skin crawls just thinking about all the people I’m going to have to interact with today, the migraine already pressing against my temples and threatening to tear my head in two.

“I can always count on you, Adrian,” Jack says, breaking into my thoughts. “How’s things up on the mountain? Still working away in your shop?”

I nod, tapping my foot rapidly on the tile floor.Say something, my brain screams at me. That’s what a normalperson would do. Jack is the easiest person to talk to and I’ve known him since before I left for the military.

“Lots of projects,” I manage to tell him, though my words come out stilted and awkward. “Keeps me busy, which is good.”

Jack smiles, then signs the check he had waiting for me at the register. I take it and thank him, then finally walk outside where I can breathe. One delivery down, five more to go. Next up, a rocking chair for Ella and her wife Maggie down at the Hollow Tree Inn.

Two hours later, I’m making my way down the main drag, back to my truck. I’m ready to peel my skin off and throw myself off of the nearest cliff. It shouldn’t be this difficult, thispainful, to be in public. Misty Mountain, Colorado is my hometown. I grew up here with locals who never left or people like me who went off into the world only to end up right back here in our secluded mountain town.

The difference is, that I left as an optimistic, bright-eyed teen who thought the world was his for the taking. I came back a jaded shell of a man with a tattered heart and a head full of nightmares I can't seem to shake. Even after five years, I can't let my guard down. I can't integrate myself back into society. I can barely function as a loner, let alone keep up relationships with other people.

My shoulder hits something solid and I startle a bit, everything in me on high alert.

“At ease, soldier. It’s just me,” a familiar voice says. I snap my eyes up, meeting Dawson Stone’s gaze. He’s former military like me, though he’s only recently retired.

“Hey, Dawson,” I mumble, taking a step back. “Didn’t see you there.”

“Back in town for a supply run or just hanging out?”

I cut him a look, unsure if he’s joking or not. “Deliveries and restocking supplies,” I answer.

“Kidding, kidding,” he says, holding his hands up. “I get it. I’ve been thinking about following your lead and setting up shop somewhere up in the mountains. Not sure what else I have going on for me here.”

Dawson shrugs and looks away. I understand. I really, really do. His restlessness speaks to the part of me that never settled down after leaving the Marines. I’m about to make a lame attempt to leave this conversation when I notice the plastic bag Dawson is holding. Is that… a whisk? And measuring spoons?

“Ah, this is just… it’s nothing,” he’s quick to say once he realizes what I’m staring at. “In fact, I don’t even know where this stuff came from. I must have grabbed the wrong bag at checkout.”

I lift an eyebrow, giving him a skeptical look. “Hey, whatever gets you through the day,” I tell him.

Dawson changes the subject, which is interesting. I wonder what the deal is with the cooking supplies, but I don’t press him about it. I can certainly understand the need for privacy. “So, have you ever been to the Beer and Darts night at the Rusty Elk Tavern?” I throw another skeptical glance his way. He knows the answer. “Right. I suppose not. There are fliers all around town for it. Hank is hosting this event once a month for veterans and first responders. I was thinking about stopping by, but…” He trails off, shrugging his shoulders.

“Hank is a good guy,” I reply. “We served in the Marines together.” I’m not sure why I offered that piece of information. I’m not usually so forthcoming, but a lot of us are ex-military here in town. There’s an unspoken bond between us. One wrought in blood and mired in trauma.

We part ways with a handshake and I make note that Dawson didn’t turn around to exchange his supposed “switched bag” of cooking supplies. Interesting.

---