Page 16 of Mountain Man's Surrender

My chest tightens at the thought of her leaving tomorrow, or the next day, heading back to New York with nothing but memories of our brief time together. I want to tell her how I feel. Want to lay my heart bare and ask her to stay, to give whatever this is between us a chance. But I can’t bring myself to be that selfish. She’s young, beautiful, talented. She can have any man she wants. Why would she choose me, with my scars, my nightmares, my solitary existence on a remote mountain?

Some things are better left unspoken, some feelings better left unrequited. I learned that lesson long ago, in the fire and chaos of a warzone. I won’t make the mistake of hoping for more than I deserve.

Aspen

Thestairscreakbeneathmy boots as I climb toward my father’s apartment for the second time in three days. The key slides easily into the lock, which clicks softly as it turns, then the door swings open. Unlike before, when I’d frozen at the threshold, I force myself to enter, determined to face whatever waits inside.

Sunlight streams through the windows, illuminating dust motes that hang suspended in the golden rays. The space is large by city standards. Tidy. Comfortable. Lived in. My throat tightens as I inch farther inside, the space warm despite the winter chill outside.

I set down my bag and trace a finger along a bookshelf lined with repair manuals, fishing magazines, and dog-eared paperback westerns. In the kitchen area, a single coffee mug sits in the dishrack. A UVM Catamounts refrigerator magnet holds a takeout menu for a local Chinese restaurant and an unexpectedpang ricochets through my chest as I stare at it, picturing the menus on my fridge at home.

I make my way to the cluttered desk tucked into a corner, where stacks of papers wait beside an ancient desktop computer. Bills, invoices, repair schedules. The mundane paperwork of a life that existed without me, while I lived mine without him. From down below, the metallic clank of tools as Landry works on Mrs. Wilkins’ Subaru drifts up the stairs.

I glance over the contents of the desk, plucking out a photograph tucked among the papers. My breath catches when I see the image. My parents, looking impossibly young, with the Brooklyn Bridge in the background. My mom’s hair blows across her laughing face as she looks up at Simon, who has his arm draped around her shoulders. They look…happy. In love even, if only for that fleeting moment. Someone must have taken this photo during that weekend in the city when they met. The weekend that changed everything.

I sink into the desk chair, clutching the photograph, while questions erupt inside me. Did Simon hold on to this keepsake for years thinking about that weekend? Or did my mother send it to him along with the letter as some sort of proof? What if my mother had told him she was pregnant? What if she’d given him the chance to step up, to be a father? What would he have said? What would she have done? Would she have given up her life in the city to join him here? Is there a chance they would have built a life together in Wildwood?

Knowing my mother, I don’t see a world where she would have wanted that. She loved the city and her career there. Much more than I do. I glance again at the picture. The weight of missed opportunities, of paths not taken, of what-ifs settles heavily on my shoulders. Maybe, because I’m at a crossroads, facing a tough choice, too. If I sell this place and leave now, I’ll never know what might have been. But can I stay and take a chance onthe future? On something real with the man downstairs, who I can’t seem to—and don’t want to—resist?

I set down the photograph and turn my attention to a beige file folder, like the kind we use at my office in the filing cabinets. The handwritten label reads,Will.

I pull out the stapled papers and flip through them. Most of it is standard boilerplate, but my heart stutters when I stop at a page toward the end. My eyes widen as I read through the assets, zeroing in on one line in particular.I leave Green Mountain Garage, including all equipment and assets, to Landry McCord.

Simon left the garage to Landry. Not to me. I sink back against the chair, the lines of text blurring as confusion washes over me. The attorney who called informed me that I’d inherited the garage. But how? It was Landry’s. This doesn’t make sense.

I glance at the date on the signature page. Nearly two years ago. My hands shake as one potential explanation crashes over me. Landry gave me the garage. He gave up this place his best friend left him, a place that holds a special place in his heart. But why?

Clutching the will to my chest, I make my way downstairs. It takes only a second to locate Landry, who’s bent over the engine of Mrs. Wilkins’ Subaru. I wait until he straightens and turns, wiping his hands on a shop rag. His eyes find mine then drop to the papers in my arms. The color drains from his face.

“Aspen—”

“Honesty is the best policy,” I say, throwing his words from the cabin back at him. “You said it yourself.” My voice quivers with emotions I can’t quite name and certainly couldn't sort out right now if I tried. “But you weren’t honest with me.”

He takes a step toward me, running a hand through his hair. “I did what I thought was right.”

“You let me believe I inherited this place from Simon.” My legs feel unsteady beneath me. “But he left it to you. And you…you gave it to me? Why would you do that?”

“Because it’s what Simon would have wanted.” Landry’s voice is low, unwavering. “The minute he learned you existed, everything changed for him. Everything. He was desperate to meet you, to get to know you. If he’d lived, he would’ve given you anything. Hell, he would have given you everything to make up for lost time.”

“That wasn’t your decision to make!” The words burst from me, hot with frustration.

“It was,” he insists, stepping closer. “The garage was mine. But I couldn’t live with myself holding on to what should have been yours.”

I shake my head, still struggling to process it all. “You love this place. Anyone who’s met you can see that as plain as day. But you just…gave it away, even knowing I might sell it?”

His jaw tightens. “It occurred to me that you might sell. But that was a risk I was willing to take.”

Before I can respond, the bell above the door jingles, and Mrs. Wilkins bustles in, her weathered face brightening at the sight of us.

“Oh! I hope I’m not interrupting,” she says, glancing between us with obvious curiosity. “I just wanted to check on my Subaru.”

“It’s ready,” Landry says, his eyes still locked on mine. “I just finished.”

“Wonderful!” Mrs. Wilkins beams at us. “You know, it’s so nice to see this place still up and running. Simon would be pleased.” She pats my arm affectionately. “And you, dear—you’ve brought Landry back to life. He’s been like a ghost these past few months, just going through the motions. But now? There’s a light in his eyes again.”

I glance at Landry, whose ears have reddened at Mrs. Wilkins’ candid observation. The moment stretches between us, taut with unspoken words.

“I’ll get your keys,” he mutters, excusing himself to retrieve them from the rack of hooks above the workbench.

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