Page 1 of The Mountains Edge

Chapter 1: Marcus

The Trading Post's ancient door hinges screech through my truck's closed windows. My hands tighten on the steering wheel as the new owner struggles with another load of boxes. It's the third time this week I've caught myself watching her, getting here at dawn when the town sleeps just to avoid people, and yet, here I am watching her (again).

Drive away. Just drive the hell away.

Not yet.

The growing light catches her dark hair, twisted up in some messy knot that's falling apart as she works. She's tiny, probably not even hitting my shoulder, but she's muscling those boxes around like she's got something to prove.

A box slips. She swears, impressively, and kicks the door.

My scarred lips twitch. It’s been a while since anything's made me want to smile.

She's wearing some fancy workout gear that hugs every curve, making it real hard to look away. She’s a city girl, she has to be. No one up here dresses like that just to do move inventory. The leggings alone probably cost more than my monthly grocery bill.

My hand moves to the door handle before I catch myself.

What the hell are you thinking, Steel?

Last time I tried helping someone in town, the woman's kid screamed. I can't blame the child, my face tends to have that effect. The scars pull tight across my cheek as I clench my jaw at the memory. The one that never goes away.

The box she's fighting with looks heavy. Electronic equipment, maybe. She's going to hurt herself if she—

Not your problem.

I start the engine. The rumble makes her look up, scanning the nearly empty parking lot. For a second, I swear our eyes meet through my tinted windows. Something electric zips through my chest.

"Shit." I throw the truck in reverse. It's time to go crawl back to my mountain and my woodshop where I belong.

One last look back and I grimace as I see the box finally wins its battle with gravity as I pull away, contents spilling across the weathered boards of the Trading Post's porch. Her creative cursing follows me up the mountain road.

I tell myself I won't be back tomorrow to watch, but I'm a damn good liar.

Chapter 2: Daisy

If one more testosterone-soaked mountain man does a drive-by creeping session without offering to help, I'm going to lose it. I've counted four trucks this morning alone, all with those super-dark windows like they're all starring in their own personal witness protection program.

"Seriously?" I glare at the latest retreat, a massive black pickup that probably compensates for something. "What is wrong with this town?"

The box I've been wrestling for ten minutes picks this moment to explode all over the porch, scattering my brand-new inventory system everywhere. I unleash my favorite string of profanity, the one that made my proper Chinese grandmother threaten to wash my mouth out well into my twenties.

"Real professional, Daisy. Day five of small-town business ownership and you're already the crazy lady talking to herself on the porch."

I blow a strand of hair out of my face and survey my new kingdom: one ancient Trading Post, complete with creaky floors, questionable wiring, and enough dust to make me question every life choice that led me here.

But it's mine. All mine.

The early morning light catches the faded lettering above the door:

Storm Peak Trading Post, Est. 1899

Below it, my shiny new sign waits to be hung:

Under New Management – Grand Reopening Soon!

Assuming I don't throw in the towel and run screaming back to Seattle first.

I bend to gather the scattered papers, my overpriced Lululemon leggings earning their keep with the stretch, as a shadow passes over me. Another truck crawls by.

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