Page 2 of The Mountains Edge

"Take a picture, it'll last longer!" I yell, not bothering to look up. The engine revs and the vehicle speeds away.

Great. Now I'm not just the crazy lady talking to herself, I'm the crazy lady yelling at random trucks.

The door creaks behind me. "You're scaring away all my regulars."

I yelp, spinning to find Old Joe leaning in the doorway. He's got to be pushing eighty, but his eyes are sharp as he watches me over his coffee cup. He's been here every morning at dawn since I bought the place, claiming squatter's rights to the ancient armchair by the pot-bellied stove.

"Your regulars seem pretty easily scared," I mutter, gathering the last of my papers.

"Nah." He takes a sip, clearly enjoying both the coffee and my irritation. "Just the one you keep trying to catch. That's MarcusSteel. He only comes down the mountain at dawn. Doesn't like people seeing him."

Finally, a name to go with the black truck. "What's his deal?"

"Not my story to tell." Joe gives me his cryptic old-man smile. "But if you're looking to update this place proper, you might want to ask him about that furniture in the back room. He's the one who made it."

I freeze halfway through the door. "The gorgeous pieces in storage? That was him?"

The display cases I'd found buried under tarps are what sold me on this place. Gorgeous hand-carved wood, the kind of craftsmanship you can't fake. I'd been trying to track down the artist all week.

"Yep. Been trading his work for supplies here for years." Joe settles into his chair with a grunt. "Course, good luck getting him to talk to you. Man's got his reasons for staying up that mountain."

I glance at the road where the black truck disappeared. "We'll see about that."

Joe's chuckling follows me into the store. "Girl, you have no idea what you're poking at."

I ignore him, heading for the back room. Time to take another look at that furniture. I run my fingers over the carved surface of the nearest table. The craftsmanship is exquisite, but there's something else, a wildness in the designs, like the wood itself is trying to break free.

What’s your story, Marcus Steel?

A boot print catches my eye. It wasn’t there when I left last night. The print was muddy and still fresh like it had been racked in recently.

Someone's been in here at night. WTF!

Chapter 3: Marcus

The woodshop doesn't help tonight. Usually losing myself in the work settles the ghosts, but her face keeps creeping into my head. The way she moved, all attitude and sass, with that flash of temper when she yelled at my truck.

The chisel slips, gouging the pine. "Damn it."

I slam the tool down harder than necessary. Scout, my unwanted roommate of the past two weeks, lifts his head from his bed in the corner. The husky's leg is still wrapped where I found him caught in that old snare, but he's healing fast.

"Don't give me that look. I'm not keeping you."

His tail thumps once against the floor.

"I mean it this time."

Another thump.

The wind picks up outside, carrying a hint of snow. October's coming on fast up here at elevation. Scout's leg is almost healed, so it's was time to find him a real home, somewhere with people who actually want company.

A whine splits the night, not Scout this time. But something outside.

I grab the rifle from its rack, more out of habit than necessity. Scout's ears prick but he doesn't seem alarmed. It’s probably just another coyote.

The security light flicks on as I step onto the porch. Nothing moves in the yard, but the whine comes again. Closer.

Scout limps out behind me, nose working. He lets out a low woof and heads for the tree line.

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