Page 3 of Making a Mountain Man

When I’d moved to Vancouver, I’d started using my moms last name. Mom said it made school paperwork easier and noseypeople asked fewer questions. Really, I think it was about her ego. My parents fought hard over custody of me, but it felt like it was more about winning than about wanting me around.

When I came back to Springwood, hiding from the media, I went back to my dad’s last name. So far, between the name change, keeping my hat pulled low and my mouth shut, very few people knew who I was.

Eventually, I told Nick, my boss atSpringwood Contracting. He’d wanted to call past jobs for a reference before giving me too much work, so I’d had to spill the beans. He’d been understanding. His brother in law was now married to Rosalind Huxley, the former heiress to the Huxley Entertainment fortune and renowned media trouble maker. So, he understood how different perception and reality could be.

The ragtag band of seniors, led by Agnes, had figured it out on their own. They were always up on the news, not to mention total gossip hounds. They had sworn themselves to secrecy, and I couldn’t have appreciated that more. The better I got to know them, the more protective of me they became. I didn’t envy any person who let my name cross their lips. Of course, my entire love life was open to scrutiny by them.

I’d sworn off social media as soon as I’d issued my public apology. Being cut off from modern society wasn’t all bad. I had enough practical skills to get handyman jobs through word of mouth. My flip phone was way cheaper than the smartphone I’d gotten rid of. Besides, the seniors at the center weren’t big into technology anyway. They were reminding me how to live like it was the nineties.

Or, like I wasinmy nineties.

Eventually, the story died down. I had quietly slipped away from the big city where I’d lived. The cabin I bought wasn’t bigor fancy. It wasn’t even in very good condition. I’d slowly been working on making it my own. My neighbors didn’t seem to mind that I kept to myself. No one built a cabin on the side of a mountain because they wanted to be social. I had met three of my neighbors, Ash, Flynt and Clay – all part of the Strawberry Hill Search and Rescue – in passing. The other cabins seemed to be vacant. Most of the time it was just me and the trees.

Yep, nothing sad about that at all.

Chapter 3

Jill

“I’ll take a medium coffee, one of your famous chocolate chip walnut muffins and all the info you have on a guy named Wesley.”

Charlotte, the owner of Oh, Beans! Cafe in downtown Springwood, raised an eyebrow. She made my order, rang up the purchase then leaned on the counter and leveled me with a look. She was a good five foot ten, with dark hair and curves I was envious of. She had just come back to work after getting married to her husband, Nick. “Is this line of questioning coming from my friend Jill, Jill the single woman or Jill the reporter?”

Busted.

Apparently my answer was written all over my face.

She sighed. “Kim, I’m going on break.” We settled into a table by the window.

We’d both lived in Springwood most of our lives. We bothhad busy careers, but still got together enough for me to trust her. I also knew that Oh, Beans! was gossip central of this town since she’d opened it last year.

“Why are you asking about Wesley?”

I took a bite of my muffin while I thought about how to word my answer. I didn’t want to say too much and risk another journalist getting the story before I did. The walls had ears in this town.“He has an interesting past that I’ve been asked to write a story about. I know he works for Nick on and off and I was wondering if you knew anything that would get him to agree to an interview.”

She nodded and glanced out the window. “Nick trusts the guy. Says he’s a hard worker and keeps his head down. I’ve met him a few times when I was dropping off coffee or snacks for the guys at a work site. Is there something I should be worried about?”

I shook my head. I had worked in media since I finished my degree almost twenty years ago. I had floated around from magazines to broadcast channels before landing atSpringwood Pressfive years ago. The older I got, the more I felt like my career needed to be something impressive. Something to brag about, to make up for the fact that I didn’t have a husband and kids at home. I wasn’t sad that I didn’t have those things. I was just tired of being judged for it.

Once I was hired bySpringwood Press, I put more focus into getting ahead and less into writing for the love of the craft. I had mostly been writing straightforward stories. Covering local events like counsel meetings, sports games and the opening of new businesses. What I wanted was to get into investigative journalism. I wanted to dig into stories and uncover new truths. Make a name for myself that people would recognize.

There were countless examples of journalists who rooted out corruption, solved crimes or cast light on issues that have been forgotten or ignored. Nailing my new role as senior journalist was a step in the right direction to my long term dream. Wesley’s story was step one.

“No, nothing like that. I just like to get an idea of what a person is like before approaching.” I took a drink of my coffee, cursing myself for not getting the iced version since it was already hot out and I’d be bootstrapping for information today. “When you met him, did he seem familiar to you at all?”

She frowned. “He didn’t look familiar, why? Should he?”

“What if I told you his last name was Monroe? Does that ring any bells?”

She clicked her short nails on the table top. “I remember a Wesley Monroe from like, what? Twenty-five years ago. Is it the same guy?”

I shrugged. “Honestly, I’m not sure. I really should just go meet the guy and ask him, but how I approach the interview will change if it turns out I know him. Or knew him.”

She nodded. “Well, I don’t have much to tell you. I hope whatever it is you write about doesn’t cause him any trouble. Like I said, Wesley seems like a good guy.”

I bit my lip. I was trained to write in a way that was fair and balanced. Nothing sensational. I wasn’t there to convince people of something. I was just supposed to report the facts. The facts, or a version of them, had already blown this guy’s life up. The idea that I could be the reason it happened again had my coffee turning sour in my stomach. Sadly for him, he’d already been found out. If I didn’t write the story, someone else would. I might as well get the points with my boss and the name recognition.

“That Wesley is a good egg. You leave him alone.” An older woman with a fluff of gray hair appeared at the edge of our table. She pointed her finger first at Charlotte then at me.

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