Page 7 of The Maverick of the Mountain
It’s not very large, but with the front porch, decked out with a couple of Adirondack chairs and a swing, it looks quaint. Dare I say inviting? I shouldn’t risk it, though. It seems like the universe is all in on tricking me today. If I so much as think of this cabin as cozy, I’m sure that the front door will swing open and out will come some chainsaw-wielding maniac ready to tear me to shreds. But then Mackenzie comes to mind, and I wonder if it would be so bad.
But I brush my tattoo, which is beginning to wash away, grip my bear mace, and head for the door. My boots clomp against the steps, caked in mud. If Hank’s a neat freak, I’m in trouble. Everything sloshes as I make my way to the front door and knock. There are a few lights on, but I don’t hear anything other than rain.
Another knock. “Hello?”
Nothing. But now I can hear my teeth chattering. I’ve been out in the rain for far too long, and I need to warm up. I need food. I try the door handle, and it’s unlocked. The door creaks open, and I stand there, looking inside for any sign of life… or danger.
No on both accounts. There doesn’t seem to be anyone here.
“Hello?” I call out again, taking a tentative step inside. I shake out my limbs, slip out of my sloshing shoes, and then lookaround. I don’t want to say it’s cozy. That it’s clean and well-cared for with an inviting rustic charm that I find soothing. I don’t want to say any of that because I know the moment I let my guard down is the moment the universe turns the tables on my luck.
I walk cautiously into the main living area of the cabin, hand at the ready on my bear mace. I should probably slip that whistle into my mouth, but I’m afraid it won’t get the desired effect if a serial killer does indeed live in this remote cabin. But the gorgeous hand-crafted furniture, tasteful rugs, and rustic metal finishes aren’t exactly serial killer chic. Still, Iamintruding. I’m snooping, slinking, and trespassing all over this cabin.
Thunder rattles the coffee mugs hanging on hooks in the kitchen. I swallow, nerves rising in my chest. I’m not sure what to do. Can I really stay here? I guess I could try and sleep in my car, but knowing my luck, a bear will try to break in. Or the chipmunks.
There’s a strange rumbling outside. It doesn’t sound like thunder or rain. It’s mechanical but dampened. It stops a few moments later as my stomach rumbles. I’m probably hallucinating the sound, my mind pulling out all the stops to get me out of this place. I don’t blame it. I probably should leave. And I definitely should be doing this—walking toward the refrigerator in search of something edible. But to be honest, I’m so hungry that everything looks edible right now.
After removing a cord holding the door shut, I open the fridge and shiver. Once because of the cool air, but then again because there’s a slice of Roy’s Hazelnut Hiker. This person, whoever lives here, is okay in my book. And also, I’m sorry for what I’m about to do.
I grab the plate and then pause. That mechanical noise starts up again. I can’t be imagining it. Or that…
Hfft—followed by a slow, menacing chitter.
That’s not good. I turn around slowly. My muscles tense. But when I see the raccoon, reared up on its haunches, I scream as I drop the plate on the ground and take off for the front of the cabin.
I bang my knee on a chair, pain ripping through me as I hit the ground, gliding forward like I’m on a Slip ’N Slide. I rotate, still sliding, and I see the raccoon nosing at the fallen cake. I’m safe, for now. But if this guy’s like the chipmunks, he’ll be in hot pursuit soon.
I’m finally stopped by an area rug, and I immediately get to my feet. Unfortunately, my knee is banged up, adding to the pain I was already in from my marathon escape.
I hobble to the door, grabbing my bear spray in case that trash panda finishes his cake early. I don’t even try to get my shoes back on. I’m out the door and down the front steps in less than record time because I’m moving like someone coming up on their centennial birthday.
Lightning flashes, and I look right. The entire area is illuminated, and I see it. I seehim.And by him, I mean the giant masked man who’s brandishing a chainsaw.
I scream.
I hobble.
“STAY BACK! I have mace.”
I fumble for my bear mace. It’s wet and slippery, but I manage to aim it in his direction and?—
“Ahfuckughlegh!”I swipe at my eyes, burning and stinging and pulsing as the wind carries the liquid magma-like substance straight into my eyes, nose, mouth, and damn soul.
I’m screwed. Absolutely screwed. And the chainsaw-wielding maniac is headed straight toward me.
Chapter 3
Maverick
“What do you think,Hank? Needs a little off the top, right?”
I scratch my head, staring at the bear sculpture I’ve been working on for my niece. Last time she was here, she asked for one in a tutu. I’m more accustomed to building furniture than sculpting, but I like a challenge. But more than that, I like pleasing Dora. Nothing better than seeing that little tike happy.
Unfortunately, this bear has been proving difficult. Not that it’s the bear’s fault. Or the wood, for that matter—a thick round of oak I’d hewn a few winters ago. No, the difficulty is recent. Acute. It’s visceral.
I swallow hard, thinking back to earlier today at the Hungry Hiker. Toher. Don’t even know her name, but I can’t stop thinking about her. That bright smile. Watery blue eyes. The?—
I wrench my eyes shut. I shouldn’t be thinking about her. She’s a tourist. Camera slung around her neck. Bright white tennis shoes. Everything about her telegraphed it, yet I can’t stop thinking about her. Which is why I’m struggling with this bear. Damn near chopped its head off while I was outlining its neck.
