Page 2 of The Mountain Man's Mail Order Muse
I’m so furious I hang up and slam down the phone.
I don’t want anyone in my life. Not anymore. Not again.
People say that like it’s some kind of disease—like wanting to be left the hell alone means there’s something broken in me. But I’m not broken. I’m just… done.
I go inside and sit in front of the blank canvas in my studio, brush in hand, palette dry. It’s been like this for weeks. Months, if I’m honest. Maybe longer. The wood stove crackles behind me, warm and quiet, but the silence in my head is louder than fire ever could be.
I don’t want a wife. I don’t want conversation. I don’t want anyone touching my space, breathing my air, trying tofixme. I just want to paint again. Tofeelsomething enough to get it out.
My phone buzzes on the stool next to me. Luke again.
“Yeah?” I answer, not even trying to hide the irritation.
He sighs. “Look, I get it, okay? I do. I’m not trying to push you. But… maybe you need someone, Hud. It’s been over a year since you’ve finished anything. A year. You used to paint nonstop.”
“Because I had something worth painting.”
He’s quiet for a second, then says, “The hospital called me last month. They asked if you were okay. Said they haven’t heard from you in almost a year either.”
That hits harder than I want it to.
“They were worried,” he adds, his voice softer now. “They said one of the nurses asked if you’d gotten sick.”
I set the brush down gently on the edge of the table, my hand suddenly too heavy to lift. I stare at the canvas like it’s mocking me.
I’m not sick. I’m tired.
Tired of kids dying. Tired of beingseenevery time someone buys one of my paintings and writes an article about the reclusive mountain artist with “a soul soaked in grief.” I didn’t start painting for recognition. I started painting because I couldn’t breathe without it.
And when the paintings started selling for tens of thousands of dollars, I didn’t want the money. I gave it away. To the children’s hospital in town. Quietly. Because the idea of my work helping a sick kid live to see the spring felt like the only thing that still made sense in this world.
But lately? Even that doesn’t light anything in me. Not since the last canvas stayed blank. Not since I looked at the brush and felt nothing.
“I’ll try to cancel the contract,” Luke says after a long pause. “I’ll call the agency, see what they can do. I’ll call you back.”
“Good.” I grunt.
The line goes dead.
I lean back in the chair, hands gripping the armrests. Maybe Luke’s right. Maybe I haven’t painted in a year. Maybe I’ve lost my rhythm, lost the thread of who I was before the world gutted me.
But a fucking bride?
Some stranger showing up thinking I’m her new beginning?
No. That’s not the answer. That’s just a distraction. A storm rolling in where I’ve finally found peace and quiet.
I need the silence.
It’s the only thing that hasn’t let me down.
………………….
I pace the studio like a caged animal, the floorboards groaning beneath my boots. The call still hasn’t come. Luke said he’d try to cancel the contract and call me back, but that was forty-three minutes ago. Forty-three minutes of me trying not to imagine a suitcase rolling up my driveway.
I’ve already gone over it a dozen different ways in my head—how I’ll say it. How I’ll send her back. Firm but polite.“Sorry, there’s been a mistake.”
Or maybe blunt:“I didn’t ask for a wife, and I sure as hell don’t need one.”
