Page 35 of Snowed In with her Mountain Men
“A mysterious homecoming?”
“Among other things, yeah.”
Oakley nodded, remaining silent. In the past, such silence might’ve worried me. I’d always been defensive in talking about the stories I wrote, especially the ones that weren’t even close to being finished. For some reason though, that usual anxiety wasn’t rearing its ugly head.
Instead of pressing for more information, he changed the subject.
“So what got you into this?”
“My father,” I answered, without hesitation. “He’s the one who got me into reading. We read together all the time when I was little, everything from Junie B Jones to Harry Potter. But my favorites were the old Hardy Boys books, and the mysteries they solved.”
“Ah,” he grinned. “The Hardy Boys.”
“Yup. I read every one of those I could get my hands on, several times each. When dad brought home Nancy Drew, I went bananas. He’d read the books to me, and then with me, and together we’d try to figure out the mysteries. That was our time together,” I realized absently. “That quiet little hour before bedtime, just sitting there reading those silly stories.”
“Doesn’t sound silly to me,” said Oakley.
“He introduced me to Agatha Christie,” I went on. “Elizabeth Peters. Eventually I started writing my own stories, and dad would read them out loud and try to solve the mystery.”
“Sounds like fun.”
“More than you can imagine,” I sighed, in happy remembrance. “Of course, I was only nine, so the mysteries were easy to solve. Even so, dad took his time. He made it fun for me. Most of all, he encouraged me to write more. He bought me writing journals, calligraphy pens. All kinds of things.”
“Your dad sounds amazing.”
“He was amazing,” I breathed.
“Still is,” Oakley corrected me, shaking his head. “He might be gone, but he’ll always live here.”
He made a fist and thumped it against his heart. The adoration in his voice made my own heart just about melt. We drove on for another two minutes, without speaking. He didn’t ask what happened to my father. For some reason, that meant everything to me.
“Tell me about Sarge.”
Oakley hugged the turns carefully, as we descended the mountain. But now the smile returned to his face.
“Sarge is Sarge,” he eventually grinned. “The man could be the biggest pain in the ass you’ve ever met, and your worst possible enemy. But of anyone I’ve ever known, he also had the biggest heart.”
I returned his smile, reveling in his memory.
“I looked at that photo again when I came down this morning. Sarge’s expression is really something.”
“You mean his perma-scowl?”
I chuckled. “Why does he look like he’s on the verge of yelling?”
“He probably was yelling,” laughed Oakley. “Sarge was always yelling. Seemed kinda fitting to pick that photo to honor him, when we hung it up.”
“And you said he built the cabin?”
“He started it, yes,” Oakley admitted. “I guess you could say we finished it off. Sarge didn’t have a family, and he never had any kids. He left us a modest bank account, the deed for the place, and strict instructions to make it our own.”
“And so you did.”
Oakley shrugged. “When the man gave an order, you always obeyed,” he said, his voice somewhat distant. “Those orders kept us safe, they kept us alive. We sure as hell weren’t going to disobey the last one he ever gave us.”
“I’ll bet he loved the three of you like sons.”
He thought for a moment. “I’m pretty sure he did. When he passed, and he left the place to us, we were transitioning back into civilian life again. So we moved into the cabin together, to finish what he’d started.”
