Page 1 of Brewing with the Mountain Man
CHAPTER 1
SADIE
Icrouch behind a lichen-crusted boulder, squinting at the massive man about fifty yards ahead.
To get a better look, I pull the binoculars from an inside pocket of my jacket.
The giant’s got a jar in one hand and a dog he’s holding back as he digs around the base of an old Douglas fir.
Definitely truffles.
And this is an area that absolutely requires a special permit for truffle harvesting.
Which I'm willing to bet my next paycheck he doesn't have. Very few foragers do.
"Got you," I mutter, lowering the binoculars. My heart's doing that thing where it kicks up a notch—part adrenaline, part vindication. I've been tracking reports of illegal truffle harvesting in this sector for three weeks, and I finally have visual confirmation.
The fact that my hands are slightly sweaty has nothing to do with how ridiculously huge this guy is. I'm talking tall-enough-to-play-basketball-with-a-moose huge. Even from this distance, watching him crouch down to examine something on the ground is like watching a mountain fold in half.
But that’s just my professional observation. Nothing more.
I key my radio. "Ranger Giles to base. I've got eyes on suspected illegal harvesting activity, Sector Seven, coordinates following. Moving in to make contact."
The static crackles back. "Copy that, Giles. Proceed with caution. You need backup?"
I almost laugh. Backup is forty minutes away minimum, and I'm not about to let this guy disappear into the woods because I waited around for someone to hold my hand. I've been doing this job for six years—four if you don't count my internship (which my supervisor usually doesn't) and I'm perfectly capable of confronting one unlicensed forager.
Even if he does look like he wrestles grizzlies for cardio.
“Negative on backup. Single subject, typical foraging activity. I'm making contact.”
“Roger that.”
I clip the radio back to my belt and start picking my way down the slope, keeping my movements quiet. The mild afternoon sun filters through the pine canopy in dusty shafts, and the forest floor is soft with damp needles. Good conditions for a quiet approach, except for the part where my pulse is hammering in my ears like I'm sneaking up on actual danger instead of just some guy stealing mushrooms.
Truffles. Not ordinary mushrooms.
God, this job is weird sometimes.
I get within thirty yards before his black lab lifts its head and stares right in my direction.
I duck near a sapling. No! So much for the element of surprise.
The man doesn't seem to notice, at least at first. He keeps working for another few seconds, carefully extracting something from the soil and placing it in his jar with the utmost care and closing it tightly.
Then, slowly, he straightens to his full height.
He’s six and a half feet if he's an inch, with shoulders that could support bridge construction. His hair is dark blond and needs a cut, and when he finally turns to face me, scruffy facial hair glints gold in the light.
But now, brown eyes as rich as the soil are looking back at me.
My throat goes inexplicably dry.
He stills, and it’s like the forest holds its breath.
"This is a restricted area," I call out, pleased when my voice comes out steady and authoritative instead of squeaky and strange. "I'm Ranger Giles with the Forest Service. You have permits for truffle harvesting?"
For a long moment, he just stares at me.
