Page 6 of Brewing with the Mountain Man
She takes a sip of tea, and I watch her throat move as she swallows. "Nice to meet you."
I set my mug down carefully, keeping my expression neutral. "Since you’re going to run my name here soon, I might as well tell you why I took off. I don’t want you to be caught off guard.”
“Okay then.” She’s nervous. I can tell by the twitch in her fingers.
I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms. The defensive posture is automatic, armor I've worn so long I barely notice it anymore. "I’m an ex-con. Assault and battery. Did my time. Now I live out here where I don't bother anyone."
She goes quiet, but sits up taller. "Well, youwerebothering the truffle population," she points out.
"Didn't realize they had rights."
"Picking them requires permits." She's still got that hint of humor in her voice, but there's something else too. Curiosity, maybe. Like she's trying to figure me out. "Why truffles? Do you sell them?"
I shake my head. "Brewing." The word comes out clipped. "I’m entering a contest. Need truffles for my recipe."
Her eyebrows rise. "You brew beer?"
I gesture vaguely toward my equipment along the wall—the carboys, the bottling station, the careful setup I've spent years perfecting. "Hobby."
She turns to look at my brewing operation. I watch her take it in. I try to keep it clean, organized, and take care in the small details.
"That there is not a hobby," she says slowly. "That's a craft."
Something pulses in my chest and I stamp it out.
"It's something to do," I say flatly. "Gets quiet out here."
"How long have you been out here?" She turns back to me.
"Eight years. Since I got out." I meet her eyes, daring her to judge. "Came out here at thirty-two and haven't left since. Well, except for supply runs."
"That's a long time to be alone."
"It's worth it to not have people looking at you like you're going to snap." The words come out curt. "Like you're doing right now."
"I'm not?—"
"You are." I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "You’re sitting there trying to figure out if I'm dangerous, if you're safe here, if I saved you because I'm a decent person or because I had another more nefarious reason."
She bites the side of her cheek. "That's not fair."
"It's accurate."
We stare at each other across the space between the chairs. Bear's ears track back and forth like he's listening to a tennis match.
"I don't know you," she says finally. "But I know you saved my life when you could have let me freeze. I know your dog trusts you, and dogs usually have good instincts about people. And I know you care enough about brewing beer to risk getting cited for truffle harvesting." She pauses. "So no, I'm not sitting here thinking you're dangerous. I'm sitting here thinking you're…unusually multifaceted."
"I'm forty years old and I live alone in the woods." I drain my coffee, stand up. "Nothing multifaceted about that. I just gave up."
I move to the kitchen before she can respond, because I've said too much already.
The storm howls outside, rattling the windows. I glance out—can't see more than a few feet through the rain and wind.
She's definitely stuck here. We both are.
"Storm's settling in," I say, pulling out ingredients for dinner. "You'll be here overnight at least. Longer if this keeps up."
"I have feeling again in my extremities. I’ll radio in and let them know I’m okay." She stands, setting down her mug.
