Page 2 of Merry'd to the Mountain Man
Ryan’s voice comes through sounding smooth and smug.
Well, by now you should have gotten the letter from the lawyer about the will. Can’t say I’m surprised the old man didn’t trust you to take care of the property without a leash. Anyway, if you can’t find a Mrs. Whitaker by New Year’s Eve, I’ll make sure those trees go to good use. I’ve already lined up a buyer who’s drooling over that timber. Maybe I’ll even name the new resort I plan on building Whitaker Ridge, you know, to honor the old man. Best of luck finding a wife. You’ll need it.
Ryan’s laughter as the message ends makes my blood boil and the phone in my hand crack from my grip.
I stare out the window at the dark stretch of pine trees, their branches heavy with snow from this morning.
This land has been in this family for five generations. Nearly 150 years of Whitakers have taken care of this mountain. I grew up learning every trail, every creek, every sound of the mountain while breathing in the crisp winter air. It wasn’t just a property to me—it’s my home.
And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let Ryan turn my home into some playground for the rich.
I take another pull from my beer and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Pushing back in my seat, the wood chair scrapes across the floor. I stand and walk over to the small desk near the window. The old laptop sits there, a thin layer of dust from disuse. I flip it open and power it on.
I don’t have a plan, but I do have an idea. It may not be a good one, but it’s the best I’ve got in the countdown clock already ticking to December 31st.
The cursor blinks back at me expectantly in the posting box. I take a deep breath and start typing.
It’s just a few lines, but that’s all it really needs to be. I read it over once, shaking my head and laughing under my breath but there’s no humor in it. And then I clickPost.
Outside, the snow begins to fall again. Thick flakes drift down, adding a new layer to the already white covered ground. I lean back in my seat, the old wood creaking in protest, and look over at the photo of my grandparents.
“Well, Gramps. Guess we’ll see how far “family first” gets me this time.”
CHAPTER 2
Frankie
By four-thirty this morning, I was already elbow-deep in turkey guts and regrets.
The kitchen smelled like nutmeg, stuffing, and tension—the holy trinity of any family holiday at my parents’ house. Mom paced between the stove and the counter like a general inspecting her troops, muttering to herself about timing and temperature and how “no one ever helps around here.”
Which was rich, considering I’d been up before sunrise basting a turkey that weighed more than my dog and chopping onions until my eyes looked like how they did the last time I’d been dumped.
“Mom,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. It’s not worth pointing out the obvious to her when she was in this state. I didn’t need her to go nuclear on me. “Do you want me to start on the rolls or—”
“Oh, I suppose I’ll do it,” she sighs dramatically. Snatching the tray out of my hand. “Must I do everything around here?”
I stare at her, wooden spoon in my other hand, doing everything in my power not to toss it across the room.
But it didn’t matter if I defended myself until I was blue in the face. She never heard me. She was too busy making sure every fork on the table was perfectly aligned, as if Martha Stewart herself was stopping by for a slice of pumpkin pie.
Meanwhile, Dad, waas living he best retired life on the recliner in the living room, snoring softly with the Thanksgiving Day Parade blaring in the background. Every now and then he’d wake up long enough to murmur, “Smells amazing, honey,” before dozing off again.
Everything has to be “perfect” before my brother and his family arrive. The golden child, the prodigal son, the one who’d given Mom and Dad actual grandchildren to brag about.
An hour later, I finally got the chance to run upstairs to shower and throw on something that didn’t smell like sage and despair. I was ready for a nap—or an escape plan.
I typed out a quick text message to my best friend, Jess, giving her the lowdown of how my family was driving me crazy and we haven’t even eaten yet. I wait a beat to see if she’ll respond, but I’m sure she’s busy with her own family. So I grab some clothes and toiletries out of my bag and head to the bathroom to get ready.
When I come back down stairs, Mom is at the front door, all smiles and lipstick, greeting my brother, his wife, and their two kids like they are celebrities.
“Harold, well you get in here?” she calls over her shoulder at my father, before turning back and pulling my brother into a hug. “Oh, finally the family is here!”
The family.
Right. Because apparently I’m just an unpaid intern to her.
I force a smile and give a half-hearted wave. But I’m only greeted with them peeling off all their coats and handing them to me like I was the coat check girl at the Ritz or something. Still Isay nothing, biting my tongue, and hiding my frustration behind my smile. Screaming only on the inside.
