To Claim the Mountain Man

Chapter 4

HEATH

I slid my fingers along the edge of freshly sanded aspen, a careful caress of curves and divots. They glided over the smooth surface, not a splinter to be found.

Satisfied, I huffed and stood up, wiping dust and sweat on my dark blue jeans.

I promised Mr. Heywood that this table would be finished by Friday, but I'd spent a few long hours in my shop the last few days. With only the stain left to apply, I'd have the man's custom dining room table finished two days early. Plenty of time for him to surprise Mrs. Heywood before her big fiftieth birthday.

Finished for the day, I turned off the shop lights and reached overhead to pull down the metal garage door. The rickety sheet groaned in protest before slamming against the concrete with a decisive crunch.

Stepping back, I studied the structure.

The old shop wasn't much. It came with the property and needed some TLC before it became usable, but four years later, I ran my carpentry business from its bowels. And best of all, my back door was only fifty steps away.

"Smokey!" I whistled for the old hound. At eleven years old, the dog didn't hear much, but I liked to think the high whistle tones still reached him.

The bushes behind the shop rustled, and Smokey trudged through the fern, tongue wagging and drool dripping. I whistled again, and he picked up pace to reach my side.

"Let's go, boy," I murmured, scratching behind his ear when he arrived. We started toward the cabin's back door when I heard it.

Voices rose from the little shack adjacent to my property. I frowned.

The neighboring cabin belonged to an old man who, begrudgingly, moved to an assisted living facility eight months ago. His family listed the shack for sale a few weeks later, but it sat collecting dirt and dust since. Until now.

Veering from my path to my own house, I trudged up the slight slope until I could lay eyes on my new neighbor. To my surprise, three vehicles lined the road in front of the cabin. A U-Haul, an old gray sedan, and a truck.

I blinked, recognition sparking at the sight of the lifted red Ford that towered over the other two vehicles. Then, as if on cue, two of the most important men in my life skipped down the decrepit front porch.

"I'll be damned," I chuckled, and, motioning for Smokey to follow, trekked toward Peter and Garrett Holmes. The latter, my childhood best friend. The former, his dad and the closest damn thing to a father-figure I'd ever had.

They stood side by side, gazing up at an antique-looking wardrobe in the U-Haul as if sizing up an enemy. Peter rubbed at his thick, salt and pepper beard, sweat streaking the back of his gray Laurel Peak Fire Department t-shirt. For a fifty-four year old, the man was in great shape, and Garrett had always been the strongest of our friends. But that wardrobe looked like it would crush them.

"I hope you boys aren't planning on lifting that yourselves," I called, catching both men by surprise.

They turned to look at me, smiles peeling on their flushed faces. It seemed they'd already done their fair share of heavy lifting, and the wardrobe was their final foe.

"Hey there, Heath," Garrett greeted. We shook hands, then Peter pulled me in for an embrace.

"Hey son." Peter always called me son. Said I was an honorary member of the Holmes family, since I spent most days, and even some nights, at their house through my youth. "We didn't think you were home. Your truck's not in the drive."

"It's parked around back, and I've been in the shop, otherwise I'd have come out sooner," I explained, eyes roaming the remaining pieces of furniture in the U-Haul. There was the monstrous wardrobe, but also a light pink floral sofa and an ornate mirror with roses carved in wood around the frame. Feminine.