Chapter 6
A Rumbling in the Mountain
June
The morning is gray andsulky, the kind of overcast drizzle that makes the entire mountain smell of damp pine and wet earth. It’s my favorite kind of weather for driving. No sun glare. Just the quiet thrum of the engine and the rhythmic swipe of the wipers.
Riven’s package sits on my passenger seat like a silent, judgmental passenger. It’s a plain brown Shop&Ship box, but I know better.
Inside could be anything from a high-end Japanese whetstone to a bulk order of googly eyes. After the fuzzy slipper incident, I’ve learned not to underestimate his capacity for bizarre online purchases.
The thought of him, all twelve feet of glinting black armored skin and mandibles, shuffling around his mansion of a cabin in pastel pink slippers is enough to make me snort-laugh.
My life has gotten very, very weird.
I shake my head, forcing my focus back to the route. First, some supplies for a few of our homesteader regulars. Then, a case of specialty motor oil for Jake’s garage. After that, Gus’s books delivery. How he reads so much every day, I’ll never know.
I’m out of my truck and approaching the tree nook when I see it: A flicker of movement at the edge of the dense pine forest.
It can’t be a deer. Not even a bear. It’s too large, too deliberate, like it wanted me to see it. I stop and wait, holding my breath as I clutch the books close to my chest.
Slowly, like a force of nature deciding to take a stroll, a figure emerges from between two old firs.
Holy. Shit. It’shim.
Gus Thornfield, in the fur. The local legend. The OG cryptid. He’s nine feet of solid, hairy myth, with deep-set, intelligent eyes that seem to hold the wisdom of the forest itself.
His hands, loosely clasped in front of him, are big enough to palm a pumpkin. He moves with a silent, rolling grace that is utterly at odds with his bulk, carrying himself not like a wild beast, but like the reclusive landlord of this entire mountain.
In the six months of leaving him packages of high-brow literature, scandalous romances, and scientific journals, this is the first time I’ve actually laid eyes on him.
A part of my brain is professionally thrilled to finally put a face to the account. The rest of my brain is just going,That’s Bigfoot. I’m delivering a package to freaking Bigfoot.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, I wave with my free hand and try to play it cool. “Good morning, Gus.”
His voice is a rumble that vibrates in my sternum. “Morning.”
He’s watching me with the same open curiosity I’m giving him. This is a first for both of us. For months, it’s been a silent exchange of goods and currency, a relationship built on trust and the little carved figurines he leaves as tips.
“I have to tell you,” I say, walking toward him, “your woodwork is amazing. Those little animals you carve? Seriously, they’re works of art.”
A subtle shift happens in his massive, furry face. Surprise. Maybe even a hint of a blush under all that hair. “You like them?”
“I love them. I have a whole shelf dedicated to my collection.” I hand him his bundle of books, and he takes them with a gentleness that seems impossible for his massive fingers. “How did you learn to carve like that?”
“Long winters. Lots of practice.” He carefully sorts through his usual eclectic mix of books: a few weighty geology textbooks and, nestled right beside them, a paperback with a shirtless, winged gargoyle clutching a swooning librarian on the cover. I try my best not to smirk. “Been at it for… decades.”
“Decades?” I lean against the fender of my truck, thoroughly intrigued. “How long have you lived up here?”
His dark eyes flick to me with shrewd assessment. “Longer than most.” He pauses, before adding, “You’re not afraid.”
“Should I be?”
That earns me something that might be the Bigfoot equivalent of a smile. It’s a slight softening around his eyes, a twitch of his broad mouth. “Most people run. Even after the Unveiling. They see the fur, the size, and they don’t stick around for conversation.”
“Well, you’ve never given me a reason to be scared.” I gesture with my chin toward the books in his hands. “Besides, any guy who reads both quantum physics and paranormal romance is clearly a man of hidden depths.”
A low chuckle escapes him, the sound of a happy bear. “You’d be surprised how similar they are. Both are about improbable forces pulling things together against all logic.”
