Page 3 of The CEO and the Mountain Man

I bit my lip. Nothing good would come of my opening my mouth at this point.

Jesse gave me a knowing look. “Breakfast is served in the dining room here. If you want to see your cabin first, you can either drive there or cross the footbridge.” He pointed to the footbridge on the map. “Oh, and Beau, our youth activities coordinator, likes to get going right after breakfast.”

He pointed to something called a round pen on the map and sent me a wink.

Teenagers, he mouthed.

“Thank you.”

My fried brain flickered on the youth activities coordinator. Yes, maybe River would connect with him. I’m guessing this Beau guy probably worked with more than one parent trying to repair their relationship with their son.

Self-recrimination immediately followed. I was annoyed by River’s shitty attitude as if I’d somehow forgotten the last six hellish months of our life. My son had lost his momandhad to learn how to walk again, for fuck’s sake. Being embarrassed by his lack of social grace seemed like yet another fail on my part.

I waved to Lucas and Jesse, then River and I made our way over the river to the small cabin. It was quaint, with two rooms, a Jack-and-Jill bathroom, and an open living room-slash-kitchenette area. My son, with his black hair, black clothes,and black combat boots, looked like a weirdly reversed image in the bright country space.

Wordlessly, he picked a room and shut the door behind him. I walked to the door, touched my forehead to it, and listened as he dropped his bag and sat on the bed.

I wasn’t meant to hear him crying, but I did.

I always did.

Chapter 2

Beau

I’d been working with teenagers for a hot minute, and I could clock grief on a kid from a mile away. It usually looked like defiance, or sullenness, or some unpleasant combination of both.

River Jensen was exactly such a teenager. Given his funereal punk attire—complete with an ebony wood walking stick—he must’ve lost something or someone important.

Since he was here with his dad, I was guessing his mom.

The dining room, usually bustling with early morning conversation, went silent as he walked in. He reminded me of my early college days, when I had spiked my hair, worn black eyeliner, and rebelled against the narrow world view my parents tried to force down my throat.

Most people looked at me now—a true-blue cowboy, tall and broad enough to fill a doorway—and had no idea that my angry nineteen-year-old self wore pleated skirts and combat boots.

I stayed in the kitchen during breakfast, observing from a distance. River was determined to be the one dark cloud on this sunny morning. More than just his gloomy aesthetic, though, he’d barely said two words to anyone as he downed a pile of pancakes and bacon.

It was noticed.

Meanwhile, his dad, Clark, who stuck to coffee, tried throughout breakfast to find the words to connect with his son.

Oooh, look. Home fries, just like you like them.

Want some syrup for your pancakes?

It’s a really pretty morning, isn’t it?

That kind of effort from a parent was foreign to me, and it sent a dull ache through my chest. Clark looked like the kind of man who tried to think his way through his problems. The kind of man who’d stay up late searching for the words to make things right. I only had my assumptions about River, but even I knew that approach would never work.

Not that it was any of my business.

Afterward, I trailed behind as father and son made their way to the round pen for some training. It wasn’t just River. Despite the mild weather and the gorgeous day, a sad sort of brittleness clung to both of them.

Jesse liked to remind me that my job was to coordinate the youth activities, not fix people. Something about those two, though, tugged at my heart. Occupied my thoughts as I went to the barn to grab their ride for the morning, Betty.

Jake, our frequently ill-tempered horse guy, intercepted me at her stall.

“You with the Jensen boys this morning?” he asked, as though he didn’t know.