Page 4 of Mountain Grump Protector

I spend my days in the garage with Murph, my mutt, by my side, working on whatever vehicle found its way to my shop. Murph wandered up the mountain a few winters back, half-starved, and more than half frozen to death.

He lost the tip of his ear to frostbite, but after a few days and a few more meals, he perked up and decided I was his person, whether I wanted him or not.

And I didn’t. Not at first.

The responsibility of any living thing was too much and definitely not what I was looking for in life. Not since my time in the service taught me exactly what happens to people who trust me enough to look out for them.

Murph didn’t take no for an answer, though. And now it’s the two of us.

Just the way I like it.

Yet, something keeps me coming down the mountain twice a week to sit on the same stool at the end of the bar. Where I drink one whiskey, keep my head down, and my hands to myself.

And at the end of the hour, I drive back up the mountain to Murph and the silence I came down to escape.

Nothing much changes at the Rusty Nail. Always the same rowdy roughnecks drinking too much in the corner, the occasional fist fight I stay out of, and the same shitty hot wings.

Only tonight it’s different.

The energy in here is charged in a way I don’t like. When I lift my head from my whiskey glass, my eyes lock on the very reason for the shift in energy.

Her.

I’ve seen her around town once or twice. Cute, curvy, and way too young for me to even be looking in her direction.

Yet, there’s something about her that keeps drawing my gaze. It should be her red hair, her lush ass, and full tits. But it’s something else that draws me to her.

A feisty, yet vulnerable streak that’s hiding under the surface.

No doubt it has something to do with her shitty home life. Not that I know much. But I know enough. Everybody in town does. Her dad's a deadbeat who drinks away every penny he comes across, and her brother's been in this bar enough times for me to know that the apple doesn’t fall from the tree.

But she’s different.

And she certainly doesn’t belong in this shit hole. And definitely not with Ronnie Hatch and his asshole cronies.

I roll the glass between my hands, nursing the amber liquid I should have finished over ten minutes ago. I should be almost back at the cabin now, feeding Murph his dinner, settling in for another evening of…nothing.

Yet, here I am. Watching.

Because there’s something about the scene that’s playing out in the back of the bar that I don’t like.

Then I hear it.

“Closest to the bullseye gets the girl.”

What the actual fuck?

I turn on my stool to see what the fuck is going on.

It’s not her body that stops me, but Christ, that’s hard to ignore.

It’s her face and the mask she’s working hard to keep in place while Hatch holds her arm and his friends close in.

The skinnier guy throws first. A curse, a stamp of his foot, and it lands slightly south of the bullseye.

The next asshole’s turn, and his dart lands closer.

A whoop goes up, and she flinches.