Page 1 of Cracking with the Mountain Man

CHAPTER ONE

OWEN

The dog hears her before I do.

Boone lifts his head from the porch boards, ears swiveling like satellite dishes, and that low rumble starts in his chest. The confused one. The one that says something is approaching that doesn't belong on this mountain, and he hasn't decided whether to bark or investigate.

Fair enough. Nothing belongs on this mountain except me, Boone, and the woodpile that needs splitting before the first hard frost.

Gravel crunches from the switchback. Footsteps. Uneven ones, like whoever's walking doesn't know the terrain slopes left about thirty yards out from the porch. Tourists sometimes wander up here in summer, following trails that don't exist on any map because they were made by elk. But it's September now. The aspens are turning gold, the nights drop below freezing, and nobody hikes up a dead end road for fun this time of year.

Boone stands. His tail does one uncertain wag.

"Easy," I tell him.

Then she comes around the bend, and every assumption I just made turns useless.

She's carrying a pie.

A real one, covered in foil, held in front of her chest with both hands like she's presenting an offering to a god she doesn't believe in. She's small. Five four, maybe. Brown skin that catches the late afternoon light like warm copper. Dark hair pulled back, a few strands escaping around her face. Wearing a quilted jacket that probably cost more at the outdoor store than my monthly grocery run, and boots. City boots. Leather soled things with a low heel that have zero traction on loose rock.

As if to prove my point, her left foot slides on the gravel where the path meets my porch steps. She stumbles, catches herself on the railing with one hand while the pie tips dangerously in the other, and lets out a laugh.

Full and loud and completely unbothered by the fact that she almost face planted on a stranger's property.

Boone's tail starts wagging for real.

Traitor.

She steadies herself, pushes a strand of hair behind her ear, and looks up at me where I'm standing in the doorway with a splitting maul in one hand because I was headed to the woodpile when Boone's radar went off.

Her eyes are dark. Almost black. And they're studying me with a stare so sharp I grip the maul handle tighter.

"Hi," she says. Bright. Warm. A voice that sounds like it smiles even when the mouth isn't cooperating. "I'm Priya. I moved into the Kessler cabin down the south trail about a week ago."

The Kessler place. Three quarters of a mile below me through dense pine. The old A frame with the leaky roof that Bob Kessler's kids couldn't sell for two years after he died. Somebody finally bought it. I saw the moving truck from my ridge a few weeks back, watched it for about ten seconds, then went back to splitting wood.

"Didn't ask," I say.

Most people would flinch. She tilts her head and mentally files the information under a tab labeled exactly what I expected.

"No, you didn't." She climbs the porch steps. The right boot slips on the second one, but she keeps her balance this time. "I brought you a pie."

"I can see that."

"Apple. Brown butter crust. Cardamom in the filling because I'm physically incapable of making a pie without it." She holds it out. "Figured you could use something sweet since you're clearly allergic to it."

Boone is now sitting at her feet with his chin practically on her knee, looking up at her like she invented belly rubs. She glances down at him. Her whole face changes. Softens into something that makes my chest do a thing I'm going to ignore.

"Oh, hello." She crouches, one hand still balancing the pie, scratching behind his ears with the other. "You're gorgeous. What's your name?"

"Boone."

"Boone." She says it to the dog, not to me, like I'm just the translator. "Boone, you are the handsomest boy on this entire mountain, and I mean that as both a compliment to you and a dig at your owner."

A laugh almost gets out of me. Almost. It dies somewhere around my sternum, which is where laughter has been going to die for about three years now.

She stands, holds the pie out again. "Take it. I'm not gonna stand here and beg you to accept baked goods. My arms are tired and your porch steps tried to kill me twice."