Page 16 of Beastly Mountain Man

Lucky wiped his boots carefully on the entry mat before he came in. Bear did a fast circuit of the great room, checked the space beneath the dining table, sniffed the edge of the sofa, and then returned to me as if satisfied that I had not altered the premises without approval.

He dropped the rope on my boot, then pushed his broad head beneath my hand.

I scratched behind one soft ear, and his tail thumped the floor.

The warmth inside the cabin had begun melting the cold from his jacket, and I caught the clean mixed scents of winter air, canvas, pine, and soap when he moved past me toward the rear of the great room.

“I want to check drainage along the deck and make sure the exterior vents are clear before things start accumulating,” he said. “The generator enclosure for this group is already good. Backup systems are good. Wood reserve is covered. There’s nothing you need to do.”

“I appreciate how many of your professional instructions involve me not touching equipment.”

He looked back over one shoulder. “That isn’t because I think you can’t learn.”

“I know.”

It came out without hesitation because I did know.

That was one of the things I liked most about him.

I retrieved my camel coat and followed him through the rear door.

The cold caught me immediately. It slipped through the narrow gaps between glove and sleeve, stung my cheeks, and made the warm cabin behind me feel farther away than six feet. I stayed beneath the covered section of deck while Lucky went down the steps.

The forest had deepened into shades of slate, black-green, and brown. Wind moved through the high branches in long waves, filling the air with the dry hiss of needles. Somewhere below us, hidden by the slope and timber, machinery hummed briefly and stopped.

“What’s that?”

Lucky paused near the bottom step and listened. “Probably one of the grounds crews cycling equipment before the temperature drops farther. Nothing unusual.”

He continued around the deck, crouched at one corner, and pulled a packed clump of frozen needles and debris from a narrow drainage channel.

“What happens if that stays there?” I asked.

“Maybe nothing tonight. Maybe water backs up later when the accumulation starts melting and refreezing. Then I get ice where I don’t want it, or water sitting against something that was designed to stay dry.”

“So ten seconds of moving pine needles can prevent a four-figure repair.”

“Sometimes.”

“That feels deeply unfair to the pine needles.”

He laughed as he straightened. “Most expensive problems start out boring.”

“That is also true in television. Nobody notices when continuity catches the shirt that was buttoned differently in the reverse angle. If nobody catches it, suddenly twelve people are having an emergency conversation because somebody’s collar moved between sentences.”

Lucky climbed the steps and stopped beside me, his breath briefly visible in the air.

“So you’re maintenance for stories.”

I considered him.

“I object to how much I like that analogy.”

“You don’t have to object.”

“I have a reputation to maintain.”

“With me?”