Cutter Mountain Rendezvous

As she crested the mountain, her eyes filled
with the deep, verdant color of late spring awash in a setting sun. Goodness. Such beauty made her teeth hurt.

Ten years away from these mountains had slipped by in a blink. She glanced in the backseat at her daughter cradled against her seat belt, sound asleep. If not for Lindsay, she would have considered her time spent in Nashville a total waste.

Never again would she fall for a man of power and wealth.

A man everyone knew.

Then she saw him. Up ahead, he waved a straw cowboy hat in the air. His old truck was pulled off to the side of the road, smoking.

“Well howdy, cowboy,” she murmured. The down button to the passenger side window was held as she rolled to a stop. “You broke down?”

“Busted radiator for starts.”

“You lost? This isn’t exactly a direct route.” That earned her a broad smile with sparkling white teeth.

“No kidding. Any towns near?”

“Bear Creek,” she said, thinking the cowboy could be a country singer with his blond stubble doing little to hide a single dimple that creased his right cheek. She sucked in a breath when the word “Carpenter” jumped off his truck door like a hologram. “Did Jeff send you here to work on my inn?”

The cowboy took a step closer and pushed his hat back on his head. The sinking sun caught in his topaz eyes, turning them smooth as warm honey. His short hair was the color of his straw hat. “What do you need done?”

Chapter One

Heat flashed through her veins. It was that quick temper she thought extinguished years ago now reborn without a husband to tamp down the flame with a cold stare or worse.

Kate’s heels dug into the soft ground to keep stride with her cousin, Jeff. “What do you mean you’ve a job in Knoxville? You’ve got my job. Right here in Bear Creek.”

“Come on, Kate. Be reasonable.”

“Reasonable! You’ll be gone all summer.” She tucked a strand of flyaway hair behind her ear.

“My crew shows up tomorrow or we lose out. Your place is almost done.”

Kate stopped at the side of his truck to watch, helpless as he set power saws into a wooden box. Her mind spun like a top. She had sunk every dime of her divorce settlement into the large cabin she was renovating into an inn. Then found she needed a loan to finish the project. She pointed at the house. “That’s my livelihood, Jeff Crockett. The construction loan starts coming due next month.”

That made him stop what he was doing to glance at the Lexus parked next to her new truck. “The rental downstairs is ready. I’ll come back this winter to finish the upstairs. That way you can ease into running an inn, which I think is a big mistake.”

“How’s that?” Her face crumpled into a frown. Not that Jeff noticed. He was busy tossing a couple of sawhorses into the truck followed by several coils of electrical cords.

She put her hands on the soft pads of her hips. Oh, how she hated to have been married to a plastic surgeon who noticed such things—her hourglass figure holding a few more grains of sand in the bottom than the top.

Dropping one hand to her side, she used the other to smack her cousin in the arm. “Look at me when I’m talking to you. What do you mean about the inn?”

He stepped around her and gave her ponytail a yank like when they were kids—only gentler. “Because you’re a musician, not some start-up innkeeper baking breakfast muffins. In case you haven’t noticed, there’s no maid service out here.”

“I’m the maid.”

Jeff laughed.

“You think that’s funny, tough guy? Don’t forget I wasn’t born into the life I left behind in Nashville. This inn’s my chance to raise Lindsay like you and I were brought up. In clean mountain air with good values. The kind that says you don’t leave family high and dry in their time of need.”

“Write another hit.” Jeff slid behind the wheel of his truck to pull the door shut.

“I’ve not written an original note in years.”

The muscle in Jeff’s cheek jumped as he turned on the ignition. “I’m sorry to hear that, but my first priority is taking care of my crew. They’re men with families.”

Kate growled and kicked the fluff off a dandelion, sending it airborne. She knew he was right. “What do you suggest I do?”

“Call Frank over in Walland. He does finish work. And Bobby, he’s done painting for me.”

“Bobby’s a grease monkey with a tow truck. He’s not coming near my place with his grimy paws. What? What’s that look?”

“Welcome home, Kate.”

“Now I know you’ve lost your mind. You’ve been out here for months. You didn’t
see
me?”

“Not the Kate I grew up alongside. You still had green eyes and red hair, but your spirit was gone.”

“Auburn.”

He grinned. “If my leaving brings you back from zombie land, it’s worth it.”

There was no disrespect in his words, but the message rang loud and clear. Everyone in Bear Creek held some misconceived notion about her return. Since none of them knew what really happened in Nashville, she wouldn’t fault them for thinking she sold herself short. It was her problem.

She gripped the edge of the open window as Jeff put the truck in gear. “I’m sorry for sounding like a shrew. I know times are hard.”

He patted her hand. “Things’ll work out. They always do.”

“How could I forget the Crockett family mantra?”

“One worth remembering.” He gave her a meaningful stare and drove off.

With an angry swipe, she flicked away a tear. Then another. Two tears. That was the extent of the pity party she would allow herself. She stuttered in a deep breath and blew it out slow.

A musician, Jeff called her. It sounded so foreign to her ears and showed how lost she had become in the mire of a disastrous marriage. Except her daughter; she would never be considered anything but a blessing.

Kate wrapped her arms around her midriff to ward off the cool spring air and walked inside. Alone in the empty foyer, once filled with the sounds of Jeff’s crew, tears threatened.

Cousin Jeff was right. She wasn’t the same Kate who landed in Nashville and went off course, trapped in a pampered lifestyle. One that didn’t suit her. Even with today’s bump in the road, she was better off. None of which helped her with the momentary weight of being overwhelmed. Throw in the divorce and a tanked career and shoot, the combined total stood before her—a giant mountain too high to climb.

****

Ten hours had passed since Colton told his brother to take this job and shove it, turned off his cell phone, and thrown a few clothes into a leather duffle to head for parts unknown.

Since it would be dark in an hour, skirting around Knoxville to head into the mountains might have been another rash decision. He needed to find a place to stay the night and all he saw was trees.

He lifted and reset his battered straw cowboy hat before shifting his weight on Bessie’s hard bench seat. Her shocks were one pothole short of death.

No mind. The clunker Chevy truck was the only thing he wanted when his dad died last fall. It brought a sense of stability parked next to his expensive toys that filled a four-car garage.

Today, he pressed Bessie into service as a disguise. One well worth the tanks of gas and cans of oil she guzzled. Not one person recognized his highly photographed face as he traveled from Chicago to Tennessee.

“How quick the screw turns.” The saying was a favorite of his dad’s for when things suddenly went good or bad. In Colton’s case, last year’s star pitcher for the Chicago Bullets, this year’s media frenzy eager to predict a bleak future. Never in his wildest dreams did he think ten seconds of thrill-seeking stupidity would shoot his career all to hell.

He rotated his right arm and shoulder in a slow circle and grimaced. Using his teeth, he pried the cap off a Tylenol bottle and shook out four to down with a swig of cold coffee.

Bessie headed into another set of hairpin curves that took them higher through thick trees. Vibration and a low steady hum in the engine caught his full attention.

Snapping a finger against the temperature gauge reading HOT, he straightened up from his casual slouch and regretted taking
The Road Less Traveled
. Not that he ever read the book his mother gave him after the accident. It just came to mind when he decided to steer Bessie off the main highway.

About to crest the mountain, the truck lurched. “What the...” His hands tightened around the steering wheel.
CLUNK.
Then something near a small explosion sent his heart into a wild patter right before the power steering went.

As he struggled to maneuver the truck onto the soft shoulder, it convulsed to a stop. A cloud of acrid smoke belched from beneath the hood. He smacked the palm of his hand against the steering wheel and hit the hood release. “Fuckin’ Nowhere, Tennessee, Bessie. Not my dream spot.”

The door of the truck creaked open. When he tried to slam it shut, the rusty hinges prevented the satisfaction. He stalked past the faded white letters on the rusted red door that read his dad’s name.

Martin Gray, Carpenter

Jackson, Wyoming

1968 World Champion Bull Rider

A moment’s regret made him wish he and Bessie were headed west on endless flat road instead of east. As it stood now, the only positive was the distance between him and the Chicago press eager for answers about his future. Answers he didn’t have.

The hood was warm to the touch as he pushed it up. Momentarily blinded by a cloud of smoke, his fingers found the hot radiator cap. He yanked his hand away. “
Damn!
”

Shaking the heat off his fingers, he stepped back from the hissing radiator to take in the situation and the God-awful silence. How could a man think in such quiet? He did his best thinking with the roar of a stadium in his ears.

He huffed out a breath and took a good look at the truck. She was a ragtag old girl if ever there was one. “Hell, Bessie. I’ll get you fixed up good as new even if I have to airlift your sorry ass out of here.”

Jesus! Was he talking to a truck?

Colton glanced at his stinging fingers. The purr of an engine, far more efficient than his, whirred its way up the steep incline that proved Bessie’s Waterloo.

He hoped to hell it was a beer truck.

****

“Hideaway Inn—Kathryn Crockett, Innkeeper,” Kate said. “No, no. Everyone names their place that when it’s off the beaten path.”

Two gallons of Richmond Bisque and one gallon of ceiling white sat in the trunk of her Lexus. After the shock of Cousin Jeff’s untimely departure, she decided to take things into her own hands. Hands that could paint if not do carpentry. Once she picked Lindsay up from school, they made a stop at Ray’s Hardware before visiting her parents.

Never quite seeing eye-to-eye with her dad since a teen, they got into a squabble over Jeff’s walking off the job. Her dad defended Jeff, when all she craved was a caring ear. It wasn’t about his needs over hers. It was about listening to her side and assuring her everything would work out in true Crockett fashion. Was that too much to ask?

Since being home was about recovery not sinking into new battles with her dad, she concentrated on the beauty in the canopy of new leaves she drove beneath. The light at the summit of Cutter Mountain shone a beacon of promise.

As she crested the mountain, her eyes filled with the deep, verdant color of late spring awash in a setting sun. Goodness. Such beauty made her teeth hurt.

Ten years away from these mountains had slipped by in a blink. She glanced in the backseat at her daughter cradled against her seat belt, sound asleep. If not for Lindsay, she would have considered her time spent in Nashville a total waste.

Never again would she fall for a man of power and wealth.

A man everyone knew.

Then she saw him. Up ahead, he waved a straw cowboy hat in the air. His old truck was pulled off to the side of the road, smoking.

“Well howdy, cowboy,” she murmured. The down button to the passenger side window was held as she rolled to a stop. “You broke down?”

“Busted radiator for starts.”

“You lost? This isn’t exactly a direct route.” That earned her a broad smile with sparkling white teeth.

“No kidding. Any towns near?”

“Bear Creek,” she said, thinking the cowboy could be a country singer with his blond stubble doing little to hide a single dimple that creased his right cheek. She sucked in a breath when the word “Carpenter” jumped off his truck door like a hologram. “Did Jeff send you here to work on my inn?”

The cowboy took a step closer and pushed his hat back on his head. The sinking sun caught in his topaz eyes, turning them smooth as warm honey. His short hair was the color of his straw hat. “What do you need done?”

“Not much,” she said to be vague, wishing she hadn’t spoken so fast. Why in the world would Jeff send a drifter her way? Caution raised its head at the door she opened, making her scramble to close it. “Actually, I’ve decided to finish up the place myself.”

“Really.” He raised an eyebrow. “I could use the work. How about I swing by tomorrow and give you an estimate? After I get my truck squared away.”

She looked at the truck doubtful he was going anywhere tomorrow. “Sure. Why not.”

“Can you give me a lift into town?”

“Sorry, I don’t pick up strangers. But I’ll call you a tow truck.” She inched forward to remove his hands from the ledge of the open window.

“Wait. Where’s your place from here?”

“Straight ahead five miles. Go right on Route X and look for a mailbox. Crockett in big letters.”

“Gotcha. X marks the spot. Any motels in Bear Creek?”

“Beulah’s. It’s a ten-room mom-and-pop motel with the best cafe in town. Not too fancy but spit-polish clean. You’ll also find a couple of bed-’n-breakfast type places.”

“How long until a tow truck gets up here?”

“I’d say give it an hour.”

“An
hour
!”

She bit down a smile. He looked like she had just sentenced him to solitary confinement inside a black box, when he stood on one of the most beautiful spots in eastern Tennessee. “You’re lucky it’s not three. Good luck, cowboy.”