Coming Home to the Mountain: Complete Edition

3. Mac

CHAPTER 3

Mac

T he Rough family hunting cabin isn’t as big as the house we call home. Far from it, in fact. Two stories with about four rooms, it’s posh enough to be a vacation home without being so nice that I should be using the word ‘posh’ to describe it.

It’s full of memories though. I can’t help but look at it and be filled with joy. My father taught me how to fish out in the brook, how to track deer, how to string a bow, even how to clean a rifle. It’s enough to bring a smile to this jaded asshole’s face.

I head up the stairs and toward the door, pulling out my key. I slide it in, and it feels weird because the lock isn’t tumbling like it should. It can’t possibly be unlocked, can it? We aren’t that careless.

But that’s exactly the situation.

I open the door up, and walk into the living room of the cabin, half expecting to find everything that’s not nailed down missing. Thankfully, no. Everything’s still there.

The hair on the back of my neck is sticking up though. Something isn’t right.

I walk around the house. It’s lacking the musty scent I’m used to, from months of standing empty. The quilt on the couch is askew, like it’s been slept under. I sniff the air once more. A hickory scent. A fire was burning recently.

My wandering brings me to the kitchen. I step on the trash can foot pedal, opening the lid. Whether or not a bunch of guys could be counted on to fold a throw blanket on the couch is questionable. The trash, though? None of us would have been dumb enough to leave any food waste in the garbage before we took off last time. We don’t exactly want to come back to the overwhelming scent of rot. But the bin is full of bones, empty cans of beans and soup, and various food wrappers. That’s not stuff my dad would just let us leave in the trash if it might be three months before we came back.

I raise an eyebrow, and continue pacing, looking up and down for anything else that’s askew. The back patio door is closed tight, and locked as well. Something that can only be done from the inside. The windows are all still closed too. I make my rounds, opening the bathroom doors. The trash in there is also filled. And there’s... um... feminine products.

Mom came up here with us a few times. So have Lemon and Fig. They were welcome to come, of course, we weren’t going to tell them no. But they sort of got that the annual hunting trip was a manly bonding thing for the Rough boys. And the last time any of them came with us was two years ago.

Plus, you know, I distinctly remember being the one dealing with this trash can last time. It was particularly nasty. Fucking Bartlett and his... you know what, I’m not getting into it.

So I can’t deny the fact. I have an intruder in my cabin, and it’s a woman. That doesn’t tell me much outside the fact that I'm going to feel real bad if I find her and she’s spoiling for a fight.

I check every window. Every closet. I closed the front door behind me when I came in. Up the stairs, I check the second bathroom. The bedrooms, and... nothing. I pull the attic ladder down, climb up it, and hear movement on the first floor. I hop right off the ladder and rush down the stairs, seeing a trail of long brown hair gunning it right for the front door.

I jump her, grabbing her by the waist and stopping her as she claws for the doorknob to the front door.

“Let me go!” she protests, trying to pry my hands off her waist.

“Calm the fuck down! Explain yourself!”

“I’m sorry! I’m leaving! I didn’t mean to cause any trouble!”

“Well, you caused trouble, so you best chill out and talk before I wrestle you down and make a citizen’s arrest!”

Is that what I should do? The nearest cops are hours away. I think this place is in the state troopers’ jurisdiction. It’s easier to just not do anything illegal than to find out.

She keeps trying to claw forward, but I plant my feet. She’s no waifish thing, but she’s not exactly a bodybuilder either. I can’t help but look down to her hips and ass, seeing that they’re especially thick and in a good way. She’s just a good old-fashioned strong, thick mountain woman, fit for a mountain man.

“Please! I’m really sorry!”

“Calm down. I mean it. I won’t turn you in to the cops if you turn around and explain yourself.”

She trembles in my grip, but stops trying to flee. I let her waist go, and thankfully, she doesn’t just take the opportunity to run again.

The woman turns to face me, and I have to admit I’m a bit lovestruck when I lay eyes on her. She’s got these piercing brown eyes and her hair is this light brown, flirting with red. It’s a frizzy mess that doesn’t look like it’s had the best quality shampoo caring for it, but I have to say? I kind of like it. She looks like a bit of a wild woman, honestly.

“Come on, lady, let’s have a seat, and you can explain to me why the hell you’re in my family’s cabin.”

She nods, and I wave her into the kitchen, taking a seat at our table. I turn to the coffee maker and get it going.

“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask as I turn to her.

“I broke into and squatted in your house, and you’re offering me a drink?” she says, cocking an eyebrow my way.

“I don’t see that as any reason to not be a hospitable host, miss. What can I get you? Bit early for alcohol. Do you like coffee?”

She shakes her head. “I’m a soda pop girl.”

“That’s fine, but I don’t think I got any of that.”

“There’s some in the fridge.”

I crack it open, and yes, there’s a few cans. I take one out and hand it to her. “Guess you went shopping. How long have you been here?”

“A few weeks. A month, maybe.”

I sit down across from her. She looks weary. All that time she was here had to have been spent in constant anxiety of being found out. “And what drove you to be squatting in my family’s hunting cabin? Or maybe we should start with something simpler. What’s your name, miss?”

She sighs. “I’m Merit. Merit Monroe if that means anything to you.”

“Merit, huh? Cute name. I’m Mac Rough. Nice to meet you, guess I wish it could have been in more conventional circumstances.”

“Look, I’m really sorry. I didn’t want to cause trouble, but I didn’t have a lot of options. I was staying in makeshift tents and caves, but there was a really bad thunderstorm moving in. I needed a more permanent shelter.”

“So you broke into this cabin.”

“I passed it a few times. No one was ever here. I thought maybe it was abandoned. Some timeshare never really used or something. There were plenty of supplies here, and I felt bad about stealing them. But it seemed safe for me to keep staying, so I did. I’ve been living here since. I fed myself with your canned goods, some berries I picked, some fish I caught, and little traps I laid.”

“And soda pop.”

She sulks more. “I had to go into town for... uh... personal reasons. And I saw a twelve-pack of pop on sale. I remember loving it so much, but I haven’t had it since I was nine years old. So I broke down and bought some.”

As she sips her soda pop, she can’t help but smile a bit. I stare at the can. I’ve had it plenty of times. It’s pretty cheap, not exactly caviar-rare. “The hell’s been going on in your life that you haven't had soda in, like, a decade?”

She’s silent, looking real small and conflicted.

My teeth grind. She reminds me of Prairie, Rye’s wife, who had a tragedy in her life before she met him.

“Since I was ten,” Merit begins after taking a deep breath, “I’ve been living isolated with my family in a compound not far from here.”

“Compound? Doesn’t seem like the word you use for a friendly and nurturing environment.”

“My father and mother bought real hard into some narrative that the world was ending. That the country was just moments from a bloody civil war. That everything around us was going to turn into some sort of Mad Max-style hellscape and that the only way to protect me was to hide in a remote fortress in the mountains and ride it out until some big, important savior came and made everything right again. I don’t know the specifics, I never fully believed it. Even ten-year-old me thought it was absolutely nuts.”

Holy crap, that was a lot of stuff to hear from her. “And let me guess, they wouldn’t let you freely leave when you legally became an adult?”

She shakes her head. “No. They were actually trying to marry me off to one of the other families like we were some feudal clan trying to get favor with the lord or something. They never cared about what I wanted. I was always too young for my opinion to matter, or too hysterical. Or I didn’t believe what they believed, so I couldn’t be trusted.”

I can’t believe what I’m hearing. “All of that sounds terrible. Did you even get to remotely live your life at all? No high school?” I know it’s bad for a lot of folks, but something tells me that Merit had worse teenage years than most.

“Homeschool. Where I got taught all the details of their beliefs. Truthfully, I learned more from the books we brought. Before my father decided they were brainwashing me and burned all of them.”

I grimace again. “And I guess you decided to run away.”

She nods. “I planned for weeks. I got out in the darkness of night, ran until I damn near passed out, hoping they wouldn’t find me. I camped for a bit, I used all the survival skills I was taught – probably the only good thing they did for me at the compound. Then I found this place. And uh... I decided to live it up.”

I look around the kitchen. “You think stealing some cans of beans and drinking soda pop is living it up?”

“Believe me, Mr. Rough, I have very low standards right now as to what constitutes luxury.”

I laugh out loud. “You know what you want. I like that. And I’m just Mac. I think I’m barely older than you, Merit.”

“Sorry. Just trying to avoid angering you so you don’t hand me over to the police. I’m worried they might hand me back to my family.”

“They can’t do that. You’re an adult. And I’m not even going to call the cops. You’re just someone trying to survive, and you put this place to use while we weren’t using it. My father would kick my ass if I I could help a girl like you and I didn’t.”

Not to mention that she was sexy as hell, and hearing about her hard-headed determination and drive only made her hotter to me. I didn’t want some passive waif. I wanted a good, strong woman like her, who would fight for what she believed in, fight for herself. An equal, not a subordinate, which is what her family apparently wanted her to be. At this point I wouldn’t have been surprised if she told me they wanted to marry her off to some ancient old dude who had four wives already.

She’s still withdrawn in her chair. She’s still scared, despite everything I’ve said to try to reassure her.

Really? I don’t blame her one bit. Her parents seem like absolute psychos, and just because I’m playing nice, I’m sure she’s heard sweet words that led her to venom before.

I decide I’m going to help this girl. Even if it’s just because it’s the right thing to do and she doesn’t want anything to do with me, that’s fine.

If it all tumbles along in a romantic direction though? I ain’t exactly going to be protesting.