Kay David - The Man From High Mountain

Forty-five minutes later, she spotted the cutoff to Cole’s place, the drive outlined with luminescent markers. She swung the truck off the highway and angled it between the pale green signs to rattle over the cattle guard. A few minutes later, she pulled up in his yard. A weak light came through his window. A dog rose and began to bark as she shut off the engine.

Cole appeared at the doorway, his silhouette tall and forbidding in the darkness. “Hush now. You hush, dog.” He wore jeans and a down vest, and in the diamond-hard silence, his voice was low as he spoke to the animal, little puffs of breath coming with it to catch the light. She stared at him for a moment. He wasn’t the kind of man she’d ever been interested in—he was too rough, too masculine—but something about him intrigued her. As she watched him bend down and touch the dog’s head, she wondered about her assessment. Maybe, in fact, what was intriguing to her were his contradictions. He was masculine, was rough, but underneath that exterior, she sensed a softer side.

He walked to the edge of the porch, and she got out of her truck, leaving her questions behind.

“I’m not quite ready,” he called out. “Come on in and have a cup of coffee.”

She nodded, then grabbed the bag she’d packed with a change of clothing from off the front seat. Crunching across the graveled drive, she smiled at the dog who came down the steps to greet her. “And what’s your name?” she asked, holding out her hand.

“That’s Lester. He’ll be going with us, if you don’t mind.”

“I love dogs. I’ll enjoy his company.” She reached the bottom step and looked up at Cole, the hound, sensing a friend, wriggling beside her with ecstasy. “I can’t have one of my own—Richard’s allergic.”

Cole nodded, then turned and went back inside without further comment. Taylor followed.

“Coffee’s in there,” he said, tilting his head to what she assumed was the kitchen. “I’ll just get the rest of my gear and we’ll be on our way.”

She nodded, then looked around, curious to see how Cole lived. The first time she’d been in his home she’d been too upset to notice her surroundings. Now she saw the cabin for what it was. Peaceful. Calm. Secluded. He’d filled the tiny place with what Taylor thought of as “man” furniture. A deep couch, a plaid recliner, tables with sturdy legs and lamps that were made to read by. She went into the kitchen and saw more of the same, Lester tagging at her heels.

A small pine table rested beside two broad windows, and on the stove, a blue enameled pitcher gave off aromatic steam. It was coffee—boiled on the range and probably stronger than nails. She took one of the ceramic mugs hanging on hooks under the nearest oak cabinet and poured herself a cup. Instantly memories flooded her. Her dad had made coffee this way—they’d been too poor to have a fancy coffeemaker and even if they had been able to afford it, Sid Smithers wouldn’t have wanted one. He’d believed in doing things the old-fashioned way. Closing her eyes, Taylor brought the cup to her nose and breathed deeply. As she took a sip, she heard her father’s voice and felt the cold bluster of the Montana winds—and the sense of regret it always brought with it.

When she opened her eyes, Cole was standing in the doorway, his dark gaze trained on her. The dog stood in between them, his ears perked, his head swinging back and forth to look at one then the other. The moment could have been an awkward one—she had no idea how long he’d been standing there, watching her—but it wasn’t. Just the opposite, in fact. Something in Cole’s quiet presence soothed the nerves she’d hadn’t really realized were so jangled until now. As soon as she understood the feeling, however, she felt it flee. She spoke to break the silence.

“I love your coffee.” She lifted the cup. “I haven’t had it brewed this way in a hundred years.”

“I’m on the trail so much, I get used to fixing it that way.” Walking into the kitchen, he ran his hands through his thick, black hair, pushing it back off his face. Pausing beside her, he reached for one of the mugs. “Can’t drink it any other way now.”

He was standing so close that above the aroma of coffee, she could smell his soap. She looked up, her eyes studying his face. He’d nicked himself shaving, a small red line marking the edge of his jaw. Unexpectedly, she had a mental image of him standing in front of a steamy mirror, his shirt off, his black eyes focusing on his own reflection, a steady hand scraping a razor across his face. Something twisted deep inside Taylor, and it took her a moment to recognize the feeling as attraction. Shocked, she cut it off instantly and chastised herself. She was practically engaged, for God’s sake. What did she think she was doing?

She turned, putting down her mug unexpectedly hard, hot coffee splashing onto the counter. Grabbing a nearby kitchen towel, she wiped at the spot furiously. “Are you just about ready?” she asked, her eyes never leaving the counter.

He took a minute to answer. “I’m ready,” he said finally. Taking the towel from her fingers, he draped it over the kitchen sink then turned and went out of the kitchen. Lester glanced at Taylor apologetically, then jogged behind Cole, his toenails clicking on the polished wood floor. She stood in the silence for a moment more, then she followed the man and the dog.

THE SUN WAS HOVERING just above the horizon as Cole pulled the truck up to the metal gate marking the ranch’s northwest boundary. A low line of blue clouds hung above them, their ominous darkness coloring the vista with threatening shadows. In the background, near the mountains, flashes of lightning darted across the sky. The cold front was definitely heading their way. Cole turned to the woman sitting beside him. With each passing mile, her tension had risen a notch. He’d sensed it in the closeness of the truck’s cab, just as he’d been aware of her perfume.

“This is it,” he said, nodding toward the dusty terrain beyond where they sat. “Look familiar?”

She leaned forward, her hands on the dashboard, the pink, buffed ovals of her nails glimmering in the dusty dawn light. “Not really. I don’t remember much about that morning.” She pointed to the metal sign above the cattle guard. “Was that there?”

“The sign? Yeah. It’s always been known as Rancho del Diablo. I guess the previous owners must have put that up.”

Black metal stretched in an arch fifteen feet above the cattle guard. The letters that spelled out Rancho del Diablo were weathered, polished into a shiny finish by the constantly blowing winds. Miniature pitchforks decorated each end of the sign.

She suddenly looked uncertain. On the way over, she’d repeated Pearson’s gossip. It was clear she didn’t actually believe it, but the story had her spooked. Cole could have used her nervousness to try and change her mind, but he knew it would have been a pointless exercise. He’d just done his best to settle her down. If the truth was known, he had plenty of questions himself about Rancho Diablo. He didn’t believe in ghosts, but something was wrong with the ranch. His own place bordered Diablo, and he’d never gotten accustomed to seeing lights moving across the landscape at night or to hearing the occasional bark of a rifle. All he’d finally done was ignore it.

“It’s not too late to forget about this,” he said softly. “We can drive right back to High Mountain. It’s your call. We can stop and—”

She stared straight ahead and shook her head. “No.” Her voice was faint. “I want to go on.”

He nodded without a word.

The truck bounced over the cattle guard, the horse trailer behind it echoing the sound a moment later. Taylor gripped the seat and leaned forward. Every muscle in her body was tense and knotted—he could tell by the way she held herself.