Mountain Boss: Mountain Men Series Book One
Mountain Boss: Chapter 9

I lower my shoulder, causing the strap to slide down my arm, before dropping my bag the rest of the way onto the floor.

“Cozy.” My eyes bounce around the space, which is as surprisingly clean as it is sparse.

The cabin is a rectangle, with the front door on the short end, closest to the main house.

To my right, lining the wall, are two washers and two dryers of the industrial type and revolution.

They’re all front loading, and a few inches above them is a plain white shelf boasting a jug of detergent and a half-empty box of dryer sheets.

Beyond the farthest appliance is a deep utility sink with a cabinet above it.

A sink and counter space… basically a full kitchen.

Or it will be when I get my toaster and electric kettle set up.

To my left… is a tiny round table with a single chair.

It looks antique.

And looks like the chair legs might jump ship if I sit on it.

Setting my light cardboard box on the table, I decide to consider the table and chair as decorative only.

I can sit on the bed when I want to relax. And I’ve become a pro at eating off my lap. So, not a big deal.

Before I venture farther into my cabin, I put my backpack on the floor and go back outside to fetch my suitcase.

Pretending my heart is beating wildly because of exertion and elevation and not because I’m worried about bears in the dark woods behind me, I shove my suitcase into the cabin and kick the door closed the second I’m inside.

I spent my formative years living in an RV with my mom, parked in various campgrounds in various states. So you’d think I wouldn’t be such a chickenshit. But apparently, it’s been too long since I’ve been around nature, because the idea of having to walk down one of these paths after dark is making me sweat.

Please, mountain gods, let that door beyond the sink lead to a bathroom.

I saw the two restroom buildings on my way up the driveway—one door stenciled with Men, the other with Women. Another reminder of my campground days. Drafty showers and wet flip-flops.

The restrooms weren’t far from here, per se, but if I’m forced to replace them in the dark, I’ll probably pee my pants before I get there.

I leave the suitcase and all my things where they are and move farther into the cabin.

Passing the sink, I step into the narrow hallway—though, hallway is a stretch—that separates the front of the cabin from the back.

The mini hallway is just long enough for a door.

I hold my breath as I pull it open, then exhale in relief when I see the beautiful porcelain throne.

It’s just a powder room. With a toilet and the tiniest sink known to man. No shower. But I can shower in the public restroom when it’s daylight. That’s easy-peasy. Peeing in my own cabin? Straight luxury.

I lift my hand and press my pointer and middle finger to my lips, then press my fingers against the door.

“You’ll be well taken care of, Bestie,” I tell the bathroom.

I have a set of bright green hand towels that will spruce the place right up.

Backing out of the bathroom, I have to shut the door so I can continue past it to the back part of the cabin.

Instead of a door, there’s a curtain rod secured high across the end of the hallway, with a navy blue curtain hanging from it.

I push it aside and step through.

It takes a moment. A few breaths. But not long.

Not long to see it.

I press my lips together.

I pinch my fingertips together.

I try so hard to hold it together.

I even lift a foot and stomp it to the floor.

Because… fuck him.

Fuck that man—my new boss—so fucking much.

Hot anger builds in that spot between my eyes.

“Fuck you,” I whisper.

Along the wall that separates this space from the bathroom is a dresser.

This space.

I press my fingertips together even harder, my thumbnails digging into my flesh painfully.

This is not a bedroom.

A bedroom has a bed.

This room…

I swallow.

This room has a homemade structure straight in front of me, lining the back wall of the cabin. Sturdy legs support a platform made of plywood. Something I would call a bunk.

The bunk is under a window that has a curtain to match the one across the hallway, and it’s tall, above hip height for me. So there’s plenty of space for me to shove my things underneath.

But it’s not what’s under the bunk that has a traitorous tear rolling down my cheek.

It’s what’s on top.

Nothing.

No mattress.

Nada.

Nothing.

Just a bare slab of plywood to sleep on.

I turn to the dresser and pull open the drawers, thinking maybe there’s a vacuum-sealed mattress pad magically wedged inside.

But just like the bunk, the drawers are empty.

I close my eyes.

I have a pillow in my suitcase.

I have a blanket in my bag.

It’s thin, but I can sleep in a sweatshirt if I’m cold.

I open my eyes and stare at the bare bunk.

What I don’t have packed in my things is a mattress.

I clench my jaw as another tear escapes.

“Stupid jerk.”

If that man thinks he can scare me off, make me quit, with a little rough sleeping, he’s wrong.

I brush at my cheeks and almost laugh.

How quickly my excitement for this new start has diminished.

But no matter what he does, no matter how miserable he tries to make me, I’m not quitting.

I stare at the bare board, willing my eyes to dry.

I’m not tough. But I am desperate. And sometimes, that’s the same thing.