Page 14 of Guarded By the Mountain Man

“There she is,” he says, his voice like syrup. “Juliette, my sweet. Do you know, I've been looking absolutely everywhere for you.”

The pastor's wife looks up and Nora goes quiet in the corner.

“What can I get you?” My voice comes out level, surprisingly.

“A soy latte, since you're asking. And one of those charming… rolls.” He sets a fifty on the counter. “Look at you. An apron. It's actually adorable. And the church newsletter! My people said you were so easy to find.” He leans in, dropping to a concerned register, pitched loudly enough to carry. “Sweetheart. Everyone at home is worried sick. Your mother's barely left her room since the wedding. And I have to ask, because we all care about you. Have you been taking your medication?”

I want to scream. Throw the milk in his face and tell the whole shop that I've never been prescribed so much as a sleeping pill. Shout that the bruises on my wrist came from this man's manicured hand, that his concern is fake.

But if I scream, I prove him right; every decibel I produce becomes a symptom. He's come to make sure Wildwood remembers the poor unstable girl and the patient man in the tailored coat.

So I don't scream, I make his latte. My hands want to shake but instead I set the cup in front of him with a rosette on top so clean Nora could frame it.

“I'm not on any medication, Corbin. I'm not confused, and I'm not going back. The wedding is off.”

“You've had a difficult month,” he says, gently. Then, leaning close over the counter, I get his real voice, flat and cruel: “You're being stupid. There are people in this arrangement with a great deal less patience than me.”

And it's fear that makes me lean in too.

“I know all about our family’s arrangement. Every account, every one of your little shell companies with the pretty names. Imagine if I went to the press. I could burn it all to the ground.”

Corbin glares at me for a second, then it's smoothed away. He straightens his cuff, and takes his latte.

“You should discuss this information with the lumberjack who’s glaring at me through the window there,” he says. “Although you might first ask him why he's been in communication with a man named Dane Oakley. Recovery specialists. Your father's hired them.” He tips his head at my confused expression. “Oh. You didn't know. Well. It seems everyone makes decisions for you, sweetheart. At least I do it to your face.”

He drops the fifty in the tip jar and walks out, the bell ringing behind him. Nora appears at my elbow, takes the milk pitcher out of my hand, and looks at the door with a face I haven't seen on her before.

“That was not a good man. You want me to get Holt? I saw him outside”

“No,” I hear myself say. “Don't call anyone. I need five minutes.”

I untie the apron with trembling fingers, and walk out the back past the proof box into the alley. The cold hits my face and I stand there among the flour pallets breathing to calm myself from panicking, the way I taught myself at seventeen in cloakrooms at my father's parties.

Corbin found me. That was always coming at some point, though I didn’t expect it so soon.

But Holt knew. Holt has been talking to the people my father sent, for days, and never once thought the woman in his bed should get a vote.

I'm not crying; I’m awake.

They're all still making decisions about me. Every last one of them is about to find out what I'm like when I make my own.

Chapter Ten

HOLT

She comes outside after Corbin’s left and gets in the truck without looking at me.

“Drive, please. Not here.”

I drive. Six leans over from the bench and pushes his nose against her arm. She puts one hand on his head and keeps her eyes on the windshield. The ten minutes up the mountain road are the longest of my life.

She waits until we're inside the cabin.

“Dane Oakley? Recovery specialist. My father hired his firm. And he's been on the phone with you for days apparently. Tell me which part of that is wrong, Holt.”

There's a version of this where I lie again, but I’m tired of doing it.

“None of it's wrong.”