Page 1 of Cowboy Mountain Man

Chapter

One

HOPE

The key sticks on the third try.

“Come on,” I mutter, bracing one hand against the shiny green door with a faded fake autumnal leaf wreath that’s seen better days. “I drove six hours to meet you. The least you can do is let me in.”

I jiggle it, lift the handle, and give the door a shove with my shoulder. It holds, holds… then opens so suddenly I stumble across the dull brass threshold, my life briefly flashing before my eyes.

Excellent. Very professional.

Apparently, I’m conducting a structural assessment with my face.

I catch myself against the wall and stand still, listening. Somewhere deeper in the house, something ticks.

Otherwise, nothing.

No traffic. No voices through thin apartment walls. No upstairs neighbor moving what sounds like a grand piano every evening at eleven.

Just an old house on a mountain, me, and the happy warble of songbirds outside. Okay, maybe not so happy…

A raven squawks as if on cue. A little less idyllic but very autumnal. So is the chill that threads down my spine.

“This is how horror movies start.” My voice sounds too loud in the empty entryway. “Or poems,” I add, laughing to myself.

I prop the door open with my camera bag before checking my phone. One bar. Enough to pull up the email from the owner’s attorney.

Maybe.

The property has been vacant since Mrs. Bell’s passing eighteen months ago. Please document the contents before removing or relocating any items. The family is particularly interested in the antique furniture, artwork, and anything stored in the study.

Three days to photograph and inventory the contents. Another two, if necessary, to supervise packing the items the family wants to keep.

Then I’m gone.

The fee is good, the work is straightforward, and I’ve already spent half the deposit catching up on bills. Which means I need this house to contain antiques, questionable wallpaper, and perhaps a tasteful quantity of mouse poop.

Nothing requiring an exorcist. Or workers in biohazard suits.

It’s happened before. Wasn’t pretty.

I tuck my phone away and lift my camera. Through the open door, afternoon sunlight catches the copper and gold leaves scattered across the porch. Beyond them, the driveway curves downhill, a pale brown ribbon cutting through densely packed emerald woods so thick they look blue black in the shadows.

I passed a sign for Woodbridge Falls twenty minutes ago. Apt name. The town itself appeared to consist of a church, a diner, a handful of shops, and enough glossy orange pumpkins to suggest a local agricultural emergency.

Cute, though. Very cute.

I could picture staying somewhere like this for a quiet weekend. Wearing my trusty satin, pale-olive puffy coat and fur-trimmed boots. The ones I bought for their appearance instead of their ability to keep my ankles attached.

Drinking wild strawberry tea, a thing around here. I keep catching handwritten signs at the edges of farm pastures, advertising it. And letting someone else explain what a flue is and what to do with old brass fittings.

That said, living here would be another matter. Too Hallmark for a city gal like me.

Maybe.

I take a wide shot of the entryway. A narrow table stands beneath a tarnished mirror. Two ceramic lamps flank a bowl of keys. The wallpaper features delicate blue flowers, and a walking stick rests in an umbrella stand beside the door.