by Lena North
“Let me keep you company while you drink? Then maybe you'll stay a little longer,” the man countered.
I just stared at him, thinking that he must surely be dumb as a brick, or perhaps more drunk than I'd imagined. Unfortunately, the man seemed to take my silence as agreement and stepped forward suddenly, reaching out quickly to grab my arm. I twisted away, which turned out to be a stupid thing to do because instead of catching my arm he got hold of my breast.
He chuckled, and I felt his fingers move around me as his grip hardened. I was still not sure if this would turn out to be the man who fathered me, but if it were, then I’d surely throw up.
When his thumb slipped in under the leather vest to stroke me, my temper ignited. No always meant no, regardless of who he was, my stupid clothes and the location I was in.
I raised my left hand, cocked my elbow and punched him swiftly, straight in the face. It made him stumble backward at first but he turned out to be persistent, or maybe I hadn’t put enough power behind my punch because he moved toward me again, so I struck again, slightly harder this time.
“I said no,” I said, calmly but loudly.
Then I took hold of one of his hands and twisted him around until I was behind him. I heard people move around me and sensed rather than saw how Mickey stepped beside us, stopping anyone else from getting involved. The man I was holding grunted and tried to get loose, so I reached around him and grabbed his big belt buckle, leaned backward and took him with me until his feet left the floor. Then I turned slightly and used my hip to twist him sideward so I could push him down on the floor, with me on top. I put a knee in the small of his back and held a hand firmly on his neck.
“I guess you get my point now?” I asked calmly.
I got no reply except a muffled grunt, so I shook his head a little. The bar was suddenly eerily silent, and I stiffened, wondering what was going on but not daring to shift my eyes from the man beneath me.
“Let him go, Wilder,” a deep, gravelly voice rumbled.
Slowly, I turned my head to the side and realized immediately that I had been so very wrong. My father was not a fat loser of a drunk sitting in a corner drinking cheap whiskey.
My father was a tall, scary man with long, pitch black hair and tattoos slithering down his arms from under a tight t-shirt that showed off a lean muscular body. I realized another mistake I'd made. I'd thought that he wouldn't know who I was since I didn't look at all like my mother, but the man in front of me would recognize me anywhere because, except for the color of our hair, I looked just like him. It was like looking at a weird mirror where my face stared back at me from a man much older than me. He seemed calm, unnervingly so, but the two men at his sides were scowling angrily. At me? Or at the drunken man on the floor?
“I'll deal with Doug. Let him go now,” he ordered calmly.
“Shit,” the man beneath me whispered. “You're Wilder?”
“Shut up, Doug,” one of the two men flanking my father said quietly.
Slowly, I let go of the man, and he scrambled to his feet quickly, cowering as he approached the three men standing side by side, hands on their hips.
“I'm sorry, had no clue, wouldn't have -”
My father's eyes flicked to the side, one eyebrow went up slightly, but then he looked back at me. This was clearly an order because one of the men immediately moved over, grabbed Doug's arm and led him away.
“Willy's gone then?”
At first, I was surprised by the question, but then I understood. Willy had known this man. And he'd known him well enough to share the contents of his will, had told him that I'd know the truth once he was gone.
“Yeah,” I whispered hoarsely.
“Do you know who I am?”
I stared at him. Did he think I was stupid? Slowly, I pulled off my sunglasses and stretched them out in the general direction of where I thought Mickey would be. He took them, and when he did, he squeezed my hand a little. This calmed me down, and I raised my chin, holding my father's eyes. Eyes that were the same freakishly yellow color as my own.
“I buried my grandfather and my mother this morning. Then I went to the attorney's office and heard how Paolo Fratinelli became the owner of everything except our ranch and a small house in this village. Next thing, Paolo told me that he isn't my father and that I should go to this place to find the man who was. So yeah... It's been one of the worst days of my life. But I know who you are,” I said, slowly and succinctly.
“Carrie's gone too?” he asked, looking surprised but I could see a fleeting moment of sadness wash over his features.
“Carrie?” I asked. Then I got it, and with a small, tense smile I continued, “Yes. Caroline Fratinelli is gone too. I have no family left.”
My mother had never been called Carrie in her whole life, or so I'd thought. Although this man didn't look like he'd hook up with someone called Caroline, so maybe I was wrong. Maybe she'd been a Carrie with this man. I wondered what had happened.
“Yeah, you do. You have family here,” one of the men flanking my father murmured.
I turned to him and realized that he looked a lot like me too, and was about the same age as my father, so maybe I suddenly had an uncle? It didn't matter, though. None of them had cared much about me so far, so why would they start now? I didn't want anything to do with them.
“No. I do not have family here. I've seen you. You've seen me. Now I'm walking away.”
And I did. I'd turned and started walking toward the door with Mickey at my back when a voice echoed through the silent room.
“I know Willy was everything to you, and I get that today was difficult, so I'll let that comment slide. Won't do that next time, Wilder,” my father called out to me, and I thought it sounded like he was warning me not to annoy him.
I turned slowly, and our eyes met again. I'd spent my whole life trying to behave in a way that would make the man I thought was my father love me, or at least not dislike me so much. That wasn't a road I intended to go down again. This man wasn't at all what I expected, but it also didn't feel like he was my father, so I had absolutely no reason to please him.
“I don't even know your name,” I heard myself whisper.
To my horror, my voice sounded small, and a little sad, so I turned and moved quickly toward the door. When I stretched my hand out to push it open someone came in from the outside, and I automatically stopped. Then I stared.
Walking through the door was the most beautiful man I'd ever seen. He was tall and built in the same wiry way as my father. His black, thick hair was curly and pulled back in a short ponytail at the nape of his neck, which showed off a lean face and cut cheekbones. He seemed to be a few years older than me, and he was the only one in the bar, except my father, without any kind of facial hair. Then his eyes turned toward me, and I felt my brows go up in surprise. They were a dark green, so deep it felt like I could drown in them. Something warm started to form in my belly, sliding deeper into the core of me, and as our gazes held I sensed that his mood was somehow changing.
“Hey there, sweetheart,” he murmured, and his voice slid over me like a warm, soft blanket, cocooning me in a mist of affection.
“Hey,” I said, and to my embarrassment, my voice sounded oddly breathy.
“Shit,” I heard someone say behind my back. “There he goes again. Mackenzie, don't, she's -”
“You have the prettiest hair,” the beautiful man crooned softly, ignoring everyone else.
Then he grinned a cheeky, confident grin. It made him even more beautiful, but suddenly I got a strange feeling that it was all fake, and behind it, there was an ocean of loneliness and grief. I held his gaze thinking that I would have wanted to get to know the man behind the phony facade he put up. The shiny, charming surface he showed me? Not interesting at all.
He moved a little like he was about to turn back toward the door, and it felt almost as if he expected me to follow him without questions. This didn't s
it well with me, so I straightened my back.
“Thanks, sugar,” I started sweetly, without moving. “You have gorgeous eyes,” I added with a smile.
“Tha -”
“Are you seeing someone?” I asked, interrupting him.
“What?”
He seemed stunned, and behind me the silence was thick.
“Oh, I'm sorry. I don't mean to pry, but I have this friend. He's single, and I think he would love to meet you,” I continued.
The silence became deafening. It felt like all air stopped moving and I frowned.
“You think I'm gay?” he asked slowly, clearly confused.
“Well, yes. A pretty man like you would be. Aren't you?” I asked, pretending to be thoroughly surprised. There was no doubt in my mind that this man was so far from gay he might as well be of a different species than the rest of us. A species called testosteronus sapiens.
Then I looked at Mickey, who was grinning so broadly it looked like his face would split, winked and jerked my head toward the door. I turned back to the man blocking the door, only to find him staring at me, looking shell-shocked.
“I'm sorry, but we need to leave,” I said calmly and gave him a gentle nudge with my elbow to push him out of the way as we walked out into the quiet evening.
When we reached the car, Mickey couldn't be quiet anymore. He slung an arm over my shoulder and chuckled, pulling me into his arms.
“You were awesome, honey,” he whispered into my hair.
Then Mickey tensed, and his head went up. I turned in his arms and leaned back into his embrace, and watched my father stride over the parking lot. He was alone, and the door to the bar was closed.
He stopped just in front of us, put his hands on his hips and watched our relaxed stance and the obvious affection between us.
“I'm Hawker,” he rumbled after a long while. “Hawker Johns.”
I still said nothing but Mickey apparently felt that he'd been left out of the action, so he stretched his hand out.
“I'm Michael, Wilder's -”
“I know who you are, Mickey. Know your father,” Hawker rumbled.
“You know Uncle Andy?” I asked, but then I suddenly remembered the attorney's office.
When Mr. Suthermoore had said that I should know the truth, then Uncle Andy had immediately murmured the word “finally.”
“Uncle Andy? Jesus…” Hawker muttered.
“What?”
“Nothing. I know him as Rider, though.”
I stared at him and tried to picture Uncle Andy with his calm ways and easy humor, together with this hard man. I couldn't.
“I get that you're pissed at me, Wilder. Can't blame you, but there's a lot you don't know -” Hawker started.
“Do I have any siblings?” I interrupted quietly, and he jerked.
“No. I only have one child.”
The way he said it, I sensed pain behind the simple words. I hadn't wanted anything to do with this man, but it somehow felt as if I owed him to listen to his side of the story. Maybe that would also give me some clues to why Willy had kept all of this hidden from me, I thought. Suddenly I missed my grandfather so much, and the hurt grew in my chest until I thought I'd start bawling then and there.
“Okay,” I whispered.
I sounded hoarse, and Mickey wrapped his arms tighter around me, sensing that I was about to lose it.
“I'm not so sure I want the family I apparently have here, but when all of this has sunk in, perhaps we could talk? Just you and I?” I asked.
As I watched, his face relaxed, and I realized that this was important to him.
“Yeah,” he mumbled.
“Okay,” I said.
“Fantastic,” Mickey interrupted. “That's for another day, though. Now we need to get some food, find Willy's cabin, and then we'll see if the old coot left any whiskey for us.”
I turned my head to glare at him, grateful that he got us out of a situation that had escalated into something I wasn't prepared to deal with. I did however not think it was a great idea to make my newly found father - who actually was more than a little bit scary - think we were a couple of drunken fools.
“Follow the road north, turn left where there's a sign that says “Callaghan,” and you'll find the house. There's a store two blocks up the road, but I'll call and have them send someone out with supplies for you.”
When we turned toward Hawker he’d already started to walk back toward the bar, but over his shoulder he tossed, “You'll find whiskey on the kitchen counter, but the good stuff is in the corner cabinet by the couch, top shelf.”
As we stared at him with open mouths, he walked into the bar without looking back, and the door slammed shut behind him.
Chapter Three
A lot of snow and a dead man
I spent the morning looking at a pile of maps we'd found on the kitchen table, and there were routes and slopes marked out all over the mountain. It hurt to realize that Willy had skied these mountains without me over the years, and I cried helplessly as I sat there with my darling grandfather's notes in front of me. The past week had been a blur of activities, but that morning I started to let myself accept that Willy was gone and grief washed over me in huge painful waves.
When I heard Mickey getting up, I tried valiantly to calm down, dried my tears and started making breakfast. He saw immediately that I'd been crying, of course, so he pulled me into a tight embrace and held me there for a long time. I cried even more then, knowing I was safe to let go as he held me up.
Finally, Mickey wiped away my tears with his big hands and cupped my cheeks.
“You can only move forward, Wilder,” he whispered, using words Gramps had said to me many times over the years.
“Yeah,” I whispered. “Hurts, though.”
“It'll pass sweetie,” he murmured into my hair.
We stood there a while longer until my breath came easier, and then we had breakfast. It tasted like dry hay, but I forced myself to eat because I wanted to find out if we could ski. If we could, I'd need the energy.
Except for the skis, Mickey kept his gear in the trunk of his car all winter season, and I figured I could borrow something from Willy. His boots would be too big, but they'd do for a short run down a simple slope. There was a second, smaller, door next to the main entrance and when we opened it I gasped. My skis and boots stood neatly along one side, and a few bags that I recognized as mine were piled up in a corner. I'd always thought we stored our gear at the resort, but Willy had apparently kept it here. We adjusted the longest pair of skis we could find to fit Mickey's boots, and they were ridiculously short for him, but they’d do.
I had no clue if we'd be allowed on the lift, but I figured it was worth a try at least, and otherwise we could always drive over the mountain on the small back roads and go for a few runs on that side. It'd take us a while to get over to the resorts, but it'd at least be something to do. I had time off from school to deal with the death of my mother and grandfather, and needed to fill the next few days with something.
It turned out that not only did they allow us access to the mountain. They actually expected us. As we parked the car, I heard how they started up the lift and when we approached they took one look at the skis Mickey was carrying. Then they started laughing.
“Hey there,” one of the men called out as the other one walked away only to return immediately with a pair of skis for Mickey.
“Hawker said to be prepared in case you were crazy enough to try skiing in Willy's gear,” the man said as he put the skis on a table and pulled out a screwdriver from underneath, and turned to me. “It's been coming down heavily in the last weeks, so there will be plenty of snow. You can ski practically anywhere you want.”
I smiled at the man, and we chatted as we got into our boots and moved over to the lift. They warned us that the last few days had been warm so the snow would be heavier than usual, making the skiing a bit more difficult.
Mickey's face darkened, and he tried to convince both the men and me that it would be dangerous, but we just laughed at him.
“We watch out for danger all the time, boy, and blow any risk away as soon as we see it,” one of the men assured us.
The lift creaked a little as it swung us out from the base and started to bring us up the mountain. The dark blue sky was completely clear, and the winds from the evening before had calmed down to a light breeze that brushed gently through the pine and aspen we passed through. I leaned my head back to listen to the sounds of silence, and a deep sense of peace washed over me. I loved Double H and the people there, and I enjoyed the energy in downtown Prosper, but nothing compared to how I felt when I got up in the mountains.
We passed a few places where we could get off but each time I shook my head at Mickey's silent question, and then we reached the end of the lift. The view was amazing, and we stood there for a while, taking it all in. It was possible to walk even higher up in the mountains, and I could see tracks where others had done so, but we were high enough. I stretched my arm out and pointed to the different ridges I'd decided upon as I watched the maps that morning. It was a route Willy hadn't marked, and I'd decided that we'd go on his routes some other time. Today, I wanted to go on a path where I wouldn't wonder all the time how he'd felt when he'd been there.
The snow was heavy, creaking slightly with every turn we made, and the ravine I took us through was steeper than I expected, so it didn't take long until we were breathing heavily. I stopped and turned to watch Mickey coming down the mountain, ready to suggest that we'd move back towards the lift to find easier ground.
As I watched, the snow cracked in a long line below and around his skis, breaking into large chunks that started to roll in front of him and toward me. My gut fell, and I started waving my hands, pointing to the side. He understood immediately and went down with it just a little bit to catch speed before he turned sharply to the veer away, moving upward as best he could. An avalanche was starting right underneath him, and getting to the side and above the line where the snow broke would be his best bet, something we'd both had drilled into us since we started skiing outside the prepared slopes.