Pleased to Meet Me

by J. L. Salter

  Pleased to Meet Me

  By J.L. Salter

  Published by Clean Reads

  www.cleanreads.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.

  PLEASED TO MEET ME

  Copyright © 2015 JEFFREY L. SALTER

  ISBN 978-1-62135-458-1

  Cover Art Designed by AM DESIGN STUDIO

  This story is dedicated to Mrs. Rosalie Sherman, who taught my sophomore English class at Mt. Pleasant H.S. (Mt. Pleasant, Iowa) during 1965-66. It was she who identified a creative spark in my writing, nurtured it, and inspired my first sense of confidence in my writing. In my yearbook, she wrote, “Best of luck in your literary talents. I hope to read of your success.”

  Chapter One

  Friday night

  Panic. Shouting. Blows. Rough hands all over her. She screamed and fought. She ran through the thunderstorm’s torrent of cold and darkness. Night noises nearby and animal cries in the distance.

  Her soaked clothing was torn and muddy. Fear and adrenaline had helped her escape one danger, but there were more terrors with each exhausted and slogging step. Besides survival, these issues pierced her brain: How did I get here? Where am I? Who’s looking for me? At least one other point jabbed inside her head, but she couldn’t remember what.

  No letup in the punishing tempest. No light to search for shelter. Her only course was to continue trekking up this muddy logging road. But where does it go? Several times the road split and all she could do was stumble in the direction her instinct leaned.

  Drenched, shivering, terrified, with no idea how far she’d gone…only a sense or a hope that she’d gotten away. Pelting rain mixed with salty tears. Where am I?

  No way to measure how far she’d stumbled, but the cramping pain in her thighs and calves made clear she’d been climbing the whole time. When she crashed into trees and brush, she’d learned to follow the expanse of mud and turn around, still heading up the slope. Must be switchbacks.

  Why don’t I have a jacket? And where’s all my stuff? She checked her pockets. No light, no phone…money gone and watch missing. Or did I even have a watch? No jewelry, either. Doesn’t feel right.

  What am I doing here, and where did I come from?

  Slogging through an icy torrent, she had no sense of time—only that each minute was an hour. Finally, a dim light in the distance. As she approached the light, trees and brush fell away from the sides of the muddy road. A clearing! More painful trudges and she thought she saw a frame around that dim light. Maybe a window.

  A cabin!

  She’d prayed for safety, but was this it? No vehicle outside the small structure—maybe nobody’s home. She called out but no one answered. If only her voice were stronger. They probably couldn’t hear her through the din of the storm.

  She pounded on the massive door. Nobody answered …though she saw a shadow moving inside.

  As she reached for the handle, an enormous man in faded jeans and a worn flannel shirt yanked open the door and, with a shotgun cradled in one arm across his chest, demanded, “Looking for somebody?”

  She staggered backward. “Not really…I’m not sure.”

  “What do you want up here?” His penetrating gray eyes glared.

  She scraped back the shoulder-length hair plastered to her face. “Shelter, to dry off, maybe some food.”

  He hadn’t moved his muscular body from blocking the doorway.

  “Or just loan me a towel.” She clutched the soaked and torn shirt about her neck. “And let me use your phone.”

  “Ha,” he replied with a grunt, then leaned his shotgun against the inside door frame and stared.

  Not the haven she’d hoped for, but her ordeal had already sapped too much from her entire body, and she collapsed. Only his strong arms kept her from hitting the plank floor.

  Chapter Two

  Saturday, early morning

  It was scarcely daybreak when the frightened woman awoke in a moderately comfortable bed, though the mattress didn’t yield much. But she was warm and dry, sheltered from the still-raging storm…and hopefully safe. No idea where, though.

  No sign of the huge, strong, apparently moody man who’d let her in last night. She didn’t see his shotgun either. Loud grumbling in her belly reminded her that yesterday’s hunger had not been satisfied.

  A shocking, grating cry and wild flapping of wings brought the largest rooster she’d ever seen to the foot of the bed. She shrieked, “Get away!” but couldn’t remember if noise only made roosters more aggressive. Her feet still covered with blankets, she kicked ineffectually at the fowl, hoping it was not able to peck through the covers. With more frantic flapping, the creature settled to the floor and strutted away, remaining near enough to monitor her.

  Under two medium-weight blankets, the sheet was rough textured and somewhat stiff from whatever detergent her host used. A harsher scent than she was accustomed to, but the sheets also smelled of mountain air. Peeling back those coverings to get out of bed, she realized much of her body was lightly streaked with dried mud. She wore nothing besides her panties, still slightly damp from her late night trek. Yikes. What had happened after she’d entered the cabin and fainted?

  Couldn’t go traipsing around, undressed, in a cold cabin. On a corner of the foot of the bed, she spotted a faded flannel shirt, folded and presumably clean (except for a rooster feather). She wondered where the large, abrupt man was as she hurriedly slipped into the flannel, nearly disappearing within its hugeness, and then stepped out of the bed. Cold floor. Ahh…he’d also left a pair of heavy socks. She slipped into the scratchy wool, the heels reaching well above her ankles. “PJ bottoms would be nice,” she said out loud, “if there’s no heat in this place.”

  “I have heat,” said a deep, resonant voice that seemed to penetrate her bones as much as the cold, soaked air rushing in through the open front door. The rooster hurried toward that voice.

  Must be great acoustics in here. She surprised herself by standing her ground and not diving back under the covers. “Good morning. And thank…”

  “My heat comes from that wood stove,” he said stepping inside the cabin and pointing to the middle of the back wall. He pulled off his wide brimmed hat, whacked it against his thigh to shed some of the rainwater, and then hung it on a wooden peg high on the plank wall. He absent-mindedly ran thick fingers through his tousled brown hair and then placed a heavy wooden bar into sturdy metal brackets beside the door. “Well water to wash with.” He motioned toward the streaked mud visible on her thighs and shins. “Windmill pumps it to the sink.” He nodded in that direction, then hung his soaked duster on a larger wooden peg by the massive door and dropped his jacket over the back of the only easy chair in sight. “I see you’ve already met Beethoven.”

  On hearing his name, the rooster crowed, “Er er er errhhh.”

  Wouldn’t even ask. “I want to thank you for taking me in last night.” Her voice felt thin and tentative. “I guess I had nowhere else to go.”

  “So I gathered.” The bearded man stretched like he was sore from some particular labor. Fit and muscular, he was likely around thirty though it was difficult to guess the age of an obvious outdoorsman.

  “I’d like to move,” she said, “but I’m afraid your sentry will peck me.”

  �
�He’s just curious, but I’ll put him out on the porch ‘til you can relax enough to get acquainted.”

  “Thanks.” She crossed her arms over her chest for warmth.

  He unbarred the door again. When the man scooped up his huge pet fowl and placed it outside, the rooster screamed his objection to the storm. “He’ll be okay. There’s a covered box on the porch.”

  She nodded. “I must have a phobia about giant birds. One of many, I suspect.”

  “Not certain about your phobias?”

  “At the moment, I’m uncertain about a lot of things.” She scurried across the cold floor toward the stove and warmed her hands before facing him again. “I’m also a little turned around. Where are we?”

  “My cabin.” A slight smile on the full lips of a ruggedly handsome face that hadn’t seen a razor in weeks.

  She wasn’t sure if he was trying to be funny or really was that dense. She’d heard odd stories about mountain people. “I was on a dark trail when something happened. Things are fuzzy before that.” She searched his eyes, now appearing more blue than gray, for comprehension. Uncertain. “Where are we in relation to where I came to?”

  “Not sure where you started out, but you’re probably higher on the mountain now.” He grabbed a worn potholder and poured coffee from a campfire kettle into a large mug. Placing that on the small wooden table—obviously handmade—he held up the kettle. “Coffee?”

  “Yes, please. Dying for caffeine.” She started to reach for a mug in the dish rack atop the drain board beside the sink. “At least I think I am.”

  Looking puzzled, he poured casually and then took his seat at the table.

  She blew on the steaming coffee, took a sip, and wrinkled her nose. “Got any sweetener? I don’t think I drink it black.”

  “Some plain sugar in that can.” He pointed with his hairy chin to a small counter on the other side of the sink from the drain board. “Spoons and such in the drawer beneath.”

  “Thanks.” As strong as the coffee was, it took two spoons full to make it taste right—though she realized right was an elusive concept at the moment. Then she sat at the opposite end of the two-person table, so compact that their mugs were nearly touching.

  On the porch, the rooster pecked impatiently at the window and flapped his wings as he peered inside the cabin.

  The man’s blue-gray eyes never left her. “You seem a bit hesitant,” he said after a thoughtful sip. “Maybe you’re still too woozy to be out of bed.”

  “No, not really woozy.” But she paused to check. “Though I am having trouble remembering things. Like how I ended up in a wet, muddy heap by the side of that little road.”

  No explanation from him. “Do you recall hiking through the storm from there to my cabin?”

  “I remember hard rain, more steps than I thought possible, a lot of stumbling, and several falls flat on my face in the mud.” She felt her hair as she looked about the cabin’s interior. “I’m sure I’m a mess.”

  “A little dried mud won’t hurt you.” He smiled for the first time. “I washed your face last night to keep the mud out of your eyes.”

  Still craning her neck, she said, “I don’t see any mirrors anywhere.”

  “There’s one on top of my dresser, but I don’t use it much.”

  “You’re not a vampire, are you?” She started to chuckle but it froze in her throat as she realized she had no idea how he might answer.

  “Not a vampire,” he said after a thoughtful pause while he stroked his thick, short beard. “Just don’t need to see my own face to remember it.”

  Another sip as her eyes made another cabin circuit over the rim of her mug. Her hand touched her throat. “Uh, I had some clothes when I got here, didn’t I?”

  He nodded. “Muddy and soaked…and torn in several places.”

  Her eyebrows formed the question.

  “Over by the stove, probably still drying,” he answered. “I didn’t wash them so much as I rinsed out the mud. You can take a look when you’re ready and decide if they’re clean enough for you.”

  “Why wouldn’t they be?”

  “Not sure. Just had a notion that you might like stuff really spotless.”

  Maybe so. Her face reddened. “Well, at the moment, I’m kind of hungry...but I have some other business to deal with first.”

  His expression was blank.

  “Wondered if you could direct me to the bathroom, please.”

  “Sorry. Wasn’t thinking.” He pointed toward the southeast corner.

  She didn’t spot anything in particular.

  “Still just a chemical toilet, I’m afraid.” He shrugged. “Temporary. But I have plans to…”

  Her eyes now followed the more specific direction of his gaze. “It’s right out in plain view!” Her shock likely also showed in her face.

  “There’s an old outhouse in the back, if you’d prefer that privacy, but I haven’t used it since I converted it to a honeymoon roost for Beethoven and Bessie.”

  Haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Hen Bessie yet. The driving rain beat against all seven windows. “I have a feeling I’m not accustomed to outhouses, even in the best of weather.” Then she pointed back to the southeast corner. “So I guess I’m stuck with that thing.”

  “I suppose you’re probably used to a curtain or something, aren’t you?”

  “A-at t-the v-very least,” she stuttered.

  “Well, quick as I finish this coffee, I’ll go stand on the porch and you can, um, deal with whatever.” But he appeared to be in no hurry.

  This could be awkward. She took another sip from her own mug and watched him carefully. Even seated, he was obviously a large man. Broad at the shoulders and full in the chest. His accent threw her, though. Didn’t seem to fit a man living this rustically on the side of a mountain. Seemed more like an ordinary small town accent from just about any county in Tennessee or Kentucky.

  With the tiniest bit of a smile, he stood from the table, briskly rinsed his cup under the tap water, and turned the mug upside down in the dish rack.

  Not exactly textbook cleaning standards.

  “Okay, if you need me, I’ll be on the front porch with Beethoven.”

  On hearing his name through the window, the rooster crowed outside, “Er er er errhhh.”

  A gentleman mountain man.

  “It’s the same kind of toilet you’d find in an RV. It’s only a temporary until…” He seemed as though he’d offer further explanation but stopped and threw his duster over his shoulders. “I don’t plan to stay outside too long in this storm.” He nodded toward the door. As the man opened the front door the rooster squawked his discontent over having been ousted.

  “Thanks. I shouldn’t be very long.”

  She wasn’t.

  Scarcely a minute after she’d finished, both man and rooster were back inside. The man scraped his heavy boots on the mat and the rooster hurried over to investigate. Then he replaced the wooden bar. “Cold out there.”

  “Rather chilly in here, too.” She washed her hands at the sink and rinsed her own cup. “Do you have any dish soap and scrub brushes?”

  “Just bar soap.”

  “Oh.” But that gave her an idea. “If you have a washrag, I’d like to clean some of this mud off my arms and legs.”

  He pointed to a second drawer beneath the drain board. “Is this also something I need to exit for?”

  “I appreciate the thought, but I’m not such a delicate flower.” She paused. “At least I don’t think I am.” She rolled up the flannel sleeves and washed each arm. Then she glanced over to see how her host was occupied. He was watching intently. Her face flushed and she turned away to wash her legs, as far up as she could reach without putting on too much of a show. “I guess that’ll have to do until I can get a decent shower.”

  He seemed to frown as he approached the stove, added a split piece of wood, and warmed his hands.

  She put down the soiled rag, dried off, and draped the towel where
it had been. “I didn’t mean decent like it sounded. I just meant thorough...and private.”

  “I understand.” He poured a half mug of coffee. “Look, I know you’re out of your element here. And as soon as the storm lets up, provided the road conditions allow, I’ll try to get you back down to whoever’s waiting on you.”

  Tears filled her eyes as she hung her head.

  “What’s wrong now?” He looked uncomfortable.

  She dropped into the kitchen chair and dabbed at her tears with the backs of both wrists. “I don’t even know who’s waiting for me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I can’t remember.” She balled her fists.

  “You lost me.”

  “No, I lost me,” she wailed. “I have no idea who I am.”

  Chapter Three

  Cody Wilder set his mug on the table and cautiously approached the attractive but confused woman. She definitely wasn’t local and he rarely saw tourists that far up Hardscrabble Mountain. In fact, not that many visitors were present even when he was down in Boar Mount. But he still knew some of them were wackos. “Would you mind repeating that?”

  “I don’t think I know who I am.” Even though bewildered, her face was lovely, with refined features and expressive deep blue eyes.

  “Well I noticed there was no ID in your pockets and no sign of a purse.” He motioned vaguely. “Just figured you’d lost all that in the storm.” The rooster also approached and cocked its head back and forth in his own expression of puzzlement.

  The way the woman scanned the cabin’s interior, it seemed her equilibrium was askew. “Maybe you hit your head when you fell,” he suggested.

  When she felt for lumps, her pale arms showed muscular tone and definition like she exercised regularly...indoors. “Could be. Don’t recall.”

  “I’m sure everything will come back to you.”