CHAPTER 1
THATCHER
The sun was barely peeking over the mountains when I pulled into a spot in front of the Huckleberry Cafe. There were only a few other folks out this early. Hard Timber was a sleepy little mountain town, even in the summer. We didn’t get many visitors, there wasn’t much drama, and that’s exactly how I liked it.
Friday mornings were for supply runs. It was the only time I left my refuge up the mountain and came into town to stock up on the things I needed and pick up my mail. My routine always started with breakfast at the cafe. Nellie’s family had been running the place since it opened over a hundred years ago. It was just as much a part of Hard Timber as the mountains themselves.
The smell of cinnamon, coffee, and bacon frying on the griddle swept over me as I entered. Country music from an AM station out of Whitefish floated through the speakers while a TV on the wall over the counter played the news on mute. I nodded toward Nellie as I headed to my regular booth in the back. She already knew my order without me saying a word. That was one benefit of being a creature of habit.
“Morning, Thatcher.” She set a cup of hot, black coffee down on the table in front of me. “How’s the ghost of Hard Timber doing this morning?”
I cleared my throat, but my voice still came out hoarse since I hadn’t used it in a few days. “Ghost?”
Nellie pushed her thick glasses back up on her nose. She had her gray hair pulled back in her usual bun and a shit-eating grin stretched across her face. “I take it you haven’t seen the post that went up last night on Hard Timber’s Facespace page?”
Grunting, I reached for the mug. “Not really my thing.”
“You might want to check it out.”
“Doubt it.” The coffee hit the back of my throat, a welcome distraction from the conversation.
“Suit yourself, sugar. Your order will be out in a few minutes.” She turned to head back to the kitchen, quickly weaving between tables like a woman a quarter of her age.
I swept my gaze around the cafe while I waited. Yellowed photos of Hard Timber hung on the walls. Faces of the men who’d founded the town around the old lumbermill peered down at me, some of them my own ancestors. Back then, it had been a booming hotspot for folks looking for a place to settle. The population rose into the thousands. Hard Timber had an unending supply of trees, access to freshwater lakes, and sat along the route goldminers took on their way to California.
Now the town was a shadow of what it had been in the past. The lumbermill shut down, the mines tapped out, and the population shifted toward the bigger towns. That suited me fine.
Just as I turned my attention back to my coffee, my younger brother Holt pushed through the front door looking like a man who’d spent all night long fighting monsters again. He must have just dropped my nephew off at camp and come in for some coffee. Being a single dad was hard, but being a single dad to a kid who battled night terrors meant a good night’s sleep was wishful thinking and mainlining coffee was a requirement. As he barreled toward me, he waved his phone in the air.
“Did you see this?” Holt asked. “Somebody posted it last night, and it’s already got a ton of shares.”
I leaned back against the booth and sighed. This wasn’t how my morning was supposed to go.
“Did I see what?” I grumbled, wishing I’d stayed home today. The supply run could have waited, though I did have a few other things I needed to do in town.
The table rattled as Holt slid in across from me and set his phone down between us. “Look. They’re calling you the ghost of Hard Timber.”
I glanced down at his phone.
The Ex-List - 6 Hard Timber Mountain Men You Should Definitely Avoid
We were all there: me, my brothers Holt and Dane, and a few of my buddies like Ridge, Harlan and Trace. My gut clenched and anger tightened my jaw.
“What the fuck is this?” I growled.
Holt shook his head. “I don’t know who’s behind it. Did you see what they wrote about you? What they wrote about me?”
I snagged his phone and scrolled through the article.
Number Two - Thatcher Thorne - This bearded recluse is hotter than a bonfire burning out of control, but he’ll disappear on you faster than a trout who just snagged the bait right off your line. Nicknamed “The Ghost of Hard Timber,” he’s more elusive than the legendary Big Foot and more prickly than Miss Nellie’s pet porcupine. Do yourself a favor. Stay out of his way and definitely stay out of his bed.
“‘The Ghost of Hard Timber’? Is that the best they can do?” I slid Holt’s phone back across the table just as Nellie set my plate down in front of me.
“‘The Ghost of Hard Timber’ sounds pretty spot on to me,” Nellie said. “We barely see you around town unless you’re making a supply run.”
I grunted and picked up my fork.
“What are we gonna do about this?” Holt asked.
