Page 5 of When The Mountains Held Us

About an hour later, our foreman, Isaac, blows the whistle, signaling the end of the day, and I sigh in relief as I allow my mind to wander back to the woman in the car.

The way her body sat taught in her car, her fingers gripping the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles turned white. The way she absently tucked her hair behind her ear before dropping her head towards her lap and letting the piece fall in front of her face again, like a barrier against the outside world. I longed to reach out and tuck it back myself. I wonder if her blonde locks are as silky soft as they looked.

But what sucked me in right from the start were those eyes. They didn’t hold the carefree and open expression of one who was just in town to visit and sightsee.

There was something hidden beyond them, a hint that she might be running from her past. Yet there was also a quiet curiosity peeking through the cracks in her walls. The way her eyes seemed to take in the green shine of my own. Or the way they dropped to my mouth as I spoke before darting away again, as if something had spooked her.

Where is she from? Is she only passing through? Maybe visiting a relative or a friend? Or is she here to stay?

I’ve always loved puzzles ever since I was a little boy. There’s something soothing about the rhythmic way my mind works when trying to fit the pieces together—each failure bringing me closer and closer to the satisfaction I know will come when I finally slide the correct piece into place.

She’s a puzzle. That much is clear. I’ve never met a puzzle I couldn’t solve. But she might be the first one to make me work for it.

A small part of me hopes I’ll see her again, if only so I can catch another glimpse of those striking blue-gray eyes.

As I climb into the passenger seat of the work truck, three guys file into the backseat behind me, and together we take off down the road in the direction of the shop. Harold has kept up the storefront and office since his parents started the company nearly sixty years ago. His father ran the small crew, which mostly consisted of various siblings and cousins, while his mother ran the office and managed the day-to-day secretarial work. Together, they worked tirelessly to get the business off the ground, and their hard work has paid off.

Today, our crew consists of a couple of locals and some contracted men from out of town. I grew up with most of them, and our friendships naturally carried into our adult lives. It’s hard in a town this small for it to be any other way, but I’m grateful for them. They’re good guys with even better families who all played a part in why I ultimately turned out the way I did.

I didn’t have the best home life growing up, and when you grow up in a town of less than six hundred people, everyone is bound to know your business one way or another. They could have turned their backs and shunned us, but instead, they tried everything they could to make sure I knew I had somewhere to go if and when things went south at home. The only problem was that I was never going to leave my little sister alone in that house.

But the offers still stood, and I appreciated them more than I ever truly let on.

I blow out a breath as the truck bumps and jostles along the uneven road, rolling my tight shoulders to ease the mounting tension from another day of hard manual labor.

“You coming out to the bar tonight?” Brandon asks, clapping a rough hand on my shoulder from behind me.

“Nah, didn’t get much sleep last night. Just going to go home and crash.” It’s mostly true. I didn’t sleep well last night. Or the night before that. Or the night before that. I could probably count on one hand the amount of times over the course of my thirty-four years that I had actually gotten a good night’s sleep. I’m used to it by now, but that doesn’t mean that the exhaustion doesn’t weigh on me still.

Brandon mumbles something about never coming out with them anymore, but I pretend I don’t hear him, and he thankfully doesn’t push the issue. Brandon is another one of my closest friends, and he knows more about the demons I wrestle than any of the other guys in the group besides Justin. He knows not to push me.

As we approach the shop, Isaac pulls the truck around back, and my mind shifts back to the woman from earlier. Did she get to her appointment on time? Of course, I know with the detour she probably hadn’t, but I still hope she found her way alright.

I follow the line of guys inside and open my locker in the back room. Shrugging out of my vest, I throw a worn flannel over my dirty white T-shirt and change out of my work boots and into my cowboy boots. Leaving my work clothes in the locker before closing it, I spin the dial and turn for the door.

Once outside, I inhale, breathing in the fresh summer air and relishing the cool rush of dusk in my lungs. Summer in the mountains is one of my favorite times of the year. Hot as the pits of hell itself during the day with the sun blazing high over the mountaintops, but cool as a fall evening when that sun finally sinks down behind the horizon.

I climb into my truck and turn the key. The singular leather keychain, so worn with time that the words aren’t even decipherable anymore, brushes across my jean-clad knee as I listen to the engine turn over and purr to life. I don’t need to read the words to know what they say, though. I know them by heart.

The mountains are calling and I must go.

A John Muir quote in a mountain town? Cliche, I know, but true nonetheless. You would think after spending my entire life living in the shadow of these mountains, they’d eventually lose their appeal, but that can’t be further from the truth. In fact, my appreciation of them has only grown over time.

I love this truck. My first real adult purchase. I bought it secondhand from my neighbor Wendy after her husband passed away, and it’s served me well so far.

Peeling out of the gravel lot, my tires squeal on the stone beneath them as I take off down the road in the direction of home. I scan through the spotty radio stations as I drive, until I land on an old country station that still plays songs from the early two-thousands, rather than that pop country shit that’s so popular with the college kids these days. I’m not sure when exactly I turned into such a grumpy old man, but hey, I like what I like and I hate what I don't. There are worse things to be picky over.

When I approach the stoplight near the construction site and wait for the light to turn green, I think back on the conversation with the woman from earlier. Why can’t I get her out of my mind?

The light turns, and as it does, I make a split-second decision, and instead of turning left, which would take me straight home, I turn right. Not ready to go home yet, knowing what thoughts are waiting to torment me in the silence, I roll down the windows and revel in the feel of the wind rushing over my skin.

My fingers drum in time with the music as I cruise down the road, making a turn here and there and driving down the backroads that inspired so many of my favorite country songs. It feels good to drive, the vibration of the truck beneath me calming my restlessness and bringing me a sense of peace.

With the last rays of sunlight sinking behind the silhouette of the mountains, I flick on the headlights for better visibility. All sorts of animals run wild and free within these mountains, and the last thing I need is to take out a deer. Or worse, a bear.

It’s a good thing I flipped on the headlights when I did, otherwise I might have missed the black Toyota Camry with out-of-state plates sitting dark and stagnant on the side of the road.

Four