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one

Clover

Athree hundred sixty degree spinner suitcase moves great over an airport’s smooth floors. Not so much along a mountain trail covered with stones and exposed tree roots. At least I think I’m following a trail, just not one that’s used often. I don’t care if I need to lift my suitcase over obstacles or maneuver it around all the stupid trees. The need to get as far away as possible keeps me moving forward.

And up. That doesn’t seem right. The nearest town is down the mountain, isn’t it? Seems like when Pete brought me to his cabin we were going uphill most of the time. Ah, sugar lumps. Even I know mountains go up and down, over and over again. I’ll make it to town eventually.

I could have walked along the road, but I didn’t want to make following me easy for the angry mountain man. I suppose I didn’t want anyone passing by to see how I’ve failed. Again.

A fairly smooth tree stump invites me to sit and rest for a while and I take advantage of nature’s chair. Smoothing my damp, sweaty hair back from my face and studying my surroundings, I wonder if I’m doing the right thing. Maybe I should have stuck it out. Tried harder to be what Pete expected. Clutching the amethyst crystal point hanging from a fine chain around my neck, I close my eyes and wait for my breathing to calm. I haven’t become accustomed to the higher altitude yet.

Sitting still gives me too much time to think. When I’d discovered an ad for Summit Soulmates I’d signed up almost immediately. After a handful of failed, almost relationships, I thought having the decisions made by an outside force would help me find love. I’d filled out the many questionnaires as accurately as I could, even refusing to give into temptation to fib just a bit on my actual weight.

Then I waited for the matchmakers to do their magic. It wasn’t long until I was chosen for and accepted by a real mountain man named Pete. A strong name for a strong man—so I’d thought. We’d talked on the phone a couple times then he’d invited me to his cabin to determine if we really were a perfect match.

I’d purchased some clothes I believed were appropriate for mountain living, heavy on the flannel, and packed carefully. I’d grumbled at the time but now I’m happy I chose to bring only a few of my more precious crystals. That much less for me to gather when I decided to run.

Flight is my defense mechanism. Pete’s is to fight. Or at least make his opinions obvious as loud, harsh, and demanding as possible. Not a good combination.

Everything had started out okay. He was cautious and considerate when he picked me up at the bus station. Although a smile rarely parted his thick, dark beard, he’d been pleasant while showing me around his huge, ultra-modern cabin. Then he left me in the kitchen to prepare a meal without any guidance how to even turn on his fancy stove. I managed. I always do.

After I’d cleaned up dinner—by myself—I asked if I could set out a few of my things to make his place feel like mine as well. He gave me a strange look then just shrugged and went back to working on his laptop.

Then when he finally examined the small display on a rearranged bookshelf, he growled about moving his stuff. My comments about small changes making a house a home brought a dismissive noise from deep in his throat.

Every day went downhill from there. He’d give me chores to ‘help us decide if mountain living was for me’. But I never did anything right. He always found even the tiniest thing I did wrong or not the way he wanted. His corrections were never kind or constructive. I felt belittled. Treated like a child. Or a servant.

He didn’t like how much I smiled, how I laughed for no reason. Said there were enough rocks in the mountains that we didn’t need any in the house. Mocked me when I greeted the plants around the building along with the morning sun with soft praise and thank you. Called me a crazy sun worshiper and refused to even discuss my beliefs.

He did make sure I understood his, though. He wanted a quiet woman who didn’t argue, meaning that she had no opinions of her own. One to cook and clean for him. Be there when he wanted then effectively disappear into the woodwork until there was another chore to be done. Warm his bed. Thank goodness I had my own room and we never got to that part.

Frowning into the distance, I pull on the jacket I’d grabbed from next to the back door in my escape. In the four days spent in that cabin, I still have no idea what the man does for a living. Even if he’s independently wealthy, that’s no excuse for his odd, self-important behavior.

I only know that after the last argument, when he threatened to throw out my crystals, I couldn’t stay. I’ve had enough experience with men who only want what they think they can get without considering me and what I might want. I promised myself I wouldn’t ever do that again. They may not respect me, but I’m learning to respect myself.

Sneaking out when he’s off somewhere doing something, the only explanation I received when I asked where he was going this morning, probably isn’t the most respectful thing. Still, I had to get away. Despite what the matchmaking software must have said, we are not compatible. He is so not the man for me.

The wind is changing, growing cooler and tossing colorful fallen leaves along the path. A shiver travels through me and I wrap the jacket tighter around myself. His jacket. Once I get to town, I’ll find a way to get it back to him without ever seeing him again. I hope I never see the anger I’ve probably unleashed by running away.

If I’m running away, I need to keep going. Otherwise my defiance will be worth less than he already considers me to be. After a deep breath, I allow the cuffs of his jacket to cover my cold fingers as I wrap them around the suitcase handle. One glance behind me then I move forward toward better decisions and a new life.

two

Knight

The fire heating my forge dissipates and I open a window to allow the cool, fall air into the building before glancing at the clock. I’ve been out here for nine hours. No wonder my neck and shoulders ache like a sumbitch. A row of completed Damascus steel billets line a shelf with promises of another good day tomorrow as I finish my list of commissioned pieces and complete the small, less expensive items I plan to offer at the local fall craft fair.

As I clean up and make sure everything is turned off and safe for the night, I plan supper. With the long day, I’d forgotten to eat and my stomach rumbles a complaint. There’s chili left from the huge pot I made a few days ago, but that doesn’t hold much appeal. I’m tired of chili. Maybe I’ll mix it with some pasta tonight and pile on the cheese.

After a couple years spent feeling buried by the huge buildings and crowded streets of the city, this simpler life I’ve returned to is worth eating the same meal for a week. My cabin is small and simple, with everything I need in one main room, along with a remodeled bath. Surrounded by mountains even taller than the one where I’ve settled, there’s none of the oppressive, overbearing confinement of a city.

The location suits my work better as well. My forge is one large space about the same size as the cabin with windows and doors that open to let in the mountain air. My work, especially with the wide variety of patterns created by the layered Damascus steel, has been well received around the world. With internet for sales, a few public showings and appearances, and word of mouth, I could easily have more commissions than I’d be able to complete.

The fancy knives, jewelry, and art pieces are fine, but what I really enjoy creating are simpler pieces for common people and selling them at the craft fairs in nearby communities. Actually seeing someone’s expression when they examine the metal striations in a paperweight is worth more than the price itself.

Double checking my mental list of items I’m planning to create for the Pine Woods Harvest Festival, I start back toward the cabin. A noise that doesn’t belong here in the quiet mountains stops me half way across the yard. I cock my head and turn toward the tree line at the southern edge of my property.

The odd grunting doesn’t sound like any animal I’ve heard around here before. The noise doesn’t sound like pain. Or anger. I take a single step forward then pause. Now it sounds like words. Holding my breath, I strain to listen.