Page 69 of Beneath the Mountain Sky

That alone is enough of a reason to want the truth.

And there’s only one way I can think to find it.

Face what’s up there.

I close the cabin door behind me, head down the two steps off the porch, and make my way across the homestead toward the barn.

Killian should be at McBride Timber right now.

He should be doing his job, managing the several dozen employees who depend on his business for their livelihoods. He should be checking stock, sending shipments, even running the saws like he loves to so much, even though he doesn’t need to do it anymore.

He should be doing his job, but he’s too afraid to leave me alone here, too scared I’ll have a meltdown while he’s gone.

And considering what’s happened during every one of these memory flashes, he’s probably right.

I can’t seem to bring myself out of them. Can’t get back to the here and now without him. His warm arms and reassuring words keep me grounded.

The familiar sound of his axe slicing through the air and chopping into a heavy piece of wood hits me, and a smile pulls at my lips.

Whenever he got angry or stressed about anything, I always knew I could find him out here, either chopping endless amounts of firewood—more than we would ever need that he would just end up donating to someone in town—or carving something.

His beautiful wood sculptures line Main Street, standing sentinel in front of the various businesses and the entrance to McBride Mountain.

An eagle in front of Claire’s Bakery, clutching her famous croissant in its talons. A bear in front of the diner with a picnic basket. A mischievous raccoon in front of the grocery store with a loaf of bread in hand. And too many others to count. All brilliantly lifelike and done by a man who is a true artist, though he’ll never let you call him that.

I turn the corner around the barn and find him exactly where I knew he’d be—in front of a massive pile of wood.

He sets another large piece on the stump and lifts the axe that belonged to his father, and his father before him, and swings it down with such sharp precision, such power, that it makes me jump, as well as clench my legs together.

Sweat trickles down his exposed back, the muscles there working as he leans down and throws the two pieces onto the pile, then reaches for the next log to repeat the motion.

Tattoos seem to move across his skin as if they’re alive; intricate artwork he’s built over the years, constantly adding to it, all pieces that mean something deeply personal to him.

A few new ones have popped up since I’ve been gone, though I haven’t had a chance to examine them closely enough to see what they are.

I inch closer, mesmerized by the man, narrowing my eyes on the ink, trying to determine what they could be as he sets the next log and swings, sending the pieces splintering and flying outward.

The smell of newly-cut wood mingles with the fresh mountain air, the scent that’s all Killian. I inhale it deeply, letting it soothe the anxiety over what I’m about to ask him.

He turns to reach for another log and spots me out of the corner of his eye, turning to face me fully and rising to his six-three height. “You’re awake.”

I nod.

His brow immediately furrows as he steps toward me, all those slick, glistening muscles on display. “Are you all right? Did you have another nightmare?”

That.

That look in his eyes.

That concern that never seems to go away.

The constant vigil he feels he needs to keep over me.

It has to end.

I shake my head.

He rests the head of the axe on the ground and leans against it. “Then what’s wrong?”