Page 3 of Making a Mountain Man (Summer in the Pines #16)

Jill

“ I ’ll take a medium coffee, one of your famous chocolate chip walnut muffins and all the info you have on a guy named Wesley.”

Charlotte, the owner of Oh, Beans! Cafe in downtown Springwood, raised an eyebrow.

She made my order, rang up the purchase then leaned on the counter and leveled me with a look.

She was a good five foot ten, with dark hair and curves I was envious of.

She had just come back to work after getting married to her husband, Nick.

“Is this line of questioning coming from my friend Jill, Jill the single woman or Jill the reporter?”

Busted.

Apparently my answer was written all over my face.

She sighed. “Kim, I’m going on break.” We settled into a table by the window.

We’d both lived in Springwood most of our lives. We both had busy careers, but still got together enough for me to trust her. I also knew that Oh, Beans! was gossip central of this town since she’d opened it last year.

“Why are you asking about Wesley?”

I took a bite of my muffin while I thought about how to word my answer.

I didn’t want to say too much and risk another journalist getting the story before I did.

The walls had ears in this town.“He has an interesting past that I’ve been asked to write a story about.

I know he works for Nick on and off and I was wondering if you knew anything that would get him to agree to an interview. ”

She nodded and glanced out the window. “Nick trusts the guy. Says he’s a hard worker and keeps his head down. I’ve met him a few times when I was dropping off coffee or snacks for the guys at a work site. Is there something I should be worried about?”

I shook my head. I had worked in media since I finished my degree almost twenty years ago.

I had floated around from magazines to broadcast channels before landing at Springwood Press five years ago.

The older I got, the more I felt like my career needed to be something impressive.

Something to brag about, to make up for the fact that I didn’t have a husband and kids at home.

I wasn’t sad that I didn’t have those things.

I was just tired of being judged for it.

Once I was hired by Springwood Press , I put more focus into getting ahead and less into writing for the love of the craft.

I had mostly been writing straightforward stories.

Covering local events like counsel meetings, sports games and the opening of new businesses.

What I wanted was to get into investigative journalism.

I wanted to dig into stories and uncover new truths.

Make a name for myself that people would recognize .

There were countless examples of journalists who rooted out corruption, solved crimes or cast light on issues that have been forgotten or ignored. Nailing my new role as senior journalist was a step in the right direction to my long term dream. Wesley’s story was step one.

“No, nothing like that. I just like to get an idea of what a person is like before approaching.” I took a drink of my coffee, cursing myself for not getting the iced version since it was already hot out and I’d be bootstrapping for information today.

“When you met him, did he seem familiar to you at all?”

She frowned. “He didn’t look familiar, why? Should he?”

“What if I told you his last name was Monroe? Does that ring any bells?”

She clicked her short nails on the table top. “I remember a Wesley Monroe from like, what? Twenty-five years ago. Is it the same guy?”

I shrugged. “Honestly, I’m not sure. I really should just go meet the guy and ask him, but how I approach the interview will change if it turns out I know him. Or knew him.”

She nodded. “Well, I don’t have much to tell you. I hope whatever it is you write about doesn’t cause him any trouble. Like I said, Wesley seems like a good guy.”

I bit my lip. I was trained to write in a way that was fair and balanced.

Nothing sensational. I wasn’t there to convince people of something.

I was just supposed to report the facts.

The facts, or a version of them, had already blown this guy’s life up.

The idea that I could be the reason it happened again had my coffee turning sour in my stomach.

Sadly for him, he’d already been found out.

If I didn’t write the story, someone else would.

I might as well get the points with my boss and the name recognition .

“That Wesley is a good egg. You leave him alone.” An older woman with a fluff of gray hair appeared at the edge of our table. She pointed her finger first at Charlotte then at me.

I opened the notes app on my phone. “How do you know Wesley, Mrs. um-”

“Agnes, my name is Agnes, and Wesley fixes things at the seniors center.”

“Has he ever mentioned what brought him to Springwood?”

She frowned, her bright pink lipstick highlighting the downturn of her mouth.

“Oh no, you don’t, young lady. I will not be pulled into gossip about that sweet man.

I know you write for the paper. I’ll see to it myself that you don’t get enough information to write a sentence, let alone a whole story.

That Wesley has been through enough thanks to people like you making a mountain out of a molehill. ”

Or a mountain man out of a molehill .

She turned up her nose and strutted away.

Charlotte and I looked at each other then burst out laughing. “I think you were just threatened by the senior citizen mafia.”

“Well, if I go missing, you know what happened. I guess I should get going before I get into any more trouble.” I waved goodbye to Charlotte and headed out. This story might be harder to put together than I thought.

Note: W has a fan club

Question: How and why?

The next day, I hit the ground running. I had tried to research him the night before, but couldn’t find him on social media. I did know from my encounter with Agnes that he worked at the seniors center and clearly they liked him. That gave me a few ideas of where to ask around about him.

My first stop was the library .

As a journalist, I spent a lot of time here. Sometimes for research and sometimes just for a place to write. I recognized the librarian at the front counter, so I beelined for her. “Hi, Joy.”

She gave me a genuine smile. We made small talk for a few minutes before I posed my question. “Do you happen to know a guy named Wesley? He’s a construction worker I think. Might come in here with Agnes?”

Joy rolled her lips under, her cheeks bloomed red. “No, nope, no, no, no. No one by that name. I mean, what kind of name is Wesley anyway? Is there also an Eastley and a Northly?” She forced out a fake laugh.

My brow dropped. “Agnes told you not to talk to me, huh?”

She tapped the side of her nose, before turning back to stamping books.

I spent the next few hours going all over Springwood, popping into Ruby’s diner, the hardware store, the gas station, Warrior Club gym, anywhere I thought Wesley might go. Everyone I talked to either had no idea who Wesley was, or had already been silenced by Agnes. The menace in pink lipstick.

Finally, I admitted defeat. My deadline for this story was loose but I did need to get words on a page sooner or later. I had exhausted every resource I had.

If I wanted to get to Wesley, I would have to go around Agnes and straight to the man himself.

Note: The senior citizen mafia was more powerful than anticipated.