Page 8 of Single Mom’s Mountain Men (Mountain Men Reverse Harem #1)

Mitch

L ater that evening, I make a note of the last spreadsheet column before blinking away from the computer screen with a sigh.

Great, now I'm dizzy.

I’m going to eventually destroy my eyesight with all this screen time I’m getting. That is if the wood chippings that occasionally fly into my eye when I’m slicing don’t get to me first.

I stare back at the screen, feeling a low throb at the base of my skull.

There it is again, my reminder that humans weren’t meant to stare at screens for longer than it took to place a phone call.

I don't know how either of my brothers do it.

Charlie is often as glued to his computer as Wes is to his phone, but I've never been much of a technology guy.

I think I could do very well without it actually.

Right now, I’d much rather be writing down this long list on a piece of paper the way God intended, but writing on paper is a less efficient system than just doing all my calculations via an Excel spreadsheet.

And lately, my life has been all about efficiency.

I wake up at the crack of dawn so I can get as much of the timber cut and dressed as possible before it gets dark.

I eat one large meal a day so that I don’t have to waste time on separate meals.

I don’t give myself downtime, barely go into town if I can avoid it, and do my best to make sure that I can spend every spare moment I can afford working.

And it's working out well for me so far.

We have more business than we really can manage with only the three of us and a handful of occasional part-time employees we use when we’re planting or clearing.

But somehow we manage to pull through. We have to, because we can’t afford to turn away business at this point because that means letting it go back to Kane's team in Colorado.

They're our major rivals now and we've only managed to steal so much of their business by offering heavy discounts. We’re no longer in the red, but we need to keep this pace up so we can finally turn Norris Timber Holdings into a booming business.

I just wish my brothers felt the same sense of responsibility I do for getting this place running. If Wes didn't spend so much time in some bar and Charlie didn’t spend so much time in his room, then we would probably be three times as profitable.

As it is, they both do the work they have to and nothing more. I suppose I should be grateful. It was my idea to take on the family business after mom died and they simply stuck around to help me. But it's our family business and I wish they would take some initiative in the running of the place.

Or at the very least, one of them should take the damn inventory duties.

I hate taking inventory.

It don't matter what you love or hate, an old marine instructor used to say. Y’all are here now, you dumb bastards. So, you gotta do what you need to do to survive .

So I close my eyes for a few more seconds, pain stabbing at my temples, considering the bottle of Advil in the bathroom cabinet. But almost immediately, I disregard that thought.

Now, I don't take painkillers and haven't touched them even after shoulder surgery.

It’s just a little headache. I tell myself. It’ll be over soon.

I get back to work, and eventually, once I’m done with squaring away the balance sheets, I finally allow myself to get up and stretch.

The clock on my wall says it's near midnight. If I go to sleep right now, that gives me about five hours till daybreak. Not ideal, but doable.

I quickly head into the shower, wash off, and then get in bed.

But sleep isn't as easy to find as I had hoped.

My thoughts are instead consumed by the woman who’s sleeping in the cottage next door. Patty Cole.

When my brothers told me a guest would be staying with us, I didn't think much of it.

Of course, when Wes pointed out that it was Charlie's guest, and it was a woman, I got more curious.

My brother Charlie doesn't have many friends and he hasn’t dated much either ever since Erica, his ex, left him.

While Charlie was heartbroken for a while, Wes and I were pretty glad to see her go.

Good riddance. I wish Wes had run her off sooner because Charlie clearly didn't see all the ways she tried to take advantage of him.

If Wes hadn't intervened, he'd probably still be in love with her, and she’d probably still be squeezing him for every cent he earned, whilst giving nothing back in return but grief, poor chump.

In any case, learning that Charlie had invited another woman to stay with us wasn't exactly good news, and didn't give me a lot of confidence in her character.

I could tell that he was already getting attached to her, and given his track record with women, I thought she would turn out to be another cold, manipulative shrew.

But after meeting her, I can't say that anymore.

"Maybe because you're not giving me time to think asshole."

I think about Patty's flashing eyes when she said it and a smile drags over my lips. I didn't get manipulative vibes from her. All her emotions showed on her face, her tiredness and her annoyance, and even the secrets she wanted to keep.

I don’t blame her for calling me an asshole, but I'm more so surprised that she did. Most people don’t have the balls to stand up to me like that, especially when I go into what Wes calls my 'tough mother fucker act'.

I'm told I have an intimidating demeanor, and it's something I've dealt with since I was a teenager. Heck, I scared more than a couple of teachers in high school, so much that they wouldn’t even give me detention when I slacked off, nor write me up when I slept in class.

The only thing they would do was call my parents, because somehow the only one who could discipline me was my tough-as-nails mother.

“You’ve been terrifying your teachers again Mitchell?" She would say, after making me kneel in the corner while holding a chair over my head as punishment. “How many times I gotta tell you not to do that?"

"I don't do it on purpose, Ma ."

"It don't matter. I've told you, you gotta smile....and show some teeth."

"His smile scares them even more, Ma ,” Wes would chortle at the table but the laughter would die when our mother's gaze turned to him .

My smile widens at the memory, a wistful ache in my chest. I miss that ornery old lady. I regret a lot about going off to the Marines, but mostly I regret the fact that it forced me to leave her and my dad alone. No one thought that Dad would die that suddenly, or that mom would get sick herself.

No one thought the family business would be on the verge of collapse when we got out. They kept most of the bad news from us, not wanting us to shorten our service for their sake.

"I'm sorry, Ma ," I whisper as I close my eyes. "I'll do you right this time. Make you proud."

But as I doze off, it's not my mother or my work that comes to mind. It's not my brothers either.

Instead, I think of the city girl with the sparkling blue eyes.

An explosion rocks off in the distance, and I cover my head to protect it from the shrapnel.

"Chief!"' I scream trying to find him through the dust but he’s nowhere in sight. And there’s no time to look. We’re knee-deep in guerilla territory and seem to be losing this skirmish. If I stay any longer I'm going to be dead.

I start running immediately, bumping into the bodies of the other soldiers running too. Someone is screaming out orders, but we can't hear enough to follow them.

We’re no longer soldiers, merely men faced with their own mortality. Another explosion rocks me back and I feel myself fall. A bullet pierces through my shoulder but I bite back the scream as I crawl on the ground, searching for cover.

I find it behind a tree, propping myself up to rest. A dead body lays beside me, a gun in its hand, eyes listless and unseeing.

I don't think I know him, but even if I did, I wouldn't recognize him like this.

I take the M16 from his lifeless hand and check to see how many rounds are left in the cartridge. Seems I’m lucky today – the full thirty rounds all nestling in place. I reinsert the magazine, set the gun to semiautomatic fire and turn around to see if I can spot my attackers.

There.

On the mountain, there are a few of them. The bottoms of their faces are covered, shielding their features as they send volleys of bullets flying from their machine guns. One of them is throwing grenades. He's the one I target.

One shot and he goes down but he’s still moving.

Before they can figure out what’s going on I squeeze off two more rounds, killing the machine gun guy.

Fucking bastards, I scream inside. Die.

And then the clank of a grenade lands beside me and I know it's all over.

I jerk out of bed, sweat slicking my body, and bring shaking hands to my face.

My chest is tight, ratchety with panic.

Breathe motherfucker. I tell myself. You're fine. Nothing's wrong. Just breathe.

The military therapist told me there would likely be nightmares. Even though she called me 'remarkably well adjusted considering the circumstances' she noted that I might have some problems sleeping for months afterward.

But it's been a fucking year already.

So why is it still happening?

I get out of bed and go to wash my face. Then I stand there, staring at my reflection. I don't know how long I do this for but it’s nearly daybreak by the time I get my breathing under control.

Good. Time for work.

I wash my face again. and brush my teeth before I step out of my room walking out to the kitchen.

I turn on the coffee maker, set it to brew a pot and take care of the dishes from last night's take-out.

Then after pouring my cup of coffee, I turn around to head to work.

I freeze.

There's a little girl in the back doorway.

She's tiny, with brown hair and eyes, blinking at me.

"Sorry," she says, folding her hands in front of her. "I didn't mean to startle you."

I'm guessing this is one of Patty's daughters. They have a similar accent, not quite Midwestern but not Northern either.

The little girl stands there, biting her lips and looking concerned.

Why? Because she thought she startled me?

I shake my head trying not to smile at her prim and proper manners. "No worries. What did you need?"

She lowers her gaze and scuffs her toes. "My mom is sleepy and I was kinda hungry... I thought if it's okay...."

I start toward her and she takes a step back, apparently started. But I just pick her up and drop her on one of the dining stools.

"You like cereal? I ask.

She hesitates for a second and then nods.

I open the pantry door and retrieve the cereal box, then open the drawer above the stove to get a bowl. I glance in the fridge, taking out a box of milk.

“What’s your name?” I ask her.

“Katie,” she responds quietly .

“How old are you?”

“Six.”

Six. She’s small for her age. And way too young to have that watchful look in her eye as I move around the kitchen, retrieving the ingredients to pour her a bowl of Cocoa Krispies.

When I approach her with the bowl of chocolate balls swimming in the milk, she rears back again, a move that worries me.

“I’m not going to hurt you, Katie,” I tell her, meeting her gaze head-on. “Ever.”

She holds my gaze, then swallows and nods. Then she takes a spoonful of cereal into her mouth.

“Good?” I ask.

She nods. “Thank you.”

I return to the counter and pick up my mug of coffee, taking another sip and watching her as she eats.

“Are you okay, Mister?” she asks in her quiet voice.

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Her dark eyes blink slowly. “You look mad.”

I smirk. “That’s just my face.” Wes always said I had a resting asshole face. “I always look mad even when I’m not.” As she continues to look at me, I add, “It’s probably why I have no friends.”

Pity glints in her expression. “I’m sorry. I don’t have any friends either.”

I frown. “You don’t?” Why not? The little girl is adorable and polite. I would imagine she would have plenty of friends.

“The other kids at my preschool said they didn’t want to be friends with me because I was a smarty-pants. And I say stuff that annoys them. But I can’t help being smart.”

“And you don’t have to,” I respond, strangely incensed at a bunch of kids I’ve never even met. “They’re probably just jealous anyway. And being smart is better than having friends like that.”

“I guess.” She swings her legs in thought. “Mom says I’ll be going to elementary school soon. I hope I can make friends there.”

“I’m sure you will,” I say and I’m already thinking of ways to make it happen. I don’t even know why. There’s just something about the girl that has grabbed hold of me and makes me want to promise her the world. “And if anyone picks on you at this new school, let me know, okay?”

She nods and then smiles. “What’s your name?”

I think about it for a second and smile back. “You can call me Uncle Mitch.”