Never Give You Up (7 page)

“First of all, you’re a stubborn idiot, that’s why I didn’t ask you first. If anybody needs time off around here, it’s you. And after this disaster, I guess I did the right thing.”

Terry glared at him. “Or you poisoned me as some sick joke, and you’re trying to play matchmaker.”

“Shut up for a second,” Sam said, and sat forward, suddenly interested in the conversation. His crooked smile was wide enough to show a hint of a gold tooth. “Who’s this
trapper woman
?”

“Just some broad,” Terry answered, avoiding Gabe’s intent stare.

“Bullshit,” Sam interjected, and folded his arms over his chest. “
Some broad
is a bimbo you find on a dance floor with fake tits and a fake onion bum. This woman sounds like a lot more to me.”

“Anyway, she said yes,” Gabe finished, his smile teasing.

“What?” Terry’s heart pounded. His upset stomach turned to a twisting ball of barely suppressed excitement.
She actually wants me there?

“On another note, I asked Mima to marry me, and she accepted,” Gabe added nonchalantly. “It’ll be a fall wedding, I guess.”

Terry and Sam gaped at him and then each other.

“God you’re pathetic. Marriage. Already?” Terry blurted. “You’ve only known her for like five months. And Dad thinks
I’m
a reject.”

“You are,” Gabe and Sam voiced at the same time.

“Well isn’t this perfect? Maybe you’ll get married at this trapper shack and throw bacon bits for confetti,” Sam said and hollered with laughter.

Gabe glared at him. “Fuck off.”

Terry slouched back against the couch, his sickness completely forgotten. “Mary actually said yes to me going there?”

“Yep.”

“That’s a good thing, right?” Sam asked, clueless to what exactly was going on. He was away on a mission in Australia during the mountain escapade.

“Yeah.” The room fell silent as Terry eyed Gabe, who stared intently back at him.

Terry looked out the window, remembering a darker day in the distant past. “As long as she doesn’t find out the truth.”

Chapter 4

The cool, crisp air hitched her lungs this morning.

Mary lifted her old skinning knife and studied her handiwork. The carcass exposed pink flesh from the bottom lip to the tail of her latest catch: a forty-pound beaver with a lush pelt.

“Well, buddy. You’ll probably fetch me a tidy thirty-five, maybe even forty bucks.”

A warm blast of air loosened a few strands of unruly hair from her bun. With a frustrated grunt she swiped them away with the back of her hand.

Next she set out exposing the castors and separating the fur from the front and back legs, before skinning the pelt away from the sides and back. Once she completed the tedious task of removing the pelt from the head, she fetched her fleshing tool and began scraping away any remaining flesh and fat, before grabbing a tin of nails and the stretching board.

She folded the pelt in half across the marked rings on the board, allowing the pelt to shrink back to its natural size. After nailing the nose, tail and each flank on the appropriate ring, she then added another nail every inch around until the pelt expanded to its maximum size.

Once the task was complete, she set the hide to tan in the smoke hut and returned to the house. She fed a few logs into the wood-burning furnace before she readied to head into town for supplies.

The dogs yipped and barked on top of their little houses. She wandered over and gave each of them a motherly pat on the head before getting into her old Bronco and driving away.

The scenery on the way to town never failed to take her breath away. In the daylight hours the glistening white-tipped mountains jutted high above the treetops. The gravel road wound around thick brush over foothills and down through valleys. At every turn there was always something beautiful to see. Even the old cutovers from loggers breathed new life with saplings and moss and an endless painting of green.

Few people lived this far from town, although like herself and Mima, some still chose a more rugged lifestyle. Though Mima lived completely off grid without power and running water, or even a driveway all the way to her home, she still managed to make due. Mary, however, lived twenty-minutes from town on this side of the mountain. She had her own septic system, a phone line, running water, and power. Convenient, yet still far enough to be in the middle of nowhere. She could walk around her property for hours and never see a single person.

Winter lasted too long in these majestic woods and mountains. Now that the buds were sprouting, the sky bright and cheery, her winter melancholy should subside. But nothing made her feel good these days. Work, care for the dogs, and sleep. That was the gist of her life. Boring yet consistent.

Nobody prepared her to be a widow. Nobody ever expects to be left behind. Despite feeling alone, Mary felt oddly relieved. With Tom gone she had choices in life now, yet sometimes she didn’t know what to do with herself. He’d controlled everything for many years, and now he was gone. No warning that she’d be fending for herself. No signal that one day she’d be woman and man of the house.

Sometimes she’d wake up in the morning, alone, wondering what she should do with herself. Nobody yelled at her that she slept too late or that the house wasn’t clean enough, or supper didn’t taste good enough.

Nothing was ever good enough for Tom Billings, which included Mary.

Now she could do as she chose, but she still found herself doing those things he wanted without a second thought. It was as if she still lived as his little puppet on a string. But as each day passed she found herself growing more independent, and emotionally stronger. She had to, because if she didn’t force herself to lift her chin and square her shoulders, then she might as well throw herself into the river as well.

She was alone now. Alone with seven dogs and a million trees, and one friend a mountain away.

Mima had a future to look forward to with Gabe. Mary didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.

What did she ever do to deserve this meaningless existence? Tom had swept her away, and with rose-tinted glasses, Mary didn’t notice the change in him until it was too late. Gone was his ready smile and gentle touch, replaced by constant bickering and a hurtful hand. She did everything she was told, always kept the house clean, did her wifely duties, and for what?

Not a shred of happiness, that’s what.

Her love life consisted of a few quick flings when she was a teenager before she got married at nineteen. Not once did she ever feel loved.

Mary drove the old Bronco up the steep hill into Silver Creek—another place where she didn’t want to be. As she approached the first stop sign she took a deep breath. Since Tom’s death most people looked at her with suspicious eyes. As if she was the one who pushed him into the river.

They were wrong. But maybe she was wrong too for every choice she’d made in life.

Tom was a seasoned bushman and survivalist. How could he fall into the river he’d trapped on for years, and drown so easily? Nobody had any real answers, not even the authorities, and she didn’t want to search anymore. Sometimes she wondered if he gave up and committed suicide to get away from her.

Maybe I should sell the house and move away. Start fresh. Pretend to be somebody else.

She pulled up to the only available parking spot in front of Byron’s Hardware and shut off the engine. The town boomed with tourists this Saturday afternoon as they rushed in to set up their tents, park their trailers or motorhomes for the summer. Silver Creek was well-known for its numerous campgrounds and resorts on the outskirts of town. June was beautiful around here. Everything came to life in a short span of time.

Despite being treated like a traitor, Mary did love the old world feel of her tiny mountain town. Several shops proudly hung Canadian flags. Flowering baskets adorned street lamps. Every shop was painted a different color. The sidewalks were always kept clean, and at every turn one had a sweeping view of the mountains.

She exited the Bronco and shut the door, forcing a winner of a smile for the tourists. At least they knew nothing about her. They held no grudges, no suspicions, not a single reason to be rude to a young woman who did nothing to nobody. In their eyes she wasn’t a husband killer.

The doorbell to the shop chimed as she entered. A couple of women stood by the counter, chatting with Byron. They turned and stared at her like she had some horrible disease, but old Byron had a quick smile for Mary, even if it was fake.

“Ah, Mary Billings. How are you doing, my dear?”

“That’s her,” one of the women whispered.

Her muscles tightened and she grit her teeth. Despite the urge to say something rude, or even throw something at them, she ignored them instead. “I’m okay, Byron, and yourself?”

He lowered his head and peered over his ancient spectacles. “Oh, same old, but there’s always news to spread.” He removed his glasses and held them between his fingers as if the news held the utmost importance. “Mr. Sherbrook broke his ankle the other day.”

She glanced at the women and forced a tight smile.
Maybe his wife pushed him down the stairs.
“Well, I hope he’ll be all right.”

Mary grabbed a cart and pushed it into the middle aisle. She focused on getting what she needed and getting out of there. The only tranquility in her life was keeping busy at home, and even that got old fast. These days she didn’t have much to say to anyone, especially old Byron who was one of the worst gossipmongers in town. He lived for other people’s drama and misfortune. Maybe he talked about Mary behind her back too.

When she reached the knife display something new caught her eye. She withdrew a Dexter-Russell skinning knife and eyed the piece. “Hey, Byron. When did you get these in?”

The women exited the shop.

Byron ambled over with a proud smile. “I had a new catalogue shipped to me last month. Mrs. Kipper swears by everything they sell in there and she gets commission on it, you know. Makes it easier for her to care for her dying husband.”

Maybe she’s slowly killing him while making a little nest egg
. “Well, isn’t that nice?”

“You bet. Thought I’d try a few items and see how they sell. Always good to help some folks in town.”

Mary tried to ignore his attempt at sentiment but failed miserably. Her hands shook at her sides while she tried to be calm. After the way the townsfolk treated her since Tom’s death, she’d grown sour to most of them. Even though Byron seemed like such a kind soul, he still talked about everyone.

Lost in her convoluted thoughts, she flipped the skinning knife over in her palm, feeling the weight of it, trying to keep her emotions in check. She didn’t like feeling vulnerable in front of anyone.

“This one looks like a real gem. I bet my pelts would be smooth as a baby’s butt in half the time with a blade like this.”

The doorbell chimed but neither of them bothered to look.

“Wouldn’t hurt you to buy one,” Byron added, his eyes glistening.

Mary sighed and put the knife back on the shelf. Maybe she should’ve said yes to Gabe. “I can’t really afford it right now. My account—”

“Has been cleared.”

Mary and Byron turned to the front door.

Holy shit.
Her eyes widened and her heart lodged in her throat. The skinning knife slipped out of her shaky hand and clamored like a church bell on the cement floor. Standing there with a handsome grin was none other than Terry McCoy.

“Hello, Mary.”

She blinked, not quite believing her eyes, suddenly faced with the male character in every one of her torrid dreams. She cleared her throat and suddenly remembered dropping the knife. Awkwardly, she bent down to retrieve it, and tried to convince herself that once she looked toward the door again he’d be gone. But as she stood back up and set the knife back onto the shelf, her gaze landed on the six-foot candy bar standing less than five feet away.

Her resolve crumbled. She wanted to rush over and hug him. She wanted him to take her fears away and make these people suffer for making her feel like garbage. They had no idea how much of a powerful man he was, and she knew if she told him how she’d been treated lately, he would do something about it. But she couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. Apparently both her feet and her tongue were frozen to the floor.

God, he looked good. Tired, but still as handsome as ever with his unkempt hair, sexy eyes, and shit-eating grin. She swallowed the dry lump in her throat, unable to form more than an awkward, “Hi.”

He was alone. Terry McCoy never went anywhere alone.

Something must be going on. She knew it like she knew he looked good enough to eat.

Byron stood between them with an odd look on his face. “Can I help you, sir? I don’t believe we’ve met before.”

“No, I’m new to town,” Terry answered matter-of-factly, and pulled out a wad of cash. “As I said, the lady’s account has been cleared.” He flattened what appeared to be a fairly large sum onto the counter and casually made his way toward her.