Page 4 of Property of The Grump

Chapter Two

Wren

I’m not sure why I expected a heavy, dark sky with a rickety old cabin and a twisted apple tree out front, but this place is nothing like that. In fact, the entire scene is like something from one of those screensavers that pop onto my computer when I fire it up in the morning.

Tall green pines, a turquoise lake, and white-capped mountains that peak against the horizon. There’s even a storybook path between two large boulders that leads down toward the campsites and a little cabin store on the hill with a wood porch and an American flag blowing in the breeze.

The scene is so picturesque that it’s hard to believe anything shady goes down here. Maybe it doesn’t. Maybe I’ve got the wrong campground. I check my paper again, shaking my head in disbelief. Unless I’ve screwed up writing down the address, this is the place.

I turn down the path and slow the car as I drive down into the area where the campground sits. The lot is wooded, with sites surrounded by trees to offer privacy to each camper, which people seem to appreciate because the place is nearly full. Some folks have big, fancy RVs, while others are hunkered down in modest tents. Most, already out by their campfire with a coffee in hand, offer a smile and a wave.

I haven’t been camping since I was a kid, but I still remember the feeling of an early morning fire. The coolness in the air, the dancing flames, the crackling wood, the quiet serenity of rustling leaves and birds singing. We were meant to wake up like that, not with our phones in our hands and a barrage of videos made by strangers meant to entice us into being better at something we didn’t even know we wanted to be good at.

Following a bend in the path and into a figure eight, I climb further up into the woods, passing campsite after campsite. I wave and smile, focusing on the little flags and lights folks have strung. Anything to keep my mind off the fact that I’m about to meet a strange man I don’t know from Adam to beg for help.

God, what am I doing? Maybe this is a mistake.

Not maybe.

Thisisa mistake.

I don’t need help. I need to accept that this is my life and live with the consequences of my actions. I need to be honest with myself. There’s no escaping Zane Harlow. Anyone who’s anyone knows that. He’s an enigma, a powerhouse, a caricature of an all-American guy, with a dark side no one would believe. That, and his family has their hands in every pot the state of Colorado has. If he wants something, he gets it.

I grip the wheel tighter and turn down the country station that’s been crackling in and out for the last five minutes. The numbers nailed to the trees are climbing, and if there’s nothing to listen to, then I’ll obviously see better.

Four fifty-five… four fifty-six… four fifty-seven.

I slow to a crawl outside the site, and though I know I’m probably too scared to go through with any of this, I stare at the old green and white RV, wondering who’s inside. This mountain is only so big, and I was raised in these woods, so there’s a highprobability that I know whoever this is, or at the very least, I’ve seen him around. I mean, he said his name is Tucker on the phone, but I assume that’s some sort of alias. It’s a good one, too. I’d wager to say there’re dozens of Tuckers living up in the mountains.

I’m busy watching a bead of condensation slide down the back window and thinking about how anyone ever got the name Tucker, when the camper door flies open and a man in green flannel rolled to his elbows steps out, his breath visible in the crisp morning air. His beard is trimmed short, but his hair is shoulder length and tucked behind his ears. He’s graying, covered in ink, and I’d guess he’s in his mid-to-late forties.

How have I never heard of him before? Even out of towners roll into the diner every once in a while, and by noon the whole town knows every detail of what they were wearing that day. He’s definitely someone that the locals would be talking about.

I consider pressing on the gas and speeding away, but there are at least a hundred people camping right now. One scream and some sort of help would be on its way, right?

I’m not sure, but desperation pulls me from the car and across the gravel toward the giant as I say a tiny prayer in my head for myself and whatever it is I’m about to do.

“Mrs. Harlow?” The man reaches out a big, calloused hand for a shake, and my chest does this little squeeze thing it does whenever I see a big, burly man. Not because I’m into random burly men, but because they remind me of a man I used to know.

The only man I’ve ever really felt safe with.The only man I ever… yeah.

“Yup,” I say, swallowing down the lump in my throat, “that’s me. You must be Tucker?”

“Sure am. You can park right here. Long as you’re out of the road, you’ll be fine.”

“Thank you,” I say, chest loosening a little as I breathe in the fresh pine air. “I have to say, I’ve been a little nervous for this meeting.”

“That’s normal. You’re about to change your life, and change is scary as hell.” He smiles and nods toward the pines as he wanders further into the campsite. “Just so you know, this whole area is under twenty-four-hour surveillance. The feed only goes up to the cabins, where my buddies and I keep an eye on everything.”

I glance toward the man who towers over me, then up even higher at the little black cameras tucked away under various pine branches. “Umm… I thought this was private. I don’t want anyone knowing I’m here.”

He nods and brushes his hand down over his beard. “I can assure you we take your privacy very seriously. If we didn’t, we wouldn’t be very good at what we do, which brings me to the second part of this. I need to check you over for cameras, mics, the works. I’m sorry, but it’s nonnegotiable.” He stands in front of me, his big, inked arms crossed over his chest as though he’s waiting for permission to strip me down.

“Really? Is that necessary? I’m—”

“It is.” He nods. “I’m sorry.”

I consider leaving again but my body moves as though it knows what I want before my brain does, and, without much thought, I’m setting my purse back into the car, stripping off the sherpa lined jacket I’ve been wearing before turning back to lean against my car, ready to be searched.