The BEARly Reluctant Grizzly (Bear Clan 4)

The drive up to my new home, located in the picturesque little mountain town of Blue Bear Ridge, Colorado, was long, but beautiful. The narrow roads, the isolation, this was exactly what I needed, what gave me inspiration.

I turned up the volume on the radio, tapping my fingers along to the old country song, feeling as if this weight was being lifted off my shoulders the closer I got.

Sure, the house needed some serious work, was almost uninhabitable, but I loved it. It was on five acres of wooded land, and there was even a creek that ran right through my backyard. It was gorgeous and serene.

My phone started ringing and I hit the little phone button on my steering wheel.

I heard my father muttering to the dogs through the Bluetooth and couldn’t help but smile.

“Hey, Dad,” I said, focusing on the road, the twisting, narrow turns having my heart race. This kind of driving was far different than the city driving I was accustomed to, that was for sure. I saw a break in the trees, a massive cliff coming into view, a large lake at the base. I was getting close to town.

“Hey, sweetie. How’s the drive?”

I nodded even though he couldn’t see me. “It’s beautiful. Exactly what I needed.”

“Good, I’m glad everything’s going well. Your mother wanted you to call her when you get there. She’s out to lunch and you know how bad cell reception is in the valley.”

I nodded again, then chuckled softly. “Oh yeah. Tell her I’ll call her when I get to the house and am settled. And when it’s all fixed up and looking good, I’ll have you guys out to see the transformation.”

“Are you sure you don’t want us to come out there and help you?”

My parents were older, having had me when they were in their forties, a surprise first child they hadn’t thought they could ever have. And now, twenty-four years later, I couldn’t imagine having them out doing manual labor. There was a very real fear that they would injure themselves, and it made me anxious.

We talked for a few more minutes about pretty mundane things, a few laughs and reminiscing thrown in, a clear indication my father was having a hard time with me moving away.

“I’ll talk to you later, honey. The dogs are going crazy because the mailman’s here.”

After we got off the phone, I turned the radio back on, picturing all the things I wanted to do to the house, how I could make it my own. I had not even been to the house before I put the offer in, feeling this knowing pull instantly.

It was home.

My home.

And it didn’t hurt that I got so much inspiration from this place, from everything that surrounded that old log cabin.

Being an author meant I could just pick up and move if I wanted to, that my job was wherever I was, laptop in hand. Whether that be a coffee shop, my bedroom, or this brand-new piece of property, that’s where my work was. I loved every moment of it.

So, after three years of being able to write full-time, I decided to leave the city and come back to the small mountain town. We’d lived here at one point, when I was young, those memories never fading despite my young age.

And although it had been a short residence, my mother and father wanting to see if living out in the country—so to speak—was the best way to raise their child, it became abundantly clear they couldn’t make it work. Not financially at least.

But I’d loved this town, had always thought about it, always saw myself coming back here one day. And when my writing career took off, I made that my reality.

So here I was, three years after penning my first thriller story, buying an old-ass house situated on rustic acreage, and living my best life.

It was another twenty minutes of driving down some scarily tight roads before I finally turned off on a little dirt lane that would lead to where my property was. My Jeep Cherokee was packed full of supplies, but thankfully I’d had the moving company bring over the majority of my belongings the previous week.

When I finally saw the house, my heart did a little jump. It was decent looking on the outside, a two-story cabin which fit well with the scenery, and a small porch out front. But it was old, nearly seventy years old, to be exact, and despite it being in his family for a couple generations, the owner had decided to move. And because of the state of the place, I’d gotten a really good deal on it, even with the five acres.

But it was clear the previous owner hadn’t cared two shits about how he took care of the place. Almost everything needed replaced, including all the appliances—a matter which I hoped had already been addressed.

There were some solar panels, a propane tank that was in decent condition, but aesthetically the house needed lots of work. So that’s where Blue Bear Ridge Restoration came in.

I remembered seeing the owner of the company back when we lived in town, although it was in passing. But I do remember hearing the stories of him and his brothers, bear shifters who lived as recluses high up in the mountains. Although I probably could’ve found several other companies who could have helped with the renovation, there’d been this nagging feeling at the base of my skull that drew me to his company.

Maybe it was because he actually worked in town? Maybe it was because I “knew” him? But it was still such a strange sensation, and so I asked the real estate agent specifically for Asher’s company to do the remodeling. It had been a shot in the dark, given the fact it was such short notice, but when I got the call that Asher would do it, I felt this calmness fill me, a sensation that this was exactly what was supposed to happen.

The gravel crunched under my tires as I pulled into the driveway, seeing a big pick-up truck parked in front of the garage. Blue Bear Ridge Restoration was painted on the side of the truck and I found myself curling my hands tightly around the steering wheel involuntarily.