Branded By The Mountain Man (Thickwood CO)

Ophelia is gone.

Her van is nowhere to be seen. We had brought it home a few weeks ago. She didn’t feel like going into town. She had work to catch up on. She’s a web designer and I’ve seen her work. It’s polished, professional and inventive. Not seeing her van in the driveway fills me with panic. I shut my truck off and sprint to the door. I should be calmer, but just the thought of Ophelia leaving me is enough to bring me to my knees.

“Sunshine!” I call out as soon as I open the door. There’s not a sound.

Not one.

“Sunshine!” I yell again, walking through the house. When I hit the kitchen, the area that Ophelia usually works in, it’s empty. Her laptop is not there, and the cold grip of fear seizes my heart.

Would she have left me without saying goodbye?

It shouldn’t hurt so deeply, but it does. It hurts more than I can ever remember anything hurting… Anything.

I walk to the back door, my hand slapping against the glass, trying to resist the urge to slam my fist through it. I let out a growl that hurts so deeply inside that it’s more painful than anything I’ve ever felt before. That’s when Rascal comes running into the kitchen.

Rascal…Alone.

Who in the fuck would have thought I could miss a damn pig?

Rascal starts pawing at the door, demanding to be let out. I do it out of habit and watch as he takes off sprinting. I follow him down toward the creek. My mind already going through a mental plan on how to track down Ophelia and drag her back her. She belongs here and if she doesn’t believe that, then it’s up to me to make her understand it.

“Hey, I didn’t know you were back,” Ophelia calls, shocking the hell out of me. My head jerks up to see her sitting on blanket by the creek, a sleeping pig resting at her feet.

“Where’s your van?” I bark, relief warring with anger.

“Huh?”

“Your van, Sunshine. Where in the hell is your van?”

“The garage in town came and picked it up. Remember? You called to have them come out and replace the glass in the windows.”

“They come to get it?” I ask, confused.

“They had a cancelation and Bob from the garage was coming out to Judd’s, so he volunteered to come pick it up.”

“Oh…”

“Do you want to tell me why my grouchy mountain man has made an appearance, instead of my sweet Braden?”

“I thought you’d left,” I grumble as I make it over to her. I flop down on the blanket, careful not to bother the damn pig. Not that it matters since Rascal has laid down beside him and the pig is currently curling his head into Rascal’s fur. Shit, my dog is as wrapped up in that pig as I am in Ophelia.

“Wow.”

“What?” I ask defensively.

“It’s just that apparently you think I’m a bitch like your ex,” she huffs.

“Sunshine—”

“I don’t really know what we’re doing here, Braden, but I’d never just leave. I wouldn’t do that to you, and I wouldn’t do that to me. I care about you.”

“I know that.”

“Apparently not,” she mutters, and I sigh.

“I don’t want to fight, Ophelia. I know you’re not Heather. I just didn’t expect to see the van gone when I got here.”

“Am I not allowed to leave the house, Braden? Gee, I could have urgently needed Spaghetti o’s, or something.”

“Spaghetti o’s?”

“Yeah the canned pasta with little meatballs—”

“I know what they are, I’m just wondering why someone would ever have an urgent need for them,” I try and joke, but I can tell that I’ve upset her.

“It happens, besides Bogo likes them.”

“Bacon eats Spaghetti o’s?”

“Bogo,” she corrects, flashing me an annoyed look.

“Isn’t that kind of like cannibalism?”

“What?” she screeches quietly—I assume to not wake the pig in question. “Of course not. Meatballs are made from beef.”

“Some of them, especially the canned variety can be made from pork, Sunshine.”

She studies my face. I think she’s trying to see if I’m lying or not. Her gaze darts to a sleeping Bacon and Rascal who are now cuddled up. Hell, Rascal even has one of his front legs lying over Bacon, as if he’s hugging him.

“Well, you’re not going to tell him.”

“My lips are sealed,” I promise, the tension inside of me slowly starting to release.

“Good. I swear I don’t know why I like you,” she says with a sigh lying back on the blanket.

I sit down beside her.

“You more than like me, Ophelia,” I respond, needing to hear her admit it. She shrugs, not giving me the words. I reach over and curl my hand against her neck, my thumb pressing under her chin, gently forcing her to look at me. “You more than like me, Ophelia,” I repeat.

“How do you know?”

“Because I definitely more than like you,” I confess, looking her straight in the eye.