The Mountain Man's Kitten - Thickwood CO

He tells Mr. Burnley that he’ll be right over, then turns to me. “You can come with, but it’s only going to be me cutting wood and piling it up for them.”

I shake my head. “I’m good here. Little Miss Muffet might need me. She is, after all, a devil kitten, right?”

When he sees me smirk, he screws up his face. “It got you here.”

“It did.” I nod. “And I’m happy about it. I’m always happy about you. Don’t be too long, I want you to cook me another Trapper’s Breakfast later.”

Once he’s collected his axe, chainsaw and a few other tools, and loaded them into the bed of his truck, he sets off down the dirt track that leads to the neighbor’s property, and I sigh as I look around the cabin. It really isn’t much to look at, but it’s solidly built. Only one bedroom, sure, but there’s another door that leads off the hallway.

After I’ve been sitting there, being good, for a full twenty minutes, curiosity gets the better of me. After all, if Miss Muffet were to sneak in there, I’d have to go in after her, right? It takes a little encouragement, but a few minutes later I’m tssking as I follow her in through the door to a cozy little office room, complete with a computer, desk, and a large oak cupboard that looks like it might be from the 1940s.

“Oh, Miss Muffet, you shouldn’t be coming in here, naughty little girl,” I mutter to myself as I take a seat at the desk, swiveling on his chair and looking around the room. There’s a dartboard on the opposite wall, and a painting of a cottage in the woods that looks a lot like this one. “What’s the password?” I ask the kitten as she jumps up on the computer keyboard, making it spring to life, asking me to log in.

I open a drawer or two in the desk. Nothing unusual, just a book of wood prices, a set of keys, an amber paperweight with some sort of prehistoric bug preserved in the center.

The next drawer down has me frowning. There’s a whole pile of papers, mostly to do with land purchases or building work, but in among them are newspaper articles, and one with a big picture of my dad, grinning, has little holes punched through it in several places. I glance up at the dartboard and pull my lips to one side. Still, it’s hardly a surprise. I already know that Miller and my dad aren’t best buddies. My dad can be an asshole in business, so I shrug one shoulder and put the picture back.

Miss Muffet turns and meows at me, and I nod. “Yes, I think we should just check he doesn’t have some sort of Voodoo doll in those other drawers, then we really have to get out of here.”

I wander over to the oak cupboard and try the doors and the drawer underneath, but none of them move. There are little brass key holes, one in the drawer and another on one of the doors, so I go back to the first drawer in the computer desk and pull out the bunch of keys.

There’s only one that’s small enough, so I try it in the lock on the doors and it works. But what I find inside has my pulse trying to beat a hole through my neck.

“What the…”

There’s some lingerie. Nice lingerie still in bags with gift boxes at the ready.

I know I shouldn’t but grab Miss Muffet like she’s my best friend going into battle with me as I march down the hall to the bedroom and start flinging open drawers on his dresser.

Inside is a whole load of women’s clothing. Panties. Bras. Some very short skirts and crop tops. Not enough for someone to be living here, but definitely someone that stays here.

Often. With Miss Muffet still in my arms, I head through to the bathroom and pull open the cupboard over the sink.

Pink razors. Shampoo like the one I use; not like the scent I know from Miller’s hair, all dark and woodsy. And most damning of all?

Tampons.

“What in the actual fudge?” I kiss the top of Miss Muffet’s head as I stand there, staring at the evidence, and try to come up with a logical answer.

What if Miller likes to wear women’s clothes? Which, you know, I’m an open-minded girl, but I’m struggling to imagine it…and even that wouldn’t explain all the other stuff. I mean, I’ve seen him naked, there’s no way he’s using those pink razors. Or tampons.

Which leaves only one possible answer.

I draw a deep breath to stop myself running to the toilet and throwing up. He hates my dad. I mean, he really, really hates him. He’s like, his nemesis. And my dad is an absolute asshole to everyone. Except me. He loves me. I’m his weakness.