Chapter 4

Lance lifted the kettle from the stove top and poured hot water into an enamel pan. Using the cabin’s hand pump, he added filtered river water to temper it. Next, he shook a little sand into the pots and scrubbed them. He then washed, dried, and put away his dishes. Carrying the pan outside, he dumped the dishwater onto his compost pile.

He used the rest of the hot water from the kettle to wash his face and hands, drying his long beard vigorously, before changing into clean clothes. Pulling his backpack from its hook, he loaded it with his latest steampunk jewelry, a wad of cash from the jar above the counter, and several bungee cords. Grabbing his jacket, he walked out the door, securing it behind him.

It was cold as he trudged down the steep terrain toward the road. Still, he enjoyed the hike. Breathing in the crisp air, he looked up at the swollen clouds gathering over Mt.Hazel, hiding her jagged peak in mists of gray. Probably just rain this time, he thought, but snow will soon follow.

Slightly over an hour later he came to the camouflaged lean-to in which he housed his ten-speed and a lightweight travois. He walked his bike the remaining distance to the road and hopped on.

Leaning over the handlebars and picking up speed, Lance felt the brisk wind freeze his face and enjoyed the steady rhythm of his heartbeat as it thumped reassuringly against his chest. He had never been in better physical shape.

Surprising a deer as it grazed along the side of the road, he braked gently and watched as it bounded into the trees. An expression of pleasure on his face, he turned his attention back to the road into town.

Kicking up a little gravel, he finally pulled into the parking lot of High Top Outpost on the edge of Haylieville and steered his bike around the side of the log building where he locked it to the rack. He checked his watch, hastened to the pay phone on the outside wall, and dialed a number from memory. After completing his call, he walked around to the front of the High Top, his boots thumping on the rustic wood of the porch. Stepping into the store, he looked around and spotted Denise behind the counter, bent over the screen of her laptop. He pulled his backpack off and set it on the polished wood countertop.

“Hey, Lance,” she called, getting up from the stool. She walked to the register and opened it. “I sold five of your necklaces and two of your sculptures. That steampunk stuff has really caught on.”

Lance nodded as he approached the counter. Denise smiled when she handed him the cash from the sales. He didn’t bother to count the money before stuffing it into the front zippered pocket of his backpack. Silently, he pulled out his newest creations and laid them on the gleaming surface for her inspection.

“Oh, these are beautiful,” she exclaimed. “You do such good work. Prices marked on them?”

“Yeah,” he answered gruffly. Denise took them back to the area with her laptop and began to enter them into her log. As she worked, she chatted with him although she knew it would be a relatively one-sided conversation. Lance wasn’t much of a talker.

“Emily just took a group out,” she said as she removed his stickers and tagged the items with Outpost labels. “She’ll be sorry she missed you.”

Denise and her sister, Emily, had transformed the shop into a thriving business. Both in their mid-thirties, the ladies shared a sharp sense for business and had turned their passions into profit. Emily gave guided horseback rides on the mountain trails while Denise ran the rest of the business, a shop for tourists who longed to spend their cash on authentic handmade RockyMountain crafts. The combination was oddly successful. Emily dealt with the stables and trails, and Denise handled the shop and the scheduling. They were mountain women, a little rough around the edges, but capable, honest and no-nonsense. They tolerated Lance’s quiet reclusive ways and allowed him to park his beat-up old pickup truck in their back lot in return for a modest monthly sum. They never questioned why he wanted to leave it there or asked him where he lived. Early on they realized he guarded his privacy like a vault, same as a lot of Colorado folks. He certainly wasn’t the only eccentric soul they encountered. Lance in turn did not pry into their affairs, valuing their privacy as they did his. Indeed, the man hardly spoke when he came in.

“Well, that ought to do it.” She opened a glass case with her key and hung the necklaces inside. “I think we’re due for another snowfall any day.”

“It’ll rain first,” Lance remarked.

Denise handed him a written receipt for his items, and he tucked it into his shirt pocket.

“You’ve got some great pieces, Lance. We get good comments on them.”

Lance nodded his thanks before walking to the cooler and extracting a bottle of water. When he reached into his pocket for some change, she waved him away. “It’s on the house,” she said. He drank half the bottle before he reached the door and stepped outside.

Digging his key from his pocket, Lance opened the truck door and tossed his backpack on the seat. Old Reliable he called her; she lived up to the name by starting right away. She might look like a junkyard reject, but she purred like a showroom gem thanks to the work he’d had done to her after he’d bought her for a song. An improperly-tagged, untitled, banged-up heap that people wouldn’t look at twice, Old Reliable had a better engine than most cars rolling around the state, though her appearance didn’t advertise the fact.

Lance, as always, drove carefully down Main Street and stopped at the lumberyard, which happened to also be the feed store in Haylieville. He bought several bags of chicken scratch, grains, and alfalfa bales for the goats, oil and wicks for his lanterns, and nails. His next stop was the grocery where he stocked up on bulk items, dried beans, pastas, flour, toilet paper, first-aid supplies, vitamins, bottled water, candles, batteries, canned goods, and so on. He grabbed several large boxes of powdered milk to take him through the winter. He smiled when he thought of Gilbert’s romantic relationship with the wild billy she had met up on the ridge. He suspected his other goat, Belinda, was enamored of the same wild buck. Combined with the does he had tamed from the roaming herd, Lance should have plenty of fresh milk come early spring.

Clean cool air streamed in the driver’s side window as he drove down into the rich valley nestled between the GarrisonRange on the northeastern side and the breathtaking WetMountains on the southwest. He glanced back in the direction of home. A gray haze hung low between Mt.Coley and Mt.Hazel. It nearly obscured their rocky summits and softened the emerald peaks that staggered in uneven lines on either side of the majestic twins. Turning his eyes back to the road, Lance continued at a leisurely pace.

He pulled into the hidden valley where he always bought his weedy hay. The farmer he dealt with was every bit as taciturn as Lance. With few words, he and Donnie struck their deal and loaded the bales into the back of Old Reliable. Donnie waved once, then stood with hands in his overall pockets and watched as Lance drove off.

Pulling into Haylieville once more, Lance thought about stopping at the small library. Much as he disdained society in general, he still had an appreciation for the internet and had spent considerable time hunched over one of the library’s two computers, researching everything from home canning to solar water heaters. His current interest was cheese-making, a process he was determined to learn. However, he decided against going to the library this day and headed back home. It would take at least three trips with the travois to haul his purchases up to the cabin, he reasoned, not to mention the time required to drive Old Reliable back to the High Top parking lot, fetch his bike, and ride home. And, the clouds were looming. In fact, rain was already falling in the high country above the tree line.