3. Stallone Hart

three

Stallone Hart

My eyelids shoot open, darkness is all around me, the wind howling so loudly it sounds like a freight train is barreling through my front door. I glance at the alarm clock on my bedside table and groan. 3:00 a.m.

Always, I’m up at this hour, as my life seems to be stuck on autopilot.

On this unordinary day in the middle of a not-special week, the house shutters and the evergreen branches scrape at my bedroom window, but I’m not scared. I’ve heard worse. It does, however, prick at my mind, telling me I won’t be going to work. A knot swells in my throat, and I swallow to force it down, but it stays. The knot doesn’t care about the money, as I have more of that than I’d ever dreamed of.

It’s a knot of avoidance.

And it’s a real jerk, reminding me to keep busy so I don’t remember her.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, force my tired body to my feet, on the hunt for a glass of cold water to soothe my throat. It’s been ages since I slept through the night, and getting up way before the first light of dawn is my pattern. I shuffle my feet forward until my hand finds the cool stainless-steel handle on the fridge. I grab a bottle of water and down most of it before I pivot and turn on my coffeepot. It gurgles to life while I lean over the kitchen sink to peer out the window into the night sky.

The light I always leave on above my front porch for security reveals a blanket of fluffy snow has already accumulated in my yard, and all the branches on my pine trees are bowing down from the weight. Sighing, I turn away. The moisture isn’t a bad thing. It’s the fact the rural backcountry roads have nearly washed-out with mudslides, making it impossible for my oversized trucks to haul logs to the mill. We’ve been piling up everything we chop until the roads dry out. This weather is going to turn the mudslides into ice, which is so much worse.

This means another few days—at best—until I can move wood.

I run my hand through my hair, pretending it’s pain in my head and not my heart that keeps me up. Right as I’m about to let out a defeated sigh, Lucky stirs awake from his spot by the front door and walks over, greeting me with his tail wagging. Lucky is a stray I found roaming these hills. He got his name after he narrowly missed getting slammed by a tree. I used to call him Lucky Nine Lives, but he has far surpassed nine lives in the two years he’s been my logging partner.

He’s also gotten used to my predawn rising, and he’s ready to go for our walk. “Just a moment, boy.” I pat his head before filling a travel mug with black coffee. I always take my coffee to go, as it keeps me warm on our walks. “Let me get dressed, and we’ll be on our way.”

I head to the door, where all my outer clothes are neatly hung on hooks, and I slip on my thickest lined flannel shirt and cover it with a pair of coveralls. I slide my feet into a pair of snow boots and tug a thick beanie over my head. The front door isn’t even cracked before Lucky pushes his nose out, leading the way.

The frigid air slams into the inside of my lungs, pulling me out of any remnants of slumber I was holding on to. It’s an odd sensation to welcome the sting of the wind, because at least for the moment, I can blame my pain on something temporal. I take a deep inhale, as there is nothing better than the fresh mountain breeze, and start off on our regular morning walking trail with Lucky running all around me in search of fresh scents.

When we coast around the bend in the road, I toss a look over at my little brother’s cabin. It’s only a few hundred yards from where Ryson and I grew up, in a cabin of humble beginnings. Ryson's younger by five years and completely my opposite. He’s socially outgoing and can barely stay out of trouble, except for the fact that he’s a smooth talker. Me, being the more introverted, reliable brother always trying to talk sense into him.

All the windows in Ryson’s cabin are dark—as they should be for this time of the morning. I can’t help but envy his ability to sleep. He doesn’t have the stress I have running a company. He drives a truck for me, except for when he can’t, like now. Then he watches TV. I sigh heavily and carry on the path as it narrows and winds around another bend—this one is my favorite one of all. The point that overlooks the entire city of Mapleton.

It’s the perfect town, in my opinion. Small enough that you know everyone by name, but large enough you have the local businesses you need for a proper community. Quaint cobblestone streets are lined with old-fashioned streetlamps, and I never get tired of looking at the glow they create down below. It's like tiny stars at the bottom of a valley that watch over the people while they sleep.

A few wispy snowflakes flutter to the ground, as if they are tasked with the job of adding the finishing touches on the already blanketed streets. It all appears magical from up here, and I never tire of seeing—wait a second . . .

My brows bend together as the streetlamps pulse off and on twice in unison before finally settling into the darkness, and the little town at the bottom of the mountain almost disappears.

I slow my steps, easing closer to the edge of the trail and wait for the lamps to turn back on. Several long beats pass, but all the lamps remain dark. Clearly, the town has lost power. More than likely some power lines have fallen under the weight of this dense snow. My cabin is powered by propane, so it won’t affect me, but if they don’t fix the power lines soon, people will get awfully cold fast.

My gaze slides back down. I still can’t see even a spark, but I know how to help them. I have so many logs piled up; it would be nothing for me to take a load to town for firewood. I slide my fingers into my mouth, whistling through them. “Come on, Lucky. Time to go.”

His tongue hangs low, and his tail sweeps back and forth. He’s as happy as a clam on a beach, fully unaware that people are about to freeze from this power outage. His smile is contagious, erasing at least some of my heartsickness. I stride next to him; glad I have a companion.

Lucky pushes his snout into my leg as he follows on my heels. I pat his head, chuckling to myself.

If only a pat on my head could make me that happy.