Pushed to the peak, p.1
Pushed to the Peak, page 1
Cassie Mint
Pushed to the Peak
First published by Black Cherry Publishing 2024
Copyright © 2024 by Cassie Mint
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Cassie Mint asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
First edition
ISBN: 978-1-915735-59-1
Cover art by Angela Haddon Book Cover Design
This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
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Contents
1. Marigold
2. Flint
3. Marigold
4. Flint
5. Marigold
6. Flint
7. Marigold
8. Flint
9. Marigold
10. Flint
Teaser: Grizzly Beard
About the Author
One
Marigold
The bar is quieter than usual tonight. Music thrums from the speakers on the wall: a mellow country tune to suit the rain pattering outside. Locals huddle in a few booths, chatting and laughing while one group deals out cards, but the atmosphere tonight is laid back. Warm and lazy.
That’s fine by me.
Sometimes, when the sun has blazed hot all day against the mountainside, it can get real wild in here. I’m talking smashed glasses and folks yelling loud enough to make your ears ring; boots thudding against wood as people dance on tables. Nights like that, it’s so electric in here that my hair prickles against my scalp, but I still jam myself in a corner and keep sketching, trying my best to be a fly on the wall.
Not tonight, though. Tonight I’m perched on a stool right by the center of the bar, my sketchbook spread out on the scratched wood, luxuriating in all this elbow room. One of the bartenders, Jana, smiles at me as she slips out to collect empty glasses from the booths, and I smile back as my pencil swoops across the page.
This is my Flint’s sketchbook. It’s a project idea I had—a whole summer drawing one location. Focusing in on the patrons, the workers, the furniture, the vibe, soaking it all up and working on my art. A cool idea, if I say so myself.
Except summer’s been and gone and I’m still here, walking through town to Flint’s each night to sketch. I guess something keeps pulling me back.
Or someone.
“He’s in his office,” Jana says to me as she returns to the bar, two fistfuls of empty glasses clutched expertly in her hands. How on earth does she carry so many without dropping them? “But he’ll come out and check on us soon.”
I nod, chewing on the end of my pencil. There’s no point pretending I don’t know who she means. That ship sailed weeks ago.
Because Jana’s not dumb, and she’s peeked over my shoulder plenty of times in the last few months, checking out my sketches. She knows that I draw one person way more than anyone else, his handsome face glowering from page after page of my sketchbook.
I can’t help it, okay? There’s something about that man…
Well, every time I lay eyes on him, my fingers itch for a pencil and blank sheet of paper. Let’s just say that.
“Huh.” Jana props her elbows on the bar a few minutes later, leaning over to get a better look. The dishwasher rumbles through its cycle down by her legs, the vibrations tickling my shins. “You have a real good memory, Marigold. That’s the boss exactly.”
Yup.
Chewing the inside of my lip, I shade my subject’s earlobe. And Jana’s right—it probably is weird that I know the exact slope of this man’s nose by heart; that I can close my eyes and recall the fine lines on his forehead, the flecks of silver at his temples, the angular shape of his jaw. Probably strange that he lives rent-free in my brain like this, in perfect HD.
Especially when he’s said maybe three words to me all summer.
Now the weather has turned, the nights have grown darker, and there’s a glittering layer of frost on the ground when I first step outside each morning. And still I’m here, sketching the gruff older man who owns this bar, my body heating each night as my pencil shades the strong column of his throat. Heating until I squirm on my bar stool, pressing my thighs together.
Flint.
I’m a mess.
“Have you had a good day?” I ask my onlooker. Jana brightens, rocking back on her heels to chat about the baked oatmeal recipe she tried for breakfast, some pushy customer she had two hours ago, and the wedding planning she’s doing at the moment with her adventurer fiance. I do my best to nod and smile and make encouraging noises in all the right places, because I’m not great at small talk—but I like Jana, so I try to make the effort.
She rattles out jokes and wild stories, a skilled enough conversationalist for the both of us, all while snatching up a cloth to scrub down the bar. Even though it’s frosty outside tonight, it’s hot and humid enough in here that her short black pixie cut is all ruffled, sticking straight up at the back.
A door clicks shut across the room behind me, the sound nearly lost beneath the music and hum of conversation. I’d never hear it if I weren’t so freaking attuned, my ears constantly straining for him.
My heartbeat trips—then restarts at double-time.
My grip tightens on my pencil.
“Red alert,” Jana breaks off to say, her eyes widening and flicking over my shoulder. “Mayday, mayday.”
Lips pursed, I nod and flick my sketchbook to another page. An innocent page, with a sketch I did earlier of two regulars sharing a smoke just outside the bar doorway, their hands cupped against the wind.
Nothing to see here. No weirdly loving sketches of a man I’ve barely met; a man who must be twenty years older than me, with the fine lines and silver flecks to prove it. No, sir.
“Okay?” Flint mutters as he slides behind the bar, his dark eyes flicking to me before settling on his employee. Jana nods furiously, scrubbing at the bar top harder than before, the cloth squeezed tight in her hand.
Yeah, turns out Jana can’t lie to save her life. Or mine.
I swallow, shading one of the men’s sleeves in my drawing. They were both wearing those thick flannel shirts that are like a uniform here in the fall.
Be cool, Jana. Be cool.
The boss’s gaze narrows on her as he leans down to open a refrigerator—then there’s a waft of chilled air, and Flint crouches behind the bar to check on the stock.
“Whiskey’s low too,” Jana says helpfully. “I was gonna get more once you were here to watch the bar.”
Flint grunts again, and there’s a clink of bottles out of sight. Jana scuttles gratefully out from behind the bar, winking at me as she hurries toward the stock room in the back.
Then I’m left in silence with the star of my sketchbook. My hand sweats around my pencil, and I adjust my grip, trying to act like I’m not holding my breath while I wait for the boss to appear again.
His hand comes first, strong and callused with the faint lines of old scars, gripping the edge of the bar. I stare at it shamelessly, trying to commit the short nails and square knuckles to memory, before the grip tightens and the rest of the man rises into view.
Short dark hair, pushed back from his forehead—not quite black, but the darkest brown.
Tan skin, faintly lined at his forehead, and thick, heavy eyebrows, always pinched together in a scowl.
Then those eyes. Those eyes. Hazel irises, a flecked swirl of brown and green, like a blurred impression of the forested mountainside—surrounded by dark, smoky eyelashes.
My fingertips tingle around my pencil. My pulse flutters in my wrists and throat.
I’m staring right at Flint.
He’s staring back.
When he finally looks away, it’s to glance at the drink by my elbow. It’s still half full, with condensation sliding down the outside of the glass and a slice of lemon bobbing where two ice cubes used to be. I snatch it up and take a sip.
Flint watches me swallow, his scowl shifting to my throat. I swear to god, static crackles in the air—like when lightning readies to strike the mountain peak. I fidget on my stool.
Does he feel it too?
Flint’s chest rises and falls beneath his navy flannel shirt, but he says nothing. Not a single word to me until Jana comes back, heaving a cardboard box onto the bar with a clinking chorus of glass bottles.
“Hoo!” she says, wiping her arm across her forehead. “We need to dust down that stock room, boss. There are enough spiders in there to hold a council meeting.”
A strange expression slides across Flint’s features—here and gone so fast I can’t read it properly. Then he nods and clips out, “Do it now, then. I’ll watch the bar.”
Jana beams, squeezing behind the bar to gather up dusting supplies. Cloths, spray bottles and a feather duster fill her arms, then she’s off again, calling out a cheerful greeting to a table of regulars.
Flint watches her go, his expression thoughtful.
Heart racing, I shade in another section of sleeve.
“I cleaned that st
Flint knows my name? Since when? How?
“I… I’m not… I don’t…”
Good lord, I’ve forgotten how to speak. Always thought that someone being tongue-tied was a figure of speech, but now it’s like my tongue has been knotted in an actual pretzel. Kill me now.
It’s just so hard to form words when the hot, stern older man I’ve been dreaming about all summer is right there, polishing a glass with a cloth. At least he’s not staring directly at me anymore, because then I can’t speak at all. Can barely even breathe.
Whoo. Okay.
I can do this. I can make casual conversation with the man I’ve pictured laying me across his lap and spanking my ass until it’s pink. I can.
But: “Bathroom,” I blurt, hopping down off my stool and hurrying away on wobbly legs.
Breaking news: I’m going to die a virgin.
Two
Flint
Marigold high-tails away from me across the bar, her golden ponytail swishing behind her. She’s in a sage green dress tonight, the fabric dancing around her thighs, while leather boots cling to her calves.
My nostrils flare as I watch her leave, sucking in a sharp breath. Why is it always so hard to watch that young woman walk away from me? Why does it feel so wrong?
She’s too young for you, asshole, a voice mutters in my head. It’s my voice, because I’ve been telling myself the same thing for months. It’s been one hell of a long, frustrating summer.
But Marigold is too young, too sweet, too shy, too everything for a cranky old bastard like me to be panting after her. Better to not go there, to not let my thoughts stray in that direction, because if I get caught up in thoughts of Marigold flushed and begging on her knees, blue eyes wide, her ponytail wrapped around my fist—
Shit.
Now I’m sporting wood in my own damn bar.
The locals lounge in their regular booths, surrounded by half-empty glasses, their cheeks flushed red. One fella’s dealing out cards while another holds court, telling some dramatic story about being stalked along the trails by a mountain lion.
I’ve heard that story before. We all have.
Not much happens in Starlight Ridge, and sometimes folks need to recycle their tall tales. No one cares once the drinks are flowing, and usually that gets under my skin, makes me all cranky and irritated, wondering why it’s so wrong for people to just fall quiet for a change—but tonight that same old story is a comfort.
Teeth gritted, I strain to hear every word, focusing every ounce of my attention on the dramatic tale of the cougar on the trail, until finally—thank fuck—the pressure eases in my jeans and I can step out from behind the bar again without causing a scene.
One last swirl of the cloth, then I place this over-polished glass down on its shelf with a thud. Whatever prank Jana’s playing, she’ll have to try again another time. Marigold’s gone, and there’s no one lining up for drinks. Time to shut myself up in my office and kick myself until closing.
Warm, muggy air sticks my shirt to my back, and I refresh the paper straws in their jar before moving to leave. But a flash of white catches my eye, and my body goes still.
…Huh. Look at that.
It’s Marigold’s sketchbook. The sketchbook. The one she’s been scribbling in for months now, always turning the page when I get close enough to look.
How long has she been in the bathroom now? One minute? Maybe two? It’s hard to judge time passing by when every second with her gone feels like an eternity.
Laughter bursts from a nearby booth, and music hums from the speakers on the wall, and still I’m frozen in place, watching Marigold’s sketchbook from the corner of my eye. Like it’s a wild animal that could spook if I stare at it head-on.
Okay, screw it.
The sketchbook is splayed open, the pencil dropped to one side—so this particular sketch isn’t private, at least. It wouldn’t cross any lines to take a peek. Reaching out, I hesitate for a single breath before spinning the sketchbook to face me.
The pages rustle, their edges worn and stained with graphite. This is a well-used book. It’s seen some good action over the last few months, because Marigold is no poser—she’s not coming here and pretending to sketch, acting all picturesque—she’s a real artist, getting her hands dirty and working the pages hard.
Where did she learn to draw?
What’s her favorite subject?
Does she ever paint or sew or do other arty things too? Christ, I’ve got so many questions about this young woman, I’ll never get enough answers to be sated.
This particular drawing is one I’ve seen before. Two of the bar regulars, Hank and Jimmy, shelter together by the open doorway, cupping their hands around a smoke and trying to protect the tiny flame from the wind. Their shirts flap against their stocky bodies, and their heads are bowed together in concentration. In the background, mountains loom into the sky.
It’s a damn good sketch. I remember thinking that the first time I saw it, and Marigold’s worked on it more since then. She’s been shading and stylizing, making the mountains seem harsher and the wind extra fierce, and now the sight of this sketch makes my chest tug.
Yeah. Yeah.
Those are our mountains. This is our town. This is what it’s like, living on the Starlight Ridge frontier. Marigold nailed it.
In a daze, I flip the page.
And turn to stone.
My own eyes glower back at me, my gaze harsh and unwavering from the page. It’s a portrait from the shoulders up, shelves of bottles blurring behind me in the background, and it’s drawn in such painstaking detail that a loud buzzing sound fills my brain.
Because… my stubble. My mouth. That tiny scar notched in my earlobe, from a stray fishing hook when I was a boy. The tired lines at the corners of my eyes. It’s all there, every last detail of me—like looking in a mirror, except more flattering somehow.
When did Marigold look at me so closely? When did she stare long enough to draw this? And did she like what she saw?
Guilt twists my gut, but I’m in too deep to stop now. Screw my eternal soul; screw the last shreds of my restraint. Tossing a glance at the bathroom door, I flip back to the very first page of the sketchbook and start working my way through.
There’s the bar from outside, set against the forest and mountains.
Then Jana and Tess, laughing together in their matching black polo shirts.
And… me. I’m lifting a crate of beer bottles, muscles taut beneath my t-shirt, scowling to myself about something or other. Mouth dry, I linger for a beat on this first drawing of me—wishing that for once in my life I had my phone to hand, so I could snap a quick photo of this.
Another glance at the bathroom door. How many minutes have passed? Two? Three?
Moving quicker, I flip through more pages. There’s a group of hikers bent over a table together, maps of the mountains spread across the wood. More portraits of our regulars, their weather-beaten faces creased into grins. Jana’s fiance Stig as he leans across the bar, flirting with his girl.
Then me again. Squinting into the sun this time, one arm raised to shade my eyes, drawn in finer detail than any other sketch so far.
Next is a landscape drawing of Starlight Ridge town, nestled down in the valley, followed by an older woman licking an ice cream in our backyard, a trickle of cream sliding down her wrist.
Me again, elbows propped on the bar.
Jana and Tess.
Tess alone, flicking a dish towel at her brother, Rowan.
Me, my hair rumpled from a long day I’ve forgotten now.
The locals.
A hiker.
Me.
Me.
Me.
Flipping faster, heart pounding, I scan page after page of my own scowling face, the sketches coming closer together. There are still other subjects scattered in between, but they’re rarer and far less detailed as the sketchbook goes on.
And it’s clear: Marigold knows my face better than I do. Every detail of me, she’s sketched out and brought to life. And not just my face—in some of these drawings, she’s included my body too. The swell of my shoulders beneath my shirt, the press of my thighs against my jeans. The way my belt sits across my hips. All of it.
