Page 9 of Mountain Man

Numbers didn’t intimidate me, but dealing with scheduling and logistics for five stores in a relatively new business wasn’t easy. I’d mistakenly thought I’d be the guy in charge of overseeing lumber distribution from point A to point B—however, that was only part of the job.

Mill Depot was a timber merchant with aspirations of grandeur. While the mill dealt with sourcing, processing, seasoning, and treating, we were the one-stop shop for building and DYI supplies providing wood products to contractors and retail customers. And that meant tools, hardware, electrical equipment, doors, windows, and more.

“Are we shipping the sheet metal directly to Burlington, or is it coming here first?” Artie rocked on his heels as he tapped his pen against his clipboard. “Glenn says he needs some for a custom project he’s working on in Pinecrest.”

I spared the store manager an exasperated glance. He had a habit of asking half-baked questions designed to test my competence. “Did he say what he needed it for? Ventilation, flashing? We need quantity, dimensions, purpose…”

The older man scratched his balding head. “It’s for the new Collins house, but um…I’ll find out.”

I nodded curtly and resumed studying the schedule. I had a truck leaving in an hour for Albany, another leaving this afternoon at⁠—

Cooper cleared his throat and knocked on the doorjamb. “Got a minute?”

“Of course.” I pushed away from my desk and stood.

“Don’t get up,” Cooper admonished, stepping into the office, a book tucked under his arm. “I want to show you something. Or Viggo does.”

“I do not,” Viggo grumbled, his arms crossed and his brow furrowed.

Cooper snickered. He was a fit, good-looking man in his midforties with dark hair streaked with gray that hadn’t quite gotten to his beard. Like most of the mill’s employees, Cooper was a Four Forest native. He’d gone to school with and had worked with most of the loggers here for decades. He knew their spouses, girlfriends, boyfriends, kids, and parents. Not because he went out of his way to memorize details of his employees’ lives. Nope…he’d sat next to them in biology, played on the same youth baseball teams, carpooled their kids.

I silenced my buzzing cell and leaned my elbows on my desk. “What can I do for you?”

Cooper set the book in front of me, opening it to photos of miniature houses. “Viggo makes custom birdhouses, and we want to sell premade kits at Mill Depot.”

I flipped through pages of miniature cottages, log cabins, churches, and barns fashioned into deluxe homes for small birds. The details were incredible—picket fences, faux stained-glass windows, arched doorways.

“Wow.”

“See? What did I tell you?” Cooper nudged Viggo’s elbow and flopped onto one of the chairs across from me.

“Hmph.” Viggo grudgingly took the second chair. “It’s a lot of work, and if they don’t sell…”

“They will,” I assured him. “It’s not technically my domain, but the home and garden section did well this summer. It could use something pretty to draw folks in during the holidays.”

Viggo growled a little harder. “Pretty?”

Cooper nodded. “Yeah. We’ll display a few models and configure them so they’re relatively simple to construct. A DIY mini project. They’d be a nice gift item. We could even offer how-to classes. Something along the lines of a sip and paint. Drink wine with your pals and make a birdhouse.”

Viggo’s horrified expression was comedy gold. “Wine and birdhouses? That’s a bad idea.”

“It’s a great idea. You wouldn’t have to teach, Big V. We have staff who could handle that. You’re the brains, we’re the brawn.” Cooper launched into a marketing pitch—something about introducing educational programs and eventually making Mill Depot a one-stop shop…for everything. “We’re not there yet, but someday I can see pairing up with Elmwood and Fallbrook to offer farm-to-table food and⁠—”

“Food? At a lumberyard?” Viggo shifted in his chair to face our boss. “That isn’t good.”

I had to agree. “Yeah…that seems like a stretch.”

Cooper just grinned. “Dream with me, boys. We’re years away from this, but⁠—”

Knock knock

Artie popped his head in, frowning as he took in the scene, no doubt wondering why he hadn’t been included in the meeting. “Sorry to interrupt. Marianne says you have an urgent call from the police station on line two, Waylon. It’s about your nephew.”

My stomach dropped. “Police?”

“It didn’t sound overly serious. A little juvenile vandalism.” Artie’s nonchalant shrug missed the mark. I wondered if this was his idea of a prank. Maybe he was pissed at me for my earlier impatience and embarrassing me in front of the big boss was him sending a message. No, that was paranoid.

But vandalism? What the fuck?