Tara should’ve turned back when she saw the blood on the apron.
The small mountain butchery was nestled in a quiet clearing off the highway. There were no signs, no hours posted. Just a rust-colored wooden building that smelled of smoke, iron, and meat. She was there to pick up a “special delivery” of elk cuts for her family’s mountain-side lodge. Her dad had called ahead. Told her the butcher was a loner. Quiet. Old-school.
He didn’t say the butcher looked like that.
Tara stepped inside and nearly lost her voice.
The man behind the counter was huge. Dark flannel stretched across his chest. His forearms were bare, thick with muscle and veins, dusted in dark hair. His apron was splattered in red, and his hands were still gloved. One gloved hand held a bone saw. The other clutched a clea
