Page 8 of Mountain Man's Redemption

DAPHNE

My hand glidesover the canvas as I begin the initial sketches. I can already picture how the finished painting will look, composed of deep greens, shadowy blues, earthy browns, and patches of yellow sunlight.

Garrett’s cabin is the perfect subject for a landscape painting. It’s in an idyllic spot, nestled deep in the woods, and there’s something distinctly fairy-tale-like about it, from the smoking chimney to the snow-topped roof. The interior is just as pretty, with rustic wooden furniture and a roaring fireplace. It’s exactly how I imagined it—the perfect place for a rugged mountain man—nothing but the twittering birds and the rustle of trees.

I try to lose myself completely in my work, but knowing Garrett is so close is enough to still my hand. Now and then, I swear I can see a shadow moving behind the living room window, like he’s watching me work, and the thought makes my skin prickle with heat. When we were back in the cabin, there was a moment of tension between us. Garrett looked at my lips for a beat too long, almost like he wanted to kiss me…

But I know I’m probably just kidding myself.

I’m the new girl in town, and he felt sorry for me when I mentioned the state of my apartment. That’s why hecommissioned me to do this painting. He’s a good person, a good man, and that’s all there is to it.

But I wish someone would tell that to my pounding heart.

After about an hour of sporadic sketching, filled with pauses while I squint at the cabin and try to figure out if I’m imagining the movement at the window, Garrett comes out holding a mug and a plate. He strides purposefully toward me, and I think back to how he looked in the bakery, the way he kept his eyes on the ground, like he was trying to avoid attention. The difference is night and day, and it intrigues me. He seems so confident, so at ease in the woods.

“Brought you some cocoa and pie to warm you up,” he says, setting both down on the stool beside me. “Cold out here.”

God, why is this man so perfect?

“Thank you. That’s so thoughtful.”

He casts his eyes over the first sketch, inspecting it as I take a bite of pie. “Already looks great. You get a good view of the cabin from this spot, too. Nice choice.”

“I’m glad you think so.” The praise warms me way more than the cocoa and pie.

“How long have you been an artist?” he asks, still looking at the sketch. “This is really good.”

I press my lips together, holding back a smile. The initial sketch is far from “really good”—it’s messy and rough, purely to help me figure out the composition and proportions before I start painting—but I feel a rush of affection for Garrett for sounding so impressed.

“I’ve been painting forever, really, but I started taking it seriously after I graduated from high school. That’s when I began taking commissions and trying to sell my work.” I smile wistfully as I think back to when I sold my first painting for twenty dollars at a local art fair. To me, it felt like twenty million. “It was going pretty well,” I continue. “I made a name for myselflocally and started getting more commissions. Until…well, until I left town last week.”

There’s a pause, and I feel Garrett’s eyes burning into me. “Why did you leave?”

For a moment, I consider laying it all bare and telling him my story. It would be nice to talk to someone about everything that went down back in Iowa. But I don’t want him to judge me. Everyone in Plainville assumed I was in on my family’s crimes. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree and all that. Why shouldn’t Garrett think the same?

“I just wanted a fresh start,” I say brightly. “A change of scenery.”

It’s a lie that’s becoming pretty familiar, and I’m sure Garrett can see right through it. His brow furrows, and he opens his mouth like he’s about to say something. But he seems to think better of it.

“Well, I’ll leave you to paint,” he says eventually. “I’m heading into the woods. Won’t be far. If you need me, just holler.”

I smile at him, watching as he heads back to his cabin to grab an axe and then disappears into the trees. I drink the rest of my cocoa, finish the slice of cherry pie, and as I lift my pencil to the canvas once more, I hear the unmistakable sound of metal against wood.

Thwack.

I picture Garrett swinging his muscular arm backward, then slamming his axe into a tree trunk, sweat beading on his handsome face. My throat goes dry as I hear another thwack, then another as he finds his rhythm.

Ignore it.

Just focus.

But my body overrides my brain, and I rise from my stool like a woman possessed, heading into the forest toward the sound.Garrett isn’t far, just like he said. I catch sight of his flannel shirt, the red plaid vivid against the trees, and I hide behind a thick oak with my heart in my throat. Then, slowly, I peer around the trunk.

Oh, boy…

The reality is a million times hotter than I imagined. Garrett’s eyes are wild with intensity, his muscles rippling as he hammers his blade against the tree, a deep grunt ripping from his throat. There’s something almost feral about him. He emanates pure power, and I watch open-mouthed as the tree trembles and falls to the ground with a thud that shakes the forest floor. Garrett sets down his axe and turns his head slightly until my hiding place is in his line of sight.

Crap.

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