Page 11 of The Mountain Man's Runaway Bride

She’s already run out on one man before.

My gut twists at that one. It isn’t fair. I don’t know why she left her ex at that altar. But I’m sure she had a good reason. I may have known her less than twenty-four hours, but I know she’s a good, kind woman.

Plus, if her ex is even half the douche he was to me on the phone, she dodged a bullet.

Chilled to the bone, and much more less aroused than I was a few minutes ago, I shut off the water and snatch my towel off the hook.

I rub the towel over my shoulders and chest. I avoid looking in the mirror as long as I can. But I catch a glimpse of my reflection as I turn to dry my beard.

My mouth curves downward.

Even if Quincy isn’t running from a bad relationship and here for a short time, she deserves better than me.

She deserves more than half a man.

She deserves a man who can always protect her.

She deserves a man who can look in a mirror without being reminded of what he’s lost.

At first glance, I pass for whole. My prosthetic eye is nearly perfect. I had it custom-made and fitted by a specialist down in Anchorage. It’s the right color. There’s even a shine to it thatalmost looks like a twinkle in some eyes. The technician said you’d never know.

But I do.

It’s not even just the loss of my eye. It’s what it represents. Every time I see myself in the mirror, I see the face of a man who couldn’t move fast enough. A man who was hit by shrapnel and felled before he could complete his mission.

I see a man who let his unit and his country down.

I reach up and trace the line of scar that disappears into my beard. The whiskers cover most of it. But I feel it. The reminder that I’m not the man I used to be. Not even close.

A blood-curling scream from outside chills me to the bone. My heart stilts.

Quincy.

Slinging the towel around my waist, I race out the door. Clutching it close, I don’t bother with so much as a pair of jeans or my boots. I’m out the door before it can even occur to me that I might need them, or anything.

As I raise across the grass, pine needles crunching under my feet. The cold morning nips at my nose and other parts of my body.

I ignore every bit of pain as I furiously scan the area looking for the woman who has already gotten under my skin.

When I see her by the sauna, arms wrapped around herself, and trembling, relief and concern war inside of me.

“Are you okay?” I call, reaching her side. “What happened?”

She spins toward me, eyes wide. They grow even wider when she catches sight of me. “I-I saw something—I thought it was a bear—it was big and it moved and I just—I panicked?—”

Instantly in protective mode, I push her behind me and frantically look around us. Toward the trees. Nothing moves. But I note a fallen rake next to a wind-blown tarp outside the sauna window.

I sigh in relief, my shoulders instantly relax.

“It’s okay.” I face her again and rest a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I think we’re in the clear, but you’re safe now.”

Her breath’s still coming fast, chest rising and falling beneath the oversized flannel I loaned her. It falls to her thighs, but I catch a glimpse of scratched knees below.

She must have taken a stumble in her fear.

My heart aches, and without thinking, I pull her close.

She clutches me, like I’m her lifelong.

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