Page 24 of The Mountain Man's Runaway Bride

“You don’t have to help,” I say.

She shrugs. “I want to.”

I start to object, but there’s no point. Quincy isn’t the kind of woman to lie around in bed all day when there’s work to be done. And she isn’t afraid of getting a little dirty.

It’s just one of the many things I love about her.

Instead, I adjust my hold on the ax and explain what I’m doing as I do it.

She watches me split a piece, and I try my best not to show off. But I don’t tone it down, either. It’s impossible not to strut a little when your woman is watching you so closely.

After a while, I hand her the lighter stuff—kindling and bark for the stove—and we fall into an easy rhythm.

“This is kind of therapeutic,” she says, brushing sawdust off her leg.

“Just wait till your arms are sore tomorrow.”

“Maybe someday I’ll be as buff as you.”

I smirk. “You gonna tell all your fancy city friends you helped your wilderness fling chop firewood?”

She laughs at that, but there’s something in her eyes—something soft. “I haven’t felt like myself in a long time,” she says. “This feels closer.”

I don’t know how to answer that without giving too much away, so I just nod and go back to chopping.

Because the truth is, I feel it too.

With her here, the cabin doesn’t feel so damn quiet. My life doesn’t feel quite so... stalled.

But that’s dangerous thinking.

Because she’s not staying here forever.

And no matter how good it feels to be here with her, I need to remember there’s no future.

After a rainstorm sends us back inside, we curl up together in front of the fireplace with steaming cups of coffee.

I offer to get the Internet up so we can watch something, but Quincy tells me not to bother. We’re good enough on our own.

I watch her fingers wrap around the mug. She’s looking out the window, her knees pulled up on the couch. I could get used to this being my usual Sunday afternoon. I could get used to having her around.

I could get used to thinking she’s mine.

“Do you ever think about leaving Alaska?” she asks suddenly.

It catches me off guard. “Sometimes.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Because this place gave me everything when I had nothing.” I pause. “It’s the only thing that still feels like me and mine.”

She’s quiet for a moment then readjusts herself in her seat. “Do you ever think about... what it would be like to share it with someone?”

I study her profile. The slope of her cheek. The way she doesn’t quite look at me when she says it.

“I used to.”

And then I don’t say anything else, because the truth is I stopped letting myself imagine that kind of future a long time ago. Long before Quincy.

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