Page 8 of Rescue in Misty Mountain

Besides, she doesn’t belong here. She’s just passing through.

And I don’t need her shaking up what little peace I’ve found.

But as I throw another log on the fire and hear her laugh at something the cat does, I already know: I’m the one who is in danger as long as she stays here.

THREE

TESSA

I wake to sunlight streaming in through the window and the sound of birds.

Real ones. Not the fake chirping on the alarm clock my ex used to have. There’s also no sound of traffic. Considering I thought I’d spend the foreseeable future in Vegas, that’s a sound I expected.

Instead, I’m surrounded by the sound of peace and the smell of fresh air. And Whiskey batting my nose, because he’s ready for his first breakfast.

Blinking up at the ceiling—wooden beams, faintly golden in the morning light—I give myself a minute to sink in where exactly I am.

I’m not in my old apartment.

I’m not my car.

I’m not in the cheap motel I stayed in my first night on the road.

Instead, I’m in a cabin.

On a wildlife reserve.

Run by a brusque mountain man.

Who is probably not a serial killer.

I hope not.

I sit up slowly, stretching beneath a handmade quilt that smells faintly of cedar. The bed is surprisingly soft. The room small but clean. Safe. Surprisingly cozy despite its near Spartan cleanliness.

Whiskey is curled on a folded flannel shirt at the foot of the bed, purring like a motorboat. I stare at him.

“You woke me up just so you could go back bed,” I whisper. “Rude.”

He opens one eye, stretches, then flops dramatically to one side. Completely unbothered.

Typical.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and pad barefoot into the hallway, still wearing Gage’s too-big flannel over my shirt and leggings. I’d meant to give it back before bed, but it smelled too good—like forest and fresh air.

The cabin is quiet and cozy, with a fire burning in the hearth. The scent of fresh coffee wafts from the kitchen, but I don’t hear anyone inside.

I follow the smell to the kitchen, where there’s an empty cup sitting next to a mostly full pot of coffee. I pour myself a cup and wander to the window. I spot Gage outside.

He’s standing beside a makeshift pen in the yard. His back is to me as he adjust a tarp over one side. His broad shoulders flex with the motion, that’s even and steady.

Even from here, I can see the careful way he moves, like everything has purpose.

I press a hand to the counter, watching him.

What’s his deal?

He’s quiet, but not cold. He’s reserved, but he’s not like the men who use silence to punish. Gage’s quiet is different. Everything about him is different.

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