Page 2 of The Mountain Man's Prize

Withhunger. Raw, undisguised hunger that seems to reach out and touch my skin.

The darkness rushes in, my legs finally giving way beneath me. As I fall, a single thought flickers in my mind, strange and clear amid the fog of exhaustion:

Those wild blue eyes didn't look dangerous...they lookedsafe.

Then there's nothing but the sensation of strong arms catching me and pulling me into warmth before the world goes black.

two

Beau

I'm nota man who startles easy. Living alone in these mountains for five years has beaten that out of me. But the weak knock at my door during the worst storm in recent memory—that gets my attention. No one comes here. No one knows I exist. That's how I like it. How I need it to be. But something pulls me to the door anyway, some instinct I can't name that has my hand turning the knob before I've even decided to move.

The storm roars in, wind and rain slapping against my face like a challenge. But it's not the weather that freezes me in place.

It's her.

A small, drenched creature with wide eyes that find mine for just a heartbeat before they roll back. She sways forward, mouth forming a word I can't hear over the thunder. And then she's falling.

My body moves on pure instinct. I catch her against my chest, one arm behind her knees, the other supporting her back. She weighs nothing—a bundle of wet clothes and soft curves that fits against me like she was carved from my own rib.

"Hey," I say, my voice rough from disuse. "Hey, stay with me."

But she's already gone, head lolling against my shoulder, face pale as the moon. Her skin is ice against mine, lips tinged a dangerous blue. Hypothermia. She needs warmth. Now.

I kick the door shut behind me and carry her to the fireplace where logs crack and spit, throwing dancing shadows across the cabin walls. My home is simple—one large room with a woodstove, a small kitchen area, a bed in the corner, and a bathroom behind the only interior door. It's not much, but it's warm. It's safe. And right now, that's what she needs.

I lay her on the bearskin rug in front of the fire, the thick fur cushioning her from the hard wooden floor. Up close, I can see the blue-black shadows beneath her eyes, the way her cheeks have hollowed slightly from cold and exhaustion. Her clothes are plastered to her body, revealing curves that make my throat go dry. I look away, focusing on the practical.

Her clothes have to come off. The wet fabric is leeching what little heat she has left. It's not a question of propriety—it's life or death. Still, my hands hesitate at the zipper of her jacket.

"This isn't like that," I tell myself, voice harsh in the quiet cabin. "Get a fucking grip, Beau."

I've lived alone so long I've forgotten how to be around people. Especially women. Especially beautiful women who fall into my arms like something from a dream I stopped allowing myself to have.

Her jacket comes off first, then the soaked sweater beneath it. My hands work methodically, clinically, even as my brain registers details I have no business noticing. The soft swell of her breasts against a pale pink bra. The gentle curve of her waist. The birthmark just below her collarbone shaped like a teardrop.

I grab a blanket from my bed, draping it over her upper body before moving to her hiking boots. They're good quality but no match for the storm she was caught in. Her socks are drenched, feet pale and cold when I peel the wet wool away. I rub them between my palms, trying to stimulate circulation, watching her face for any sign of discomfort.

Nothing. She's out cold.

Her jeans are the hardest part. They cling to her legs like a second skin, and I have to peel them inch by inch down the soft curves of her thighs, over her knees, past the delicate bones of her ankles. I keep the blanket positioned over her as best I can, preserving what privacy I can give her.

When she's stripped down to her underwear, I wrap her completely in the blanket, creating a cocoon of wool and warmth. Then I grab more blankets from the storage chest, layering them over her. Still not enough. Her skin remains ghostly pale, lips still holding that blue tinge at the edges.

I've read about this. Body heat is most effective. The thought makes my mouth go dry, but I push aside any hesitation. Again, this is survival, not desire.

But that's a lie, isn't it? Because when I lift her blanket-wrapped body and sit with my back against the couch, tucking her against my chest between my legs, the feeling that courses through me isn't simply practical relief.

It's right. Like a key sliding into a lock I didn't know existed.

Her head rests against my shoulder, face turned toward my neck. Each shallow breath whispers against my skin. I adjust the blankets, making sure the heat from the fire reaches her, and study her face without the scramble of emergency to distract me.

She's young—mid-twenties maybe. Her hair is a deep chestnut, curling damply around a heart-shaped face. Long lashes cast shadows on cheeks scattered with freckles. Her lips are full, the bottom one slightly plumper than the top, creating a permanent hint of a pout. She looks like something from another world—a world of color and life and people. Not my world of silence and solitude.

What the hell is she doing out here? Miles from any trail, in the middle of a storm? Running from something? Or running to something?

I've been out here five years. Five years of building this place with my hands. Five years of hunting my own food, chopping my own wood, answering to no one. Five years of silence broken only by the wind through pine needles and the occasional visit from wildlife.

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