Page 4 of Wounded Mountain Man

Yes, it made total sense that she’d be scared of that. And it probably made zero sense to her that I’d come out with a gun. Unless I was hiding something.

Running from something I couldn’t even define? Yes. But hiding something? No.

“They want this land,” I said. “The developers. They even built a road down this way. Every now and then, one comes down here banging on my door, trying to make me an offer I can’t refuse.”

She sat back and stared at me. She was studying me—trying to figure me out. Plenty of women had tried over the years. None had succeeded.

“So, you own this land?” she asked.

“Yep. Bought and paid for. Snatched it up back when nobody had their eyes on it.”

I got an honorable discharge and a monthly disability payment for being wounded in the line of duty. It wasn’t worth the pain I endured twenty-four-seven, of course. But at least it had enabled me to live the kind of life I wanted in the mountains with a beautiful view, miles away from everyone and everything.

“So you thought I was a developer,” she said.

I shook my head. “I didn’t know. I saw movement outside. It was kind of dark. Nobody ever comes down this way, so I figured it had to be someone up to no good.”

And that was the God’s-honest truth. Sure, I overreacted, but if there was one thing my deployment had done, it was instill me with a healthy dose of vigilance.

“Anyway, sorry about that,” I said. “The safety’s still on, if it makes you feel any better.”

“It does.”

She glanced toward my bedroom, which was where I’d gone to store the rifle. I didn’t miss the nervousness in her eyes. She wasn’t comfortable around guns. I got it. I grew up in the suburbs of Jacksonville, and my mom never quite made peace with my dad’s firearm collection. I just had one gun for protection, and I’d want this woman to feel safer because of it, not more frightened.

“You don’t get lonely?” she asked.

I shook my head. “I guess I’m not much of a people person.”

I was lying, and I didn’t even feel bad about it. Because it wasn’t her I was lying to. It was myself.

“Thought about getting a dog,” I said, still thinking aloud. “But I like the freedom to hop on the bike and hit the open road if I want to.”

“What kind?” she asked.

“What kind of bike?”

“No. Dog.”

Oh yeah, it made sense she would be asking about that. “I had a golden retriever growing up. That’s the kind of dog I want. Low maintenance but loving.”

“Hmm.”

That one syllable had my attention. “What?”

“It’s just…I wouldn’t take you for a golden retriever type. I’d think you’d want a dog that would protect you out here. One of those dogs that’s kind of like a security system.”

She made a good point. If I had the right dog, I probably wouldn’t need a gun. Had I just given away the fact that I was a big softy inside? But for the past decade or so, that soft side only applied to animals, not humans.

Humans always let you down. Dogs didn’t.

“You hungry?” I asked, eager to change the subject. I was standing before she even answered.

“Oh my gosh, I’m starving.”

Relief was clear in her voice. It was like she’d exhaled a breath she’d been holding for hours. She hadn’t wanted to let me know she was sitting there with an empty stomach. If this woman wanted food, food was what she’d get.

She gestured toward the refrigerator. “I can make something. I don’t want you to have to cook for me. Just tell me what ingredients you have, and I’ll put something together.”

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