Page 2 of Hitchhiker Mountain Man

The man beside me shifts, and I catch him giving me a sidelong glance. His eyes are blue. Not the carefully cultivated blue of Bradley's tailored shirts, but something deeper and wilder, like mountain lakes I've seen in travel magazines.

Something in my chest flutters.

"First time in the mountains?" I joke, trying again despite his obvious lack of interest.

This time he actually looks at me, a full assessment that makes me feel stripped bare in a way that Bradley's gaze never did in two years of dating. I resist the urge to check if my hair is out of place.

"Not looking for company, princess," he says, voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate through the counter between us. He tosses a few bills down, nods to Darlene, and slides off his stool.

I watch him walk out, like a predator passing through territory too small to interest him. The bell jingles with a finality that echoes in the now-quiet diner.

I should be offended.Princess? But instead, I find myself fighting a smile as I turn back to my pie. There was something refreshing about his dismissal—no pretense, no social niceties, no carefully calibrated response designed to make the right impression or maintain the right connection.

Just honest disinterest. Or maybe not completely disinterested, given that look.

Through the window, I watch him climb into an enormous black semi with silver detailing. The truck gleams despite the dirt of the road, clearly well-maintained. As he pulls out of the lot, I catch the name painted on the door: "Eleanor."

Eleanor. Like my mother. The coincidence makes me laugh.

Outside, the mountains are turning purple with approaching dusk. My cabin waits somewhere among them, the first step in my undefined journey toward becoming someone other than the Jordyn Montgomery everyone expects me to be. And for some reason, I can't help thinking about blue eyes and a gruff voice calling me "princess."

I finish my pie, leave a tip that makes Darlene's eyebrows rise, and head back to my SUV. As I pull back onto the winding road, I realize I'm smiling. Really smiling, not the camera-ready version I've perfected over years of family photos and society events.

Maybe this impulse trip wasn't such a bad idea after all. Maybe up here, among strangers who don't know my name or care about my family connections, I'll finally figure out who I am when no one's watching.

And if I happen to run into a certain grumpy trucker again... well, that might make things interesting.

two

Slate

Smoke.That'snevergood.

I pull Eleanor, my rig, onto the gravel shoulder, her eighteen wheels crunching over loose stone as the engine makes that whining noise I've been ignoring for the last hundred miles. Stupid. Should've gotten it checked in Edmonton, but the schedule was tight and the load pays extra for early delivery.

"Come on, old girl," I mutter, cutting the engine. The sudden silence of the mountain road presses in, broken only by the ticking of cooling metal and the distant rumble of thunder. Storm's coming. The dark clouds have been building over the western peaks for the last hour, and the wind's picking up, carrying the scent of rain.

I grab my jacket and step down from the cab, boots hitting dirt with a familiar thud. Even in June the air bites colder up here than it did in the valley. Good. Clear head, clear thinking. Need both now.

Opening the hood releases a plume of steam that tells me everything I need to know. Cracked radiator hose, from the look of it. Could be worse. Could be better, too, especially given the complete lack of cell service up here and the fact that the storm is about to break.

Fifteen years of hauling loads across the country, and I still end up on the side of the road now and then. Part of the job. Usually don't mind the solitude, the problem-solving. It's why I chose trucking—independence, quiet, wide-open spaces where no one expects small talk or asks about your feelings.

But tonight, I'm running behind, and there's a tight window for this delivery. Contracts matter. Reputation matters. Both are hard to build and easy to lose in this business.

I dig through my toolbox, assessing options. The hose needs replacing, not patching. I can rig something temporary, but I'll need parts. The nearest town's a good thirty miles ahead. Not walking distance before this storm hits.

As I'm calculating my limited options, headlights flash in the distance. Probably another tourist heading to one of those luxury cabins that have been sprouting up like weeds in these mountains. I turn back to Eleanor's engine. Not my type of people, those cabin renters with their spotless SUVs and designer outdoor gear that's never seen real use.

The first fat raindrops hit the hood with audible taps as the vehicle slows. Great. A good Samaritan in a brewing storm. Just what I need—some city slicker asking if I need help like I'm some helpless case who doesn't know a radiator from a toaster.

I hear the crunch of tires on gravel, the soft purr of a luxury engine idling. Don't turn around. Maybe they'll get the hint and keep moving.

"Car trouble?"

That voice. Something about it tugs at my memory, making me straighten from my hunched position over the engine. I turn,scowl already in place, and find myself looking at the woman from the diner. The princess with the perfectly styled hair and expensive clothes who tried making small talk.

She's standing beside her Range Rover, raindrops beginning to darken spots on her cashmere sweater, looking like she stepped out of a magazine spread titled "Mountain Chic" even with wisps of hair now blowing across her face in the rising wind. Everything about her screams money and privilege, from her clothes to her impractical boots that probably cost more than my monthly rent.

---