Page 1 of Devoted Mountain Man

1

VANESSA

The blinking cursor on my screen was mocking me. I was sure of it. It somehow knew I was suffering from the worst case of writer’s block in history, and it was doing everything it could to keep me blocked.

I closed my eyes and tried to picture the scariest scene imaginable. My first book, which I’d started in college as a creative writing assignment, kicked off with a woman being dragged by one leg across a yard toward her grave.

I finished the book even before graduation, and on a whim, I sent it to a literary agent I found online. She rejected it, as did the next agent and the next. But the fourth agent loved it. I hadn’t realized at the time she would require massive rewrites, but I did them, and within six months, I had a book deal. It sold at auction too. Several publishing houses wanted it. That meant I made enough money to live on for a while.

But funds were running out, and my agent was waiting for my next book. Okay, maybe she wasn’t waiting. She had enough clients that she probably wouldn’t even notice if I never sent her anything. But I needed the money, which meant I had to get started.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

I had my eyes closed when the strange sound made its way to my ears. Yes, that might be a good start. Someone’s sitting in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, and she hears scratches on the door. What could it be? A zombie coming back from the grave? No, I didn’t write zombie thrillers.

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

Why would someone scratch at the door? A normal person would knock. Maybe the person at the door had knives for hands. No, that was silly. It was more likely he just didn’t want to leave fingerprints, so he was scratching at the door with the knife he was holding?—

Scratch.

That scratch slammed my eyes open. Something wasn’t right. Whatever was making that noise, it was all too real. What was going on?

Tap, scratch, scratch.

The tap sound was new. It could be a tree branch against the roof. But no, it sounded like it was coming from the front door. And the front door was just a few feet away from where I sat on the reclining couch that came with this rental cabin.

I set my laptop on the cushion next to me and stood, staring at the door. My heart was beating a little faster. Not full-blown fear yet but getting there.

It was probably some sort of stray animal. A squirrel. A possum. A skunk.

That last one froze me in my tracks. I didn’t want to be sprayed.

Scraaaaaatch.

I gasped at that sound. It was next level. It dragged on for freaking ever. And it was coming from the front door, not the back.

I stared at it. Something was out there. Something…or someone. I’d rather it be a something, to be honest.

I could just go check. The cabin had a screen door—something I thought was odd when I got here. Didn’t log cabins usually have big wooden doors? This was a normal door, painted bright red, with a screen door on the outside of it.

Right now, I was grateful for that screen door. It would at least put a small element of protection between me and whatever was on the other side.

Taking a deep breath, I headed toward the door, telling myself this was research for my book. My lead character would feel a mix of fear and curiosity as she walked toward that door. Her heart would be pounding practically out of her chest, her breath quickening. And as she reached for the door handle—as I was doing now—her hand would be trembling as she tried to remember if she locked the screen door.

Crap. Did I lock the screen door? I had no idea.

Unfortunately, I had that thought a little too late. The door was already open a crack, so whatever lay on the other side would have easy access if that screen door was unlocked.

It was a good sign that I had to look down to see anything. No man with knives for hands. Or knives at all. Instead, it was a small puppy—white with brown spots and long, floppy ears and the most adorable little face I’d ever seen.

“Aww,” I said, pressing my hands to my chest.

I reached for the door handle but froze. What if this was a trick? The killer could be waiting in the bushes, using the puppy as bait.

But what could I do? I couldn’t just slam the door in the dog’s face. So I pressed the handle, found it locked, and flipped the switch to unlock it. My plan was to usher the dog in, but when I cracked the screen door just a few inches, the dog didn’t budge.

A few inches more. Still no movement.

---