Page 14 of Orphan Girl's Mountain Men

"Are you crazy? Didn't you see the bear?"

"What bear?" For a moment, I almost think he's messing with me. A practical joke, something the three of them would share a good laugh about, sniggering at the naivety of their stupid, city-girl neighbor. But the look on his face and the panic in his voice make me hesitate.

"Over there, in the trees," he says, pointing. "It's gone now. But seriously, you need to take more care. There's wolves and coyotes too. We generally don't go far outside the yard alone, and we always take a gun, just in case. Getting this close to a bear is pretty rare, but they come down here to drink and fish. The lake's got plenty of trout, perch, and bass."

"Well, that's good to know. And thank you." I try to keep it light. "Maybe I should get a gun." Now he's mentioned it I am kicking myself. Of course, I remember both Mommy and Daddy carrying rifles, and telling me never to go too far, and always to stay in sight when swimming or hiking or bird watching with them out in the forest or up in the mountains. I'll sort it out as soon as I get into town.

"Yeah, maybe you should. There's a hunting and fishing store in Cedar Falls. They'll sell you a rifle. Don't get a.22 though—tell them it's for bears. A.22 might scare one off, but it sure as hell won't stop one if it's charging. Also, get bear spray. It'll protect you from more than just animals. Keep it on you at all times."

His afterthought sticks with me as much as his warnings. Then he points at the berries I dropped by the side of the lake.

"You should know better than to pick those," he says. "Those are poisonous."

"Yeah, I know," I reply. "I wasn't going to eat them. I was experimenting."

"Experimenting?"

"My mother taught me how to make medicine with herbs and berries. I was seeing if I still remember what she taught me."

He looks at me like I'm genuinely stupid now.

"There's a doctor in Cedar Falls," he adds. "If you're sick, go there. Don't try dumb experiments with things you don't understand."

Now I'm getting annoyed. Irritation bubbles up because I don't like his tone one bit. But he doesn't stop there.

"This isn't the city, where people and systems save you from your own stupidity. Out here, if you're dumb, you get in trouble. You probably die. Painfully."

Okay, now he's not only implying it, he's outright calling me stupid. It takes a lot to make me truly angry, but with everything that's been weighing on me—the grief from my aunt and uncle's sudden deaths, the frantic packing, the painful goodbyes to the friends I'd made in Sudan, the endless journey back to Aurora, and now standing at the lake I grew up by, all those memories flooding back—well, it's too much. I can feel the pressure building inside me, a slow burn I can't stop.

Ice slithers through my veins, and I bite down on the rising anger. I force my lips into a smile that I know doesn't reach my eyes. "Noted," I snap, my voice tight. I don't care how gorgeous he is or how many muscles he's got. I'm not putting up with him calling me dumb—not now, not after everything.

My hands ball into fists at my sides, but I force myself to take a breath. "Now, if you're done spying on me…" I add, the words biting sharper than I intended.

He doesn't seem offended, though. Instead, he surveys the area behind him with military-like precision, his focus entirely elsewhere.

"How long do you plan on staying here? In San Juan County?"

"I don't believe that's any of your business."

"It's not," he agrees, "but lucky for you, it might be. I'm interested in buying your land."

My eyebrows raise. "How is that lucky for me?"

"Because you won't have to worry about the hassle of selling it when you're done playing at being a farmer girl and ready to move on. I'm offering a fair price too. Thirty thousand for all twenty-two acres. I can go a little higher, but not by much."

"Hold on." I hold my hand out to stop him. "I'm confused. What makes you think I'm selling?"

"Well, you're not planning to live here forever, are you?"

"Says who?" Even though I'm not sure of my plans yet, I resent the fact that he's taken it upon himself to decide I can't stay here. Like he's the boss of me.

Whenever someone tells me I can't do something, it makes me want to dig my heels in and prove them wrong.

He gives me a wry look. "You plan on living in a cabin in the wilderness forever?"

"This is hardly a wilderness."

"The closest doctor is an hour away. So's the closest grocery store. No malls, no coffee stores. The hairdresser learned how to style hair in 1976, and the internet is crap."

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