Page 1 of Claim Me, Colt

Chapter 1

Colt

ThefirstthingIhear is the sound of an engine.

It’s too fast. Too smooth. A European purr that doesn't belong in these ancient Appalachian hills where my cabin sits like a fortress against the world.

Nobody ventures this deep into the mountain unless they're lost, running, or hunting something they shouldn't be. My place is seven miles from the nearest paved road, past where the GPS signals die and the cell towers give up. That's exactly how I built my life after Afghanistan—isolated, protected, and far from anything that could remind me of convoy engines and roadside bombs.

So when I hear tires screech and the distant crunch of metal meeting granite, every instinct I honed as an Army Ranger kicks in. I grab my rifle from above the mantle—muscle memory from too many nights when silence meant danger—and head toward the sound.

The storm clouds overhead have been building all afternoon, thick and bruised purple against the peaks. Mountain weather moves fast up here, and tonight's going to be a soaker. I can smell it in the air—wet earth, ozone, and the promise of lightning.

It takes me eight minutes to reach Miller's Creek, moving through the forest like the ghost I was trained to be. Long enough for my heart rate to settle into a steady rhythm, for my eyes to adjust to the shadows between the pines.

I spot the wreckage first—a sleek black sedan with government plates, the kind that scream D.C. politics from a mile away. The front end is half-submerged in the shallow creek, water rushing around the crumpled hood. One wheel spins uselessly in the air, ticking like a broken clock.

Then I hear movement. My eyes swivel to the spot like a hawk’s.

And I see her.

A curvy goddess climbing up the muddy creek bank in what used to be an elegant white dress, now torn and soaked transparent. Designer heels dangle from one manicured hand while she claws her way up the rocky slope with the other. Her honey-blonde hair hangs in wet ropes around her face, and she's cursing under her breath—every word more out of place than the pearl necklace still somehow gleaming at her throat.

She doesn't notice me until she's almost on level ground, breathing hard from the climb. When she does, she stumbles back a step, her wide eyes taking in my rifle first, then my face.

"Oh!” she cries. “You scared me.”

I don't respond. I just study her.

“Sorry about… um…that...” She waves one muddy hand like that explains the government car in my creek.

She's a mess, but not the kind of mess that breaks easy. There's steel in her spine and fire in her green eyes that reminds me of bottle glass catching sunlight. She’s the kind of woman who belongs in marble hallways and campaign photographs, not crawling out of a creek in the middle of the nowhere. But she’s not weak.She’s an enigma.

"I was driving a bit too fast, I guess,” she says, tucking a strand of wet hair behind her ear. “The road curved, and the brakes didn't quite catch in time." She attempts a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

Thunder rumbles overhead, and she glances up at the darkening sky.

"What are you running from?" I ask.

She blinks. "Excuse me?"

"Lady in a fancy dress speeding on a mountain road in the middle of nowhere?" I shift the rifle to a more casual position. "That's running."

Her mouth opens, closes. The fake smile drops completely, and for a second, I see past the polish to something raw underneath.

The fear. The fury. The desperation.

She straightens, shoulders squaring like she's facing a firing squad instead of one scarred mountain man.

"An engagement party," she says, voice steady despite everything. "Myengagement party."

Can't say I've heard that one before.

A fat raindrop splats against her cheek, and she shivers. The storm's rolling in fast now—I can feel it in the pressure drop, in the way the trees have gone still like they're holding their breath.

She surveys her surroundings with the calculating look of someone weighing limited options. Ruined car, gathering storm, strange man with a gun in the middle of nowhere. Most city women would be crying by now.

She just stands there, chin lifted like she didn't just crawl up a creek bank looking like a runaway fairy tale gone wrong.

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