Page 3 of My Fearless Mountain Man

“You should stop coming here,” I finally answer.

She blinks a few times and opens her mouth. “You don’t like-”

“The past is the past,” I simplify and walk out, brushing past her like she might reach out—stop me, see more than I want her to. She doesn’t touch me.

But she still feels like a threat. Not the kind you run from, but the kind that sees too much, too fast. The kind that makes you want things you’ve trained yourself to live without.

When I get in my truck, parked in the back, I hesitate. I linger in the shade and shadows where I belong as I watch her get safely to her car – not that anything would threaten her here. I massage my forehead.

Nora was a scared teenager when I last saw her. Scared, wide-eyed, coughing, and clung to me like I was her last chance at life itself. Now, she’s more. Six years have made her beautiful, warm, and vibrant with a shocking kindness that doesn’t seem possible when life is as brutal as it is.

In a few seconds, she’s gone—fading into the distance like none of it ever happened. Like she never walked through that door. Never looked at me like I was more than a shadow from her past. Never asked about the letters or...

Shit.

I should walk away. Stay in the truck. Keep pretending none of this touched me.

But my feet won’t listen.

Before I know it, I’m back inside. Like gravity pulled me there.

And there it is—an envelope waiting on the desk.

I stare at it, jaw tight. I shouldn’t take it. I should tear it in half, shred it, pretend I never saw it. Just like I should’ve destroyed the others—the letters, the photos, all those pieces of her world she kept sending like I had a place in it.

But I didn’t.

And I won’t now.

Because the truth is—I’ve never stopped wanting to read every damn word.

Clearing my throat, I stare at the letter for a long moment. After a slow breath, I pull it out. I sneer at myself and my own instinctual need to be known even though the idea of it is terrible.

Stranger,

Six years of writing you means I should run out of things to say, right? I won’t tell you again how much you’ve inspired me and kept me on track. I’d rather tell you something more ... personal. I want tell you how different my dreams are.

When I dream of that day and of you now, there’s no fire. But there are sparks. This is kind of a ... well don’t read it around others, please.

Anyway, I dream of you holding me, laying me down, stroking my face and saying, “I’ve got you. You’re safe” again before you lean in closer and I slowly kiss across-

I look away and refold the letters. I haven’t been able to think of her as a teenager in a while considering the pictures she’s sent (all appropriate, but still overwhelming). All the same, the fact she’s giving me entrance into her dreams and fantasies makes more of our relationship than there is.

I told her the same things I would tell anyone I was rescuing from a fire. I meant it. She was safe with me. I wouldn’t let her go. I had her, in my arms, in my grip, and wouldn’t leave her behind.

Sure, I’ve read every letter. I’ve seen how much she thinks of me considering she never has problems filling a page or two with her neat, half-cursive handwriting that’s as bouncy and curvaceous as she is. She’s stopped thanking me, started telling me about her life, what she hopes my life is, what she hopesI know and think of myself. Always too damn positive and optimistic, but I have no idea what to do withthisletter.

Shaking my head, I shove the letter in my pocket and run my hand over the back of my neck. She’s too young for me. She’s too bright and sunny. She’s too good and she doesn’t belongherewhere I live, surrounded by trees and animals I’d rather talk to than people.

Nora has so much to give this world, and the sooner she lets go of whatever she thinks we are—whatever dream she’s built around me—the better.

Because we’re not meant for each other. That’s the truth.

And if she can’t see it, I’ll make damn sure she does. Maybe that short conversation already did the job. Maybe she’ll leave and finally realize I was just a man doing what needed to be done. Nothing more.

I’m not someone worth waiting for. Not someone worth writing to. I’m not the man you cross miles for.

I’m just here—existing in the same world she does. And that’s all we were ever meant to share.

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