Page 5 of Trapped with the Mountain Man

His lips stay pressed into a hard line. “Well, you’re not a guest and this isn’t a social visit.”

“Clearly,” I whisper against the rim of the mug as I blow away tendrils of steam and try to force myself to take another sip. The man may not be an actual bear, but he has the social grace and conversational skills of one.

Looking around the room, it doesn’t look anything like a ranger station. There’s a stone fireplace to my right, a dresser under the window in front of me, a simple kitchen to my left, and a dining table buried under a mountain of boxes and papers tucked into the corner. The only thing that looks even remotely official about the entire place is the wooden desk in the alcove near the door, which holds a stack of brochures, a telephone, and a CB radio. I want to ask him if this is really a ranger station, but I’m already exasperated by his short replies.

I take another small sip of the salty liquid. Staring down at the cup, I don’t recognize the shirt I’m wearing. It’s heather gray with a maroon outline of Smokey the Bear’s face printed in the center. A dribble of broth stains the rim of his hat.

“All your clothes were soaked,” Hunter says without looking at me. “That’s one of the promotional shirts we give out to kids.”

My humiliation is complete. This man has seen me naked. He’s seen me pass out in the mud, jump at the sound of my own armpits, and dribble beef broth down my chin onto the child-sized shirt he dressed me in. Honestly, death by grizzly would have been preferable to this.

To top it all off, I can’t deny that the man standing beside me right now is attractive. His dark hair is overgrown, but it looks intentional when it falls forward and brushes his cheekbones. His eyes are brown, but not dull. There are a hundred shades of caramel, umber, olive, and even some orange in them. The square ridges of his jaw are offset by the softness of his lips, which is obvious even when he draws them into a hard line. A dusting of stubble frames them and his olive skin looks like it would be perpetually warm to the touch, even in this rain.

But all of this is completely beside the point because: a) he’s kind of a dick, and b) the last thing I need right now is a fling with a hot forest ranger. I came out here to put my life back together, not create an even bigger mess for myself.

What I actually need is a ride back to town so I can put this entire humiliating experience behind me. And so I can get a giant hamburger. My stomach gives an empty tug and the corners of my mouth salivate at the idea of a warm meal.

“Well, this has been a blast, but is there any chance I can call someone to pick me up now?” I ask, flinging the heap of blankets aside and swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. I’m not even sure who I should call. It was a shuttle service that dropped me off near Fontana Dam days ago. Surely there’s another one that could come pick me up. We can’t be too far from Gatlinburg.

Hunter’s eyes widen. It’s the first small crack I’ve seen in his marble statue of a face. He glances off at nothing in particular across the room, looking anywhere but straight at me. I’m sure I’m not much to look at right now – just a soggy woman covered in days of dirt and sweat, with a splash of beef broth to top it all off.

“Road’s washed out from the storm. There’s no way to get in or out of here until it dries up.”

“You’re joking,” I say, though I already know that he lacks the capacity for humor.

“Amy-”

“Abby,” I correct.

“Abby, those kid-sized shirts run pretty small.”

“Obviously,” I say, confused by his meaning until my palm lands on my bare thigh. The Smokey shirt is snug around the top of my hip bones…and below that, I’m completely naked.

I take it back –nowmy humiliation is complete.

I yank the corner of the blankets back over my lap and let out a defeated sigh as my head drops to my palms. Hunter takes a step forward. He’s close enough now that my foot brushes against his pant leg. I don’t look at him, even when his hand wraps around my right wrist and two fingers press against my pulse.

“Look up at me,” he says. I comply reflexively to his commanding voice, which sends a strange flutter through my body. I wonder if he felt it in my pulse as I stare up at his brown eyes. Squinting slightly, he moves his face closer to mine, his eyes flicking between both of mine. The back of his hand presses lightly against both of my cheeks and then my forehead in a clinical way. Beneath the heap of blankets piled across my otherwise bare lap, I feel another tug, much lower than my stomach this time.

When he finally steps back, he announces, “Seems like you’ll be alright. Your pupils and your pulse are back to normal. How do you feel?”

“A little cold still, but okay other than that.”

“Take a shower, if you want,” he motions to the door between the fireplace and the dresser. “You’ll only get five or six minutes of hot water, but it will warm you up.”

I pull the flannel blanket off the top of the stack and wrap it around me carefully until I am a blue plaid burrito. Hunter looks away, staring out the window over the dresser. It’s impossible to see anything past the sheets of rain pummeling the glass pane, so I know he’s only being polite in case of another wardrobe malfunction. Maybe he has some manners after all.

My bag is on the floor near the fireplace. I bend over carefully, pull back the top flap, and reach inside. Not only is everything soaked, but also strangely gritty.

“Do you have a dryer?” I ask.

“Just a clothesline, but it won’t do you much good right now.” He glances back at the window and takes two large steps to the dresser, where he starts rummaging through drawers. “Here,” he says, holding out a black t-shirt.

I shuffle over and grab the shirt while maintaining a vice grip on my burrito of modesty with the other hand.

“Thanks.”

For the first time, I notice the gun on his hip and freeze. My muscles tighten painfully. Before I can dwell on it, I march off towards the bathroom and lock myself inside.

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