Page 1 of Mountain Man Summer

Chapter One

“Hiding in Plain Sight”

Didi

My rental car's air conditioning surrendered with a pathetic wheeze as I crested the final mountain curve. After six hours of driving, the ancient Chevy's valiant battle against Montana's July heat had finally ended in defeat.

"Screw it," I muttered, punching the button to roll down all four windows at once.

A wall of humid mountain air slammed into me like opening an oven door, instantly plastering my thin blouse against my skin. I swept my blonde hair into a messy bun, already feeling tendrils curling wildly in the moisture-laden atmosphere. At least here I could sweat in peace, away from my persistent listener-turned-stalker who called himself 'ChicagoNightOwl.' So much for the "cool mountain air" the resort website had promised.

The momentary discomfort vanished when Hope Peak Lake spread below me—a massive sapphire cupped between pine-covered peaks, late afternoon sunlight dancing across its surface like scattered diamonds.

"And this, dear listeners, is what running away looks like when you do it with style," I said, my voice dropping into its radio register without thought. The sultry tone Jamie swears could "make a grocery list sound like foreplay."

No microphone tonight. No audience except myself. Just Deirdre Danielle Lawson—"Didi" to everyone except my mother and the IRS—driving alone toward a month of blessed anonymity, sunglasses hiding tired green eyes that scanned the road with habitual vigilance.

Sweat trickled between my breasts as the road wound down toward Hope Peak Lake Resort. Each bend revealed another picture-perfect view, each descent cranked the temperature another degree. July 1st in Montana was apparently determined to rival Chicago's worst heatwaves, but at least here I could sweat in peace, away from unwanted attention.

I'd chosen Hope Peak for its perfect trifecta: miles from Chicago, minimal online presence, and iron-clad guest privacy policies. The ideal hideout for a radio personality whose late-night listener had transformed from enthusiastic fan to persistent stalker over the past three months. The packages had started innocently enough—fan mail, small gifts—then escalated to photos of me entering my apartment building, notes about what I'd worn that day, promises of our "inevitable future together."

The narrow road finally leveled out, and I followed the handwritten directions to Cabin 7. Relief washed over me when I spotted its isolated position at the property's edge, surrounded by towering pines with only one neighboring cabinvisible through the trees. Minimal neighbors meant minimal potential for unwanted recognition. Not that my late-night radio fame extended much beyond Chicago's insomniacs, but ChicagoNightOwl had proven disturbingly resourceful.

As I stepped from the car, the heat hit me fully. My lightweight traveling clothes—chosen for comfort during the long drive—now felt like too many layers in a sauna. Perspiration immediately beaded along my hairline and upper lip. The weatherman had announced "record-breaking temperatures" across the Northwest as I'd driven through Idaho, but I'd foolishly assumed the mountains would provide relief.

The key waited in a lockbox alongside a handwritten welcome note from the owner, Ruth Anderson. I fumbled with the combination, fingers slippery with sweat, cursing softly when I dropped the key twice before successfully unlocking the door.

Inside, the air hung thick and motionless. I immediately spotted the window unit air conditioner and lunged for it, twisting the dial to maximum. It responded with a concerning rattle before pushing out a feeble stream of barely-cool air.

"Perfect," I sighed, leaning directly into the pathetic breeze. "Just perfect."

Thirty minutes and one lukewarm shower later, I'd transformed into something resembling a human being again. I'd abandoned my travel clothes for the simplest outfit possible—frayed cutoff shorts and a Northwestern tank top that had seen better days. My damp hair was piled atop my head in what could charitably be called an artistic mess. Makeup seemed pointless in this heat; it would slide off before I could finish applying it.

The cabin itself delivered exactly what the photos had promised—warm pine walls, furniture that balanced comfortwith rustic charm, a stone fireplace (utterly useless in this heat), and beyond the rear windows, an unobstructed view of the lake, complete with a private dock jutting into crystal-clear waters.

"Home sweet temporary getaway," I said to the empty room, my voice falling automatically into its on-air cadence. The habit of narrating my life was an occupational hazard after five years of late-night confessionals with insomniacs and night-shift workers across Chicago.

I'd packed light—essentials plus broadcasting equipment. After discovering my stalker had somehow obtained my home address, material possessions lost their appeal. The smaller bedroom would serve as my impromptu studio. I unpacked my tech arsenal—laptop, microphone, mixer—with practiced efficiency, setting up on the small desk beneath the window.

My fingers traced the familiar contours of the microphone stand, the tactile sensation grounding me amid the disorientation of new surroundings. I adjusted the acoustic panels, feeling the padded fabric under my fingertips, sweat making my hands slightly slick against the equipment.

"Testing, testing," I murmured, then cleared my throat and let my voice drop into its professional register. "This is Late Night with Didi, coming to you from... somewhere with actual crickets and enough heat to make a shy girl consider skinny dipping."

The levels peaked perfectly. The internet connection stuttered but held. I could maintain my career from this backwoods sanctuary while Chicago PD hopefully made progress on identifying my mystery stalker. The security footage had captured only glimpses of a hooded figure, never a clear face for identification.

My phone buzzed with Jamie's text:

Landed safely? Chicago sweltering, 98 degrees today.

I tapped back:

Safe. Cabin perfect. Just arrived after a six-hour drive. Montana apparently didn't get the memo about mountain coolness.

Jamie responded immediately:

AC struggling here at station too. Getting questions about your "vacation." Maintaining cover story.

I smiled faintly at Jamie's loyalty. My producer was the only person who knew my exact location, and she'd die before revealing it—even to our station manager. As far as Chicago was concerned, I was taking a well-deserved break at an "undisclosed location" after my stalker situation became too concerning to ignore.

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