Page 1 of Mountain Man's City Girl
Chapter 1 – Jade
I don't belong here.
That's my first thought as I step off the bus into what feels like a movie set of Small Town, USA. Fox Ridge, population probably less than my apartment building back home. The air is too clean, too sharp with pine and something sweet I can't place. Maple syrup, maybe? Do trees just leak breakfast condiments in places like this?
"First time in Fox Ridge?" The bus driver hands me the second of my ridiculous three suitcases, his weathered face crinkling with amusement.
"That obvious?" I adjust my camera bag, its familiar weight the only comforting thing about this moment.
"City folk always get the same look. Like you've landed on Mars."
I force a smile and accept my last bag, its wheels already collecting dirt from the unpaved edge of the road. "Thanks for the smooth ride."
He tips his hat—an actual, non-ironic tip of an actual, non-ironic hat—and I'm left standing alone on the sidewalk as the bus rumbles away, leaving me in a cloud of dust that settles on my black jeans.
The Fable Diner sits across the street, its neon OPEN sign flickering against rustic wood siding that's either authentically weathered or expensively designed to look that way. That's my destination, according to the hastily arranged meeting instructions. I check my phone—no signal, naturally—and drag my luggage across the empty street, wheels catching on cracks in the pavement like petulant children refusing to move forward.
A bell jingles when I push through the door, the sound crisp and jarring in the morning quiet.
"Morning," I offer with a tight smile, hauling my bags to a booth by the window where sunlight streams in, highlighting the dancing dust motes and making the worn vinyl seats gleam an unnatural red.
The waitress approaches, coffeepot already in hand like she's read my mind. The scent of freshly brewed coffee—rich and inviting—momentarily eclipses my discomfort. "You must be the journalist."
I blink. "How did you—"
"Honey, we get about three new faces a year around here. And Victor mentioned he was meeting someone from a magazine." She pours coffee without asking if I want some. I do, desperately. The liquid is dark as sin and smells like salvation. "I'm Judy."
"Jade. Jade King."
Something flickers in her expression, but it's gone before I can analyze it, replaced by the polite mask of someone who serves strangers for a living. "Take your time with the menu. Special's blueberry pancakes."
When she walks away, her shoes squeaking slightly against the floor, I gulp the coffee. It burns a path down my throat, bitter and perfect. I pull out my phone again. Still no signal, but I can review the assignment brief offline. The editor's email stares back at me:
Hidden wilderness sanctuaries—the places even serious outdoorsmen rarely reach. Your guide has access to pristine locations. Four days, three nights. We need the magic, Jade. This is your shot at the cover feature.
My shot. The words echo in my head as I scroll through the brief again, my thumb leaving smudges on the screen. At twenty-five, I'm younger than most photographers the magazine uses. This assignment is my break—assuming I don't die of mosquito bites or boredom first.
I glance at my watch, the leather band damp against my wrist. 10:45. My guide is late.
By 11:00, I've consumed two cups of coffee, the caffeine buzzing through my veins like angry hornets, and fielded fourteen not-so-subtle stares from the locals. Their whispers drift across the diner like autumn leaves, just audible enough to be annoying, fragments about "city girl" and "Victor's place" reaching my ears.
I've also ordered pancakes, because why not? They arrive in a glorious stack that almost makes me forgive this town for existing, steam rising from their fluffy surfaces as maple syrup pools in golden puddles.
The bell jingles again, the sound slicing through the diner's murmur, and I don't look up, focused on documenting my breakfast for the Instagram followers who think my life is glamorous. But something shifts in the air—a sudden silence, the weight of presence—and I lift my head.
The man filling the doorway steals my breath.
He's huge, six-foot-something of solid mountain. A thick salt-and-pepper beard covers the lower half of his face. His eyes—steel gray and unnervingly direct—scan the diner before landing on me. Those eyes. I know those eyes, though they're more weathered now, lined at the corners from years of squinting into wilderness sun.
"Mr. Myers?" The name leaves my mouth before I can stop it, hanging in the air between us.
He doesn't move, just stares, confusion furrowing his brow. Then recognition dawns, followed immediately by something that looks alarmingly like panic.
"Jade?" His voice is deeper than I remember, roughened by time or disuse or both, the single syllable of my name carrying a weight I don't understand.
My brain short-circuits. Victor Myers. My dad's best friend from years ago. The man who taught me to fish when I was twelve, who disappeared from our lives when I was sixteen. The reclusive survivalist turned outdoor TV personality turned... whatever he is now.
"Hi," I manage, standing awkwardly. "Long time."
