Page 3 of Mountain Man's City Girl
He doesn't respond, and we lapse back into silence as the Jeep climbs higher, jostling us over rocks and ruts. The trees thin out, offering glimpses of distant peaks and plunging ravines painted in impossible shades of blue and green.
By the time we reach a clearing high on the mountainside, it's early afternoon and my back aches from the rough drive, a knot of tension forming between my shoulder blades.
But I forget the discomfort when I see the cabin. It's not the rustic shack I expected, but something from a design magazine—all natural wood and stone, with a wide porch wrapping around two sides. Behind it, mountains rise in jagged majesty against a cloudless sky, their peaks still holding patches of snow despite the June heat.
"You'll stay there." Mr. Myers points to a smaller structure set back from the main cabin. "That's the guest house."
"It's beautiful," I say honestly, climbing out of the Jeep, my boots crunching on gravel that sparkles with flecks of mica in the sunlight.
He doesn't acknowledge the compliment, just starts unloading my bags, muscles flexing beneath his flannel shirt as he lifts the heaviest suitcase with insulting ease.
I reach for my camera instinctively, the familiar weight of it an extension of my body, framing the scene: the cabin nestled against wilderness, the harsh angle of Mr. Myers' shoulders ashe carries my suitcase toward the guest house. I adjust the aperture, seeking perfect focus, the click of the shutter satisfying in the mountain quiet.
As I snap the first photo, he glances back toward the main cabin. Through the window, I catch a glimpse of him frozen in silhouette, watching me.
For the first time since stepping off that bus, I feel a flutter of something besides irritation or anxiety.
Chapter 2 – Victor
The ax comes down with a satisfying thwack, splitting the pine log cleanly in two. I set up another, steady it with my left hand, and bring the blade down again. Sweat trickles between my shoulder blades. I've been at this for thirty minutes already—longer than necessary to stack what I need for tonight. But the physical exertion helps quiet my mind.
It isn't working today.
Jade King is in my guest cabin. Sixteen-year-old Jade—except she's not sixteen anymore. She's a woman now, with curves and confidence and eyes that still challenge everything they land on.
I split another log with more force than needed, sending half flying off the chopping block.
"Shit," I mutter, retrieving it from where it landed ten feet away.
Why did I agree to this? Two days of close quarters with Mark's daughter, of all people. The universe has a sick sense of humor. I could have sent her away. Should have. But something in her face when she recognized me—surprise, then determination—stopped me from walking out of that diner.
I stack the wood methodically, letting the rough bark scrape against my palms. The sensation grounds me, pulls me back to the present. Away from memories of Mark's face the last time I saw him.
I've spent almost a decade perfecting the art of solitude, of keeping the world—and my past—at arm's length.
Now Jade's arrival has cracked open a door I thought was sealed shut.
I finish stacking the wood and wipe my hands on my jeans. The guest cabin door opens, and Jade steps out onto the small porch, camera in hand. She's changed into a loose sweater that falls off one shoulder, revealing pale skin that looks impossibly soft. I turn away, busying myself with gathering the ax and work gloves.
She needs a tour of the place. Basic safety protocols. I can handle that much.
I take a deep breath and walk toward the cabin.
"All settled in?" My voice sounds rough even to my own ears.
She lowers her camera. "Just about. Is the water always that color?"
"What color?"
"In the shower. It's... amber. Like weak tea."
"Iron in the well water. It's clean." I hesitate, then add, "If it bothers you, there's bottled water in the cooler for drinking."
"It doesn't bother me. Just wanted to make sure." She studies me for a moment. "You're bleeding."
I glance down. A thin line of red crosses my forearm—must have caught it on a splinter. I hadn't noticed.
"It's nothing." I wipe it against my shirt. "I'll show you the basics. Won't take long."
