Page 2 of Wrecked By the Mountain Man
Then, a sharp, insistent knocking shatters the fragile peace. It doesn’t stop. A series of rapid-fire thumps bash against my heavy oak door, forcing me to sit upright in the chair.
"What the fuck?"
My blood runs cold. No one ever comes out here. No one.
This is my sanctuary, my self-imposed exile away from the world.
And because of that, every nerve ending is now screaming 'threat,' 'danger,' 'intrusion.'
My hand reaches for the old hunting rifle propped by the fireplace. My breath hitches, a familiar tightness seizing my chest, the shadows in the corners of my mind growing long and grotesque.
Visions flash before my eyes. A dusty alley, muzzle flashes, the scent of death and gunpowder.
Control it, Rogers. You're home. You're safe.
It's probably just a fucking bear.
But then the knocking comes again, louder this time, followed by a muffled, almost imperceptible cry as the door handle twists like someone is trying to open it.
The instincts of my military training, honed through years of combat, scream at me to assess, to protect, to respond. But the trauma, the beast that lives and breathes inside me every fucking day since I returned to this God forsaken mountain, snarls back, demanding retreat, demanding isolation.
I am a broken man.
I have nothing to give, nothing to protect.
Especially not some fool who dares interrupt my peace.
But the cry… it sounds distinctly human.
And female.
Shit.
I grudgingly stalk toward the door, rifle still clutched tight, my knuckles white against the dark wood of the handle.
Every step is a battle against the overwhelming urge to barricade myself deeper inside, to let the mountain devour whoever is out there and teach them a goddamn lesson.
Let them survive or die on their own terms. Just like I try to do each and every day.
But my damn conscience, that irritating vestige of the man I used to be, won’t allow it. A desperate human sound, out here, in this unforgiving wilderness, during a storm like this?
It doesn’t sit right.
I peer through the small, reinforced peephole, my vision obscured by the onslaught of snow and rain.
And then I see her.
A flash of blonde hair, plastered wetly to a face that is pale with cold, but still oddly determined.
Water streams down her cheeks, mingling with what looks suspiciously like tears, or maybe just the icy rain. Fuck, I hopeit's rain. I can barely deal with my own tears, let alone a woman crying on my doorstep.
But fuck. Sheisshivering violently. She's clutching herself, and her stupidly vibrant, purple raincoat looks like a soggy, defeated flag.
"Edward? Are you there?" The girl calls out. "It's Penny Kaye."
My jaw clenches so hard I think my teeth might splinter.Penny.
The sunshine sprite from Scottsdale, now a drenched, shivering wreck on my doorstep, looking completely out of place against the backdrop of the mountains.
