Page 11 of Wild for the Mountain Man
“Looking forward to it.”
She starts the engine, gives a short wave, and disappears down the hill. I stand there until the tail-lights vanish into the trees.
Inside, the cabin smells of stew and the faint scent of Lilah. I feed another log to the fire, watch it catch, and let the warmth creep back into my hands.
There’s work tomorrow. There’s always work.
As the crackle settles into something softer, I think about what she stirs in me. She’s more than a warm familiar face. Lilah is my best friend’s daughter … and a woman I’d like to know in ways I shouldn’t. And that’s a real problem.
Chapter 7
Lilah
Dad calls just after sunrise, before I’ve even had coffee. “Morning, Pumpkin,” he says, voice gravelly from sleep. “You up?”
“Barely. You calling to check if I froze to death?”
“You got in after I was in bed … again. I’m just an early riser. Talked to Wade this morning.”
I smile against the phone. “You called him already?”
“Course I did. He was out before dawn, said something about guiding a couple through the canyon. That man’s made of coffee and commitment.”
“Yeah. He’s reliable.”
“Always has been. You know, after your mom passed, he was the one who made sure I didn’t sell the place and move us somewhere else. We both struggled with the memories she made there for us. But Wade said I’d regret it if I did.”
I glance out the window. There’s frost on the glass, pines heavy with snow. “He was probably right.”
“He usually is.” Dad pauses, then adds, “You two seem to be running into each other a lot lately.”
The casual tone doesn’t hide the curiosity underneath. “Small town, Dad.”
“Mmhmm.” His chuckle rumbles through the line. “Just saying, he’s a good man. He’s been through a lot over the years with his divorce. Caleb grew to a certain age and only wanted to live with his dad.”
“I didn’t know,” I say, now curious. Wade’s ex-wife situation lingers long after I set the phone down and pour my coffee.
By mid-morning the sky has cleared to a pale, blinding blue. It’s the kind that tricks you into thinking it’s warmer than it is. I grab my gear, leave Dad a note on the counter, and head for the upper ridge near Bear Creek. Wade mentioned the overlook there catches light differently after a snowfall. So of course, I want to see for myself.
The air is razor-sharp. My breath feels like it’s painting ghosts. The trail starts easy with packed snow and clear footing. But the higher I go, the less defined it becomes. Branches bow under white weight. Somewhere far off, a bird breaks the silence with one note that sounds like surprise.
I keep walking. The ridge opens and the world spills out revealing a cathedral of mountain peaks and shadow. I lift my camera, framing lines of pine and silver sky, snapping in short bursts until the light shifts again.
It happens fast. A misstep, a slick patch under thin powder. My boot slides sideways. I go down hard, camera clutched tight against my chest. And I wonder why I’m more concerned about the camera — which is replaceable — than my freefalling body.
“Shit.”
The sound echoes off the rocks. I sit up, breathing hard, testing the joint. I check the camera. It’s intact. At least there’s that.
Then a sound — distant at first. An engine. I twist toward it. A truck, green and familiar, crawling up the service road below.
I laugh under my breath, half relief, half disbelief. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
It’s Wade — my knight in camo green armor coming to the rescue. I’m still in a sitting position from my hard land. I raise my red scarf and wave it at him. He spots me a second later, kills the engine, and is out of the cab before the echo fades. “Lilah!”
His boots crunch fast through the snow. “What happened?”
“Gravity,” I say through a shaky smile. “And apparently my lack of coordination.”
