Page 13 of Wild for the Mountain Man
“I haven’t seen him since we were kids. How old is he now?”
“Seventeen. Eats like a bear.”
“Does he know he’s getting a random houseguest?”
“He will in a couple of hours.”
I laugh. “I should call Dad and let him know I’m safe.”
“I messaged him.”
He heads into the kitchen, and I lean back. My ankle is not throbbing, only my heart. I also feel a closeness from this mock rescue encounter with Wade – a gratitude dangerously close to desire.
Through the half-open door, I hear him humming under his breath, the low tune blending with the rattle of things in the kitchen. The cabin feels lived-in but orderly. I notice books, maps, and a framed photo of him and a younger Caleb, both grinning with fishing rods.
I came to these mountains for an assignment, not a story, but today feels like both. Maybe that’s what I’ve been chasing all along — something that can’t be captured, only felt.
I’ve wanted Wade for longer than I’ve had the courage to admit. It’s not just attraction. It’s the way he listens, the quiet care in everything he does. No man my age has ever looked at me like I’m someone to be seen, understood and helped, instead of conquered.
If I ever give myself to anyone, it will be Wade. I know that now — even if it can’t happen now.
Chapter 8
Wade
Snow is still falling when I finish wrapping her ankle. She’s tucked under a blanket on the couch, cheeks flushed from pain and firelight, trying to act like she’s fine. Tough kid. Tough woman, now.
“You’re going to have to stay off it awhile,” I tell her. “Bathroom’s down the hall. You can holler if you need a hand.”
She gives me a look that could thaw the drifts outside. “I’m not that helpless.”
“Didn’t say you were. Just saying hopping isn’t a plan.”
I glance toward the hall closet, thinking. There’s an old pair of aluminum crutches in there left over from a knee injury years back. Caleb used them once when he sprained his ankle during playoffs. They’ll do.
“Hang on,” I say, heading over. The metal clicks faintly as I pull them free, dusting off the grips.
Her brows lift. “You keep everything, don’t you?”
“Mountain living,” I say. “We recycle before we replace.”
She smiles, amused despite herself.
I kneel beside her to check the length. “Stand up … slowly. Let’s see where these hit.”
She pushes up on one leg, balancing against the arm of the couch. I steady her elbow without thinking, the heat of her skin startling through my palm. Her hair brushes my jaw as she straightens.
“Okay,” I say, forcing focus. “Hands go here. Weight on your good leg. Try a small step.”
She wobbles, laughs, and nearly tips into me. Instinct kicks in immediately. I catch her waist before she falls. For a second she’s against me, light and warm, breath catching against my chest.
“Sorry,” she says, voice softer now.
“Nothing to be sorry for,” I manage. My pulse disagrees, pounding hard enough I’m sure she can hear it. I clear my throat, adjust the crutches shorter. “Try again.”
This time she finds her balance, testing the motion across the rug. Determined, proud, stubborn as ever.
“See?” she says, grinning. “I’m mobile.”
