Page 1 of Branded Mountain Man
1
THE TOWER
SLOAN
The trail to the old fire tower was supposed to be a quick hike. In and out. Check on the isolated trail worker, confirm he was still breathing and hadn't gone completely feral, file a report, and head back to civilization.
That was the plan, anyway.
Now, two hours into what should have been a forty-five-minute climb, Sloan Whitaker was beginning to suspect the Forest Service had sent her on a wild goose chase. The GPS coordinates led to nothing but overgrown switchbacks and what appeared to be an abandoned trail marker from the Clinton administration.
"Brilliant," she muttered, adjusting her pack and glaring at her phone. No signal. Of course. "Send the wilderness therapist to check on the hermit. What could go wrong?"
She'd volunteered for this pilot program because it made sense—trail workers spent months alone in the backcountry, and mental health support was practically nonexistent. Someoneneeded to make sure they weren't slowly losing their minds to isolation and pine trees.
She just hadn't expected to lose her own mind trying to find them.
The trail curved sharply ahead, and Sloan pushed through a tangle of overgrown ferns before stopping dead.
There it was. The fire tower.
Or what was left of it.
The structure rose sixty feet into the sky, its metal framework intact but clearly abandoned for years. Except it wasn't abandoned now. Fresh lumber was stacked in neat piles around the base. A generator hummed quietly in the distance. And someone had been busy—the stairs were rebuilt, the platform reinforced, and the cab at the top looked like it might actually keep the weather out.
Movement caught her eye. A man emerged from behind the tower, carrying an armload of lumber like it weighed nothing. Tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a flannel shirt that had seen better decades. Someone who knew mountains, who belonged in wild spaces.
He spotted her at the same moment she spotted him.
And he did not look happy.
"You lost?" His voice carried across the clearing, rough and unwelcoming.
Sloan squared her shoulders and walked closer. "Colt Ramsey?"
He set down the lumber with deliberate care and straightened. Up close, he was even more imposing. Early forties, she guessed, with dark hair that needed a cut and a beard that needed trimming. His hands were scarred and calloused, his jeans torn at the knee, and he looked at her like she was trespassing.
Which, technically, she probably was.
"Depends who's asking." His eyes were the color of storm clouds, and just as welcoming.
"Sloan Whitaker. Forest Service sent me."
Something shifted in his expression. Surprise, then irritation. "They sent you to check on me?"
"That's the idea." She kept her voice level, professional. "New pilot program. Mental health wellness checks for isolated trail workers."
He stared at her for a long moment, then turned and picked up his lumber again. "I'm fine. You can leave now."
Sloan blinked. "I'm sorry?"
"You heard me." He started walking toward the tower. "Thanks for the visit. Don't get lost on your way down.”
"I'm not leaving." The words came out sharper than she'd intended. "I hiked two hours to get here, and I have a job to do."
Colt stopped walking and slowly turned around. "Your job was to check if I'm still alive. I'm alive. Job done."
"That's not how this works?—"
