Page 5 of Branded Mountain Man
"I'm not ransacking. I'm organizing." She held up a bottle of painkillers that were probably older than her hiking boots. "These expired two years ago."
"They still work."
"That's not how medication works." She set the bottle aside with the kind of deliberate care that suggested she was trying not to throw it out the window. "When did you last see a doctor?"
Colt sat up slowly, his left leg protesting the movement. The old injury always acted up in bad weather, and last night's storm had his knee feeling like broken glass. "Don't need a doctor."
"Everyone needs a doctor sometimes." Her eyes tracked the way he favored his left side as he stood, and he could practically see her making mental notes. "How long have you been limping?"
"I'm not limping."
"Right. And I'm not a therapist." She poured herself more coffee from the pot on his camp stove, completely at home in his space. "Want some?"
Colt wanted to say no. Wanted to maintain the distance, the walls, the careful isolation he'd built around himself. Instead, he found himself nodding.
She handed him a mug, and their fingers brushed for a split second. Her skin was warm, soft, completely unlike his own scarred hands. She noticed the contrast too—he saw her glance down at the contact before quickly looking away.
The coffee mug slipped from her fingers as Colt's eyes went dark, his gaze dropping to where his flannel gaped open across her chest.
"Sloan." Her name sounded rough, desperate.
"I know we shouldn't?—"
"We definitely shouldn't." But his thumb traced her lower lip anyway, and when she bit down gently, he groaned. "This is such a bad idea."
"The worst," she agreed, then pulled him down for a kiss that tasted like bad decisions and perfect timing.
"Storm's still moving through," she said, gesturing toward the windows. Outside, the rain continued to drum against the glass, though not as violently as the night before. "But there's another system behind it. Weather service is calling for three days of intermittent storms."
Three days. Colt felt something twist in his chest—part dread, part anticipation. "You can't stay here for three days."
"I don't have much choice. My assignment is for 72 hours anyway—standard protocol for psychological wellness assessments. The storms just mean we're doing it here instead of me hiking back and forth."
"Seventy-two hours." The words came out flat.
"Three days to observe, assess, and determine if you need additional support services." She settled back into the chair with her coffee, studying his face. "Don't look so thrilled."
Colt turned away, busying himself with stoking the fire. Three days trapped in this small space with a woman who made him hyperaware of things he'd forgotten about. The way she moved. The sound of her breathing. The fact that he hadn't been this close to another person in months.
"You don't have to be an asshole about it, you know," she said quietly. "I'm not here to judge you."
"Aren't you?"
"No." She met his eyes over her coffee mug. "I'm here because isolation can mess with people's heads. Make them think they're fine when they're not. Make them push away help when they need it most."
"I don't need help."
"Everyone needs help sometimes."
"You said that already."
"Because it's true." She leaned forward slightly, and Colt caught another hint of that vanilla scent that had been driving him crazy all night. "How long since you've talked to another person? Before yesterday, I mean."
Colt thought about it. Nash had hiked up about six weeks ago, bringing supplies and checking on the tower's progress. Before that... "Couple of months."
"Don't you get lonely?"
The question hit something deep in his chest, a place he'd learned to keep locked down tight. Lonely didn't begin to cover it. But lonely was better than the alternative. Lonely was safer than letting people close enough to leave.
