Page 7 of Kissing My Mountain Man

I open my mouth to speak, but a bird in the tree above us squawks loudly, cutting me off. Denny’s hands drop from my face.

“Nothing appears to be broken,” he says. “Might just be a sprain. Either way, we should head back. I don’t—”

“No!” I say louder than I mean to. “I have to go up there. And we’ve already come this far.

Denny sighs and looks around. I can see the wheels turning in his mind as he weighs out all the different scenarios in which this could end badly. I hold my breath and wait, knowing that if he makes the call to go back, there’s nothing I can do. I don’t know how to get to the homestead on my own, and I don’t think he’d let me even if I could.

“Why do you want to go to Bishop’s Ridge so bad?” he asks, sitting down on the boulder next to me.

We look out at the range of mountains rolling out before us. I’m not sure I realized just how high we were already until this moment. We’ve climbed pretty far, and the sight before me is incredible.

“Clara Bishop is my four-time great aunt,” I say, glancing over at him to see if he recognizes the name.

Denny’s eyebrows shoot up with surprise. I’m not sure whether I should be surprised that he knows the name or if he’s surprised that I’m related to such a remarkable woman. Then again, I haven’t really shown I’m worthy of association with my clumsy behavior and inability to speak.

“She was quite a woman,” he says.

“A woman ahead of her time.” I nod. “She’s the subject of my graduate thesis. I’ve spent years researching every aspect of her life, but the one thing I haven’t done is visit where she lived.”

“I see.”

“I have plans to write a book about her life.”

“Aren’t there a few already out there?” he asks, surprising me.

“Yes, but none of them go nearly as in-depth as they could. I want to show that women in the frontier are more than just a footnote in history.”

Denny nods and pushes up from the boulder. “Well, we won’t get there any quicker if we keep sitting here. If you think you can still make it up the mountain, then it’s my job to get you up there.”

I grab my boot off the ground and push my foot into it. The ache that remains isn’t enough to stop me from finishing this trip.

After I’ve got it all laced up, I stand and take a tentative step to make sure I’m okay. My ankle doesn’t buckle, so I take a few more steps before turning back to Denny.

“I’m all good.”

“Then let’s go.”

ChapterFour

DENNY

I decide that it’s probably best to keep Landry in front of me as we walk. That way, I can keep my eyes on her for the remainder way up the mountain.

When she tripped, the fear that tore through my chest surprised even me. I don’t want anyone to get hurt on my watch, but there’s something about Landry that takes my fear to another level. I thought I wasn’t going to get to her in time before she hit her head on the rock, but I got lucky.

So, for the last two hours, I’ve watched over her as she carefully hikes with her head down, watching every step. I think it helps that she sets a pace she’s comfortable with rather than trying to keep up with mine.

I’d never forgive myself if she hurt herself again. Not to mention Devrie would kill me.

It’s probably ridiculous that I’m feeling this way about a woman I’ve only just met, but it’s not only the fact that she’s fucking gorgeous that has me thinking this way. It’s the passion in her voice when she spoke about giving more life to Clara Bishop’s story.

When I became a park ranger, I’d heard the stories about her and even picked up a biography to find out more about her. But Landry is right. The guy who wrote about her seemed to try and downplay who Clara was during her time. It’s not hard to see strong, independent women every day now, but back in the late 1800s, they may have been strong, but they didn’t have their independence. So, for Clara Bishop to live as she did in the time that she lived made her one hell of a woman. It’s clear that determination runs strong in Landry’s family.

“How much farther do you think?” she asks over her shoulder.

I glance up ahead, looking for the lover’s knot tree. It’s what I always look for when I come up to Bishop’s Ridge. But I don’t see it yet.

“We’re getting close,” I say.

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