His Wild Desire: A Curvy Woman Mountain Man Romance (Rugged Peaks Book 1)

Chapter 1

The sun is already sinking lower in the sky as I navigate the winding mountain trail, my breath coming in labored pants. I should”ve listened to that chipper park ranger and started earlier in the day, but sleeping in on my little mountain vacation didn”t exactly align with his suggested timeline.

Sweat trickles down my lower back, and I pause to wipe my brow, grimacing at the grimy streaks of dirt and smudged makeup. Mother Nature is really doing a number on my meticulously crafted appearance.

Glancing down at my brand new, top-of-the-line hiking ensemble—complete with trendy leggings, a quick-dry tank, and ridiculously overpriced trail shoes—I can”t help but scoff. All this fancy gear, and I still look like a hot mess.

I really need to start taking those Zumba classes again if a few measly miles have me this winded. Although, to be fair, these ”few miles” are more like a relentless uphill climb, and the altitude is no joke. Stupid Rocky freaking Mountains.

The trail narrows, and I eye the precarious path winding alongside a steep, rocky drop-off. Of course, the one time I decide to get in touch with nature and find my inner peace or whatever, it has to be on the world”s most treacherous hiking trail.

I take a tentative step, gripping the rock wall for balance as loose gravel shifts beneath my boots. Maybe coming out here alone wasn”t such a bright idea after all. Not that I have anyone to join me these days unless you count my doorman who keeps not-so-subtly offering to show me the city”s best takeout spots.

My ankle twists sharply on an uneven patch, and a searing pain shoots up my leg. ”Son of a—” I cry out, crumpling to the ground.

I clutch my throbbing ankle, panic rising as I survey the vast, unforgiving landscape around me. Rugged peaks loom in every direction, dwarfing me with their sheer size and leaving me feeling impossibly small and alone out here.

Stupid, stupid idea, Whitmore. What the hell were you thinking?

Sucking in a sharp breath, I try shifting my weight, but even the slightest movement sends daggers of agony stabbing through my joint. Tears well in my eyes as the reality of my situation sets in. I”m miles from the trailhead, stranded in the middle of nowhere with a twisted ankle and not a soul in sight to help.

Digging into my pack, I fish out my phone, only to find zero bars. Because, of course, there”s no cell reception out here in the wilderness. With a growl of frustration, I hurl the useless device aside and slump back against the rock wall, cradling my injured ankle.

Aspen would be having a field day if she could see me now. My good friend and coworker grew up around these parts, always raving about the rugged beauty of Silverpine and insisting I needed to experience it for myself. ”The mountains will reset your soul, Em,” she”d say with an annoyingly serene smile. ”Get away from the city grind and find yourself again out there.”

Well, consider my soul thoroughly reset, Aspen. I”m certainly finding myself out here—cold, injured, and utterly miserable.

As the shadows lengthen and the temperature plummets, I curl in on myself, shivering violently. So much for getting ”in touch with nature.” More like nature getting in touch with kicking my ass.

The encroaching darkness only amplifies every crunch of gravel and eerie whisper of wind, fueling the irrational fears swirling in my mind. I”m just some helpless city girl out of her depth, an easy target for whatever deranged lunatics or wild animals lurk out here.

I blink back tears, hugging myself tighter in a pitiful attempt to retain what little body heat I have left. The last rays of sunlight are nearly swallowed by the jagged peaks, casting the trail in an inky blackness that seems to stretch endlessly in every direction. No one is coming for me. Not out here. I”m utterly alone.

That”s when I hear the telltale crunch of heavy boots on the gravel behind me. Every muscle in my body goes rigid as my pulse hammers in my ears. Slowly, shakily, I turn to face the source of that ominous sound.

A towering silhouette emerges from the fading light, the sharp angles of his chiseled jaw and broad, muscular frame unmistakable even in the growing gloom. He moves with a confident, purposeful stride, each footfall solid and sure on the treacherous terrain.

Our eyes meet across the trail, and I”m pinned by the intensity of that piercing stare, feral and wild like the rugged peaks surrounding us. Strands of shaggy dark hair whip across his weathered face in the biting mountain wind, and his mouth is hidden by a thick beard.

His gaze drops to my crumpled form, and I instinctively shrink back against the rock wall. Please don”t be a serial killer. Please don”t be a serial killer.

The man halts a few feet away, his brows furrowing into a stern scowl as he folds his arms over that broad, flannel-clad chest. Even bundled in layers, it”s obvious he”s all muscle.

”You hurt?” His gruff baritone shatters the tense silence, somehow deeper and richer than I”d imagined a voice could be.

I blink dumbly for a beat before managing a jerky nod. Smooth, Whitmore.

Those eyes rake over me again with an unmistakable hint of judgment. ”Figured. You city girls always underestimate how unforgiving these mountains can be.”

The condescending edge to his words immediately puts me on the defensive, pain and fear momentarily forgotten in a flare of indignation. ”Excuse me? I”ll have you know, I”m perfectly capable of taking care of—”

I cut off with a yelp as I instinctively try to push myself upright, searing pain lancing through my ankle. So much for that little bravado act.

To his credit, the gruff mountain man”s eyes immediately soften with something like concern as he watches my face contort. ”Yeah, you don”t look too capable from where I”m standing.”

With a grunt of apparent reluctance, he crosses those final steps to crouch beside me, his calloused fingers grazing my ankle with surprising gentleness. I flinch at the contact, fresh tears springing to my eyes at the jolt of agony. Up this close, his rich, musky scent—all cedar and campfire smoke—is utterly intoxicating in a way I”d never admit aloud.

”Sprained bad,” he mutters after a few prods, his jaw tightening. ”You planning on spending the night out here?”

His gaze flicks up to meet mine, one brow arched pointedly. The challenge is clear—either swallow my pride and let this rugged stranger help me, or stubbornly insist I”m just fine and risk freezing my ass off on this exposed cliff all night.

I open my mouth, already preparing a biting retort, but his stony expression gives me pause. For once, I think better of antagonizing someone who could be my only hope of getting off this mountain in one piece.

Clenching my jaw, I force out a grudging, ”I”d rather not.”

A faint smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, and I instantly want to wipe that infuriatingly smug look off his face. ”Figured as much. C”mon, then. Let”s get you off this trail before that ankle swells up any more.”

Before I can react, he”s scooping me into his arms with easy strength, my backpack slung over his shoulder. I instinctively clutch at the flannel fabric covering his broad chest, that heady campfire scent surrounding me in a way that”s alarmingly soothing.

”Careful there, hoss,” I mutter as he navigates the precarious trail with sure steps, ”Wouldn”t want you to throw your back out and leave us both stranded up here.”

Those striking blue eyes cut sideways, pinning me with a look that makes my breath hitch in my throat. ”Don”t you worry, darlin”,” he rumbles in that rich timbre. ”I can handle a hell of a lot more than a slip of a thing like you.”

My cheeks instantly burn, and I silently thank the growing darkness for concealing my flustered reaction. I”m curvy enough that no one”s ever called me a “slip of a thing” in my life, but there”s no mistaking the suggestive lilt in his tone or the way his grip tightens ever so slightly as he speaks.

“And the name’s Caleb. Not hoss,” he adds.

“Well, I’m Emma. Not city girl,” I retort.

We lapse into an expectant silence as he carries on, his breaths coming deep and even while I fight to steady my own rapid pulse. I should be repulsed by this strange, uncouth mountain man and his infuriatingly smug demeanor. I should be terrified at the prospect of being alone with him in the isolated wilderness.

And yet, some deeper instinct tells me I”m safe with this rugged stranger. Despite his gruff exterior and condescending remarks, there”s something undeniably trustworthy about him, something that makes me feel oddly secure in his arms.

Like he”s the immovable, steady force in these wild peaks that will keep me anchored no matter how violently the winds howl or trails twist.