My Mountain Man Recluse: A Grumpy Sunshine Age Gap Romance

2. Izzie

Idrive with my window down, enjoying the feel of cool air blasts that sweep in. I sing along to the music as I take the narrow roads that lead into the heart of the mountain.

There aren’t many places this far up the mountain, and Jagger’s is one of the most remote.

There’s an influx of pings every time my phone finds signal again. It must be people commenting on my approaching storm photos, but I can’t check while I’m driving.

The phone vibrates, and it’s Dad calling. I answer it, and his voice booms through my speaker. “Where are you?” His gruff tone is nothing new to me.

“I’ve just left Kaci’s. I’m heading to Jagger’s.”

Dad still treats me like a kid whenever I’m back. But I don’t argue anymore. He has his reasons.

“You need to turn around now, Izzie, and get home. This storm is gonna hit sooner than expected. They’ve closed all the mountain trails, and we’re evacuating the campgrounds. It’s gonna be a bad one.”

His voice goes crackly, the approaching storm already messing with the signal.

“I’m okay, Dad. I’m nearly at Jaggers.”

“I don’t want you on these roads when the rain starts.”

I try not to eye-roll, even though he can’t see me. Dad has his reasons for being overprotective, but I know these roads, I’m a careful driver, and he insisted I get a big-ass Jeep with four-wheel drive and massive tires that he checks for me every time I come home to visit.

The turnoff for Jagger’s comes up on the right. It’s overgrown and narrow, and branches scrape against the side of the Jeep as I turn in. There’s no signage, and you wouldn’t know it led to a cabin if you didn’t know where to look. It’s as if he doesn’t want any visitors, ever.

“I’m already at his place,” I tell Dad, even though the cabin is another five minutes down the access road. When Jagger retreated to the mountains, he really retreated.

I’ll give Jagger the casserole, make sure he’s still alive, invite him for Sunday lunch, and get going. I already know he won’t come for lunch; he never does. But even though I’ve still got two years of college before I qualify as a nurse, I already feel responsible for the care of everyone on this mountain, especially a family friend.

It’s what Mom would have done. The thought of Mom makes my chest tighten. I need to be home and safe for Dad so he’s not alone tomorrow.

“I’ll be home soon.”

I hang up on Dad and concentrate on the winding mountain road. I’m climbing higher with every turn, and I peer through the windshield hoping for a glimpse of the cabin. When it finally comes into view, my breath catches the way it always does.

Jagger built himself the perfect cabin in the perfect location: at the top of a ridge that overlooks the valley. Forest surrounds him on three sides, providing a wind break. The fourth side looks out over the valley with the peaks of the mountains beyond, snow coating the sides even at this time of year.

From this angle, looking away from Hope and the town lights, there’s no sign of humanity. Just an empty mountain vista, untouched like how it must have looked thousands of years ago.

I pull my Jeep to a stop, and I whip my phone out to snap a few pictures. Signal is back, and I post the video and another picture before getting out of the car.

The wind picks up, whipping through the valleys and around the cliffs with an eerie, mournful howl, bending trees and rustling leaves in a frantic dance. Thunder rolls in the distance, and I shiver as cool air hits my bare arms.

The cabin is a squat wooden A-frame built for one. A small porch runs around the outside. There’s a single wooden chair out front with a worn cushion looking out over the valley. An ashtray holds butts of cigars, and an old crate is turned over and has been used as a table judging by the dark round stains on it.

“Hello?” I call as I knock on the door.

I wait on the porch as the wind blusters around me. There’s no answer, and I knock again.

Jagger’s pickup is parked out front, but maybe he can’t hear me over the wind.

I’m about to knock again when a sound reaches my ears, the steady thwack of an axe hitting wood.

I walk to the side of the cabin and peer into the backyard. My breath catches in my throat.

Jagger is here all right. All six foot something of him, bare chested with muscles glistening. A discarded checkered shirt is slung over a post where an Irish setter is tied up, pawing restlessly at the ground and watching her master as closely as I am.

Jagger positions a thick log on the chopping block and raises the axe high above his head, the muscles in his arms and shoulders tense with the effort. For a brief moment, he pauses, eyes narrowing in concentration, judging the perfect angle for the cut.

Then, with a swift, powerful motion, he brings the axe down. The blade slices through the air with a satisfying whistle, burying itself deep into the wood with a resonant thunk.

The log splits cleanly in two, each half tumbling to the ground on either side of the block.

His muscles dance with each blow, and perspiration makes his skin slick. My core tightens, and there’s a tug between my legs that I haven’t felt for a man before.

I shake my head, trying to clear it.

This is Jagger. This is Dad’s best friend. He was best man at my parents’ wedding. I’ve known him since I was a kid. Always aloof, always distant. There were years when I didn’t see him, when he was away with the military, but he always came around for dinner whenever he was back. I remember him and Dad drinking and smoking cigars late into the night.

I try to remember the last time I saw him. I went away to college two years ago, and he stopped coming around whenever I was home for the holidays.

I must have been a girl last time I saw him, but my response to my father’s best friend now, as I watch him powerfully bring the axe down on another piece of wood, is all woman.

My panties dampen, and my breath hitches in my throat. The hairs on my arms stand on end, and I’m not sure if it’s from the chill in the air or the sudden heat radiating off my body.

I don’t even realize it’s started raining until he runs a hand through his silver streaked hair and droplets fly off the ends.

Jagger lifts the axe to swing again and the Irish setter turns its head, suddenly aware of my presence. She gives a yelp as the axe falls, and Jagger’s eyes dart in my direction. The axe swings wide and instead of slicing the log squarely, it comes down at a weird angle. A shard of wood flies up and lodges in his forearm.

He lets out a grunt of pain and yanks the wood out of his arm. The skin tears and a streak of scarlet blood blossoms on his forearm.

“Oh no.”

I rush forward, picking up the discarded flannel shirt as I go.

“Wrap it in this to stop the bleeding.”

I take his arm, and he beats me away.

“I’ll do it,” he snarls.

Yup, it’s Jagger all right. Just as moody as he always was, only this time I’ve earned the scowl. I don’t have time to be offended by his tone. Blood gushes onto the woodpile, and he needs medical attention now.