Protecting Her Secrets (Mountain Men of Culver Springs #1)

Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Skylar

My face falls, but it’s okay. I expected this response. Even more than that, I deserve it. Had he left me in Vegas after one of the best nights of our lives, I’d give him the same reception—right after I punched him in the balls. Since I know Walker would never lay his hands on me in anger, I’m already better off.

“We need to talk.” I glance over my shoulder at the pretty woman at the register, who isn’t even pretending not to listen to our conversation, then behind Walker, where three behemoth men stand slack-jawed. “Somewhere private?”

“Not a fuckin’ chance.” He storms outside without a backward glance.

Ignoring the curious looks from the bystanders, I chase after him but by the time I reach the wooden porch of the small grocery store, he’s driving away with a dog in the passenger seat. I growl in frustration. I knew he’d give me a hard time, but I didn’t think he’d outright ignore me.

I fold my arms to stave off the chill as I watch him go. Refusing to cry, I bite into my quivering lower lip. This isn’t how it was supposed to be. I had a plan, dammit. But that was thwarted the moment my eyes landed on Walker—the most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on, a fact that’s just as true today as it was when we were young. Maybe even more so because time has been real good to him. His bulked-up frame and beard had him looking like a lumberjack, complete with a red flannel button-down and beanie on his head. Little curls peeked out from around the knit cap, telling me he wears his hair longer now.

I would’ve loved to see what else about him has changed, but apparently, time hasn’t healed his wounds.

There’s no time to jump in my rental car and follow him. Judging by the roaring of his engine, he’s putting as much distance between us as possible right now. Well, hell. What now? I used to have his home address, but for the life of me, I couldn’t find it. My GPS had me going in circles for the better part of an hour before I decided to see if any of the locals could help. Running into him at the grocery store took us both by surprise, but if he thinks he’ll get rid of me that easily, he has another thing coming.

Though I hope he agrees to talk to me sooner rather than later. I was able to buy myself a couple days, but that’s it. Any longer, and Klutch will come after me, and I cannot, under any circumstances, let that happen.

I pinch my brow, knowing what I have to do next. Swallowing my pride, I walk back into the store. The conversation between the three men and Presley, as she introduced herself, goes silent as all four pairs of eyes land on me.

“Hi,” I start, weaving my hands together. “So this is hella awkward.”

The man in the cop outfit steps forward. “Name’s Wilder.”

“Nice to meet you, Wilder. I’m Skylar.”

“Skylar, huh? Walker’s never mentioned you.” His tone is clipped and dismissive. It doesn’t surprise me that the cop read the situation accurately and knows my presence isn’t welcome. I should be offended—even if he has a hunch, he doesn’t know me or why I’m here— but strangely, I’m just happy Walker has friends who care about him. He deserves that.

“Ignore the grumpy bastard.” A man with dirty blond hair and a beard steps forward. Matter of fact, they all have beards. It’s like a damn lumberjack competition up in here. “Hi, I’m Rowan. That one back there is Ridge, but he doesn’t talk much.”

Ridge shoulder-checks him as he holds out his hand. “I talk just fine.”

I smile. “Nice to meet you.”

“So, what brings you to Culver Springs?” Wilder asks.

“I’m an old friend of Walker’s and need to catch up with him for a minute. I don’t suppose any of you want to tell me how to find his place? It’s like the Bermuda Triangle out there. My GPS goes haywire the second I leave the main drag.”

“So you can pound on his door and interrupt his peace?” Rowan asks. With that biting question, my brows draw together and my shoulders fall. I’ll have to track him down some other way. Before I can turn to leave, he speaks up again. “I was just giving you shit. There’s no way I’d miss the chance to fuck with the guy, so of course I’ll tell you how to get there.”

“Thanks—I think.”

“No problem.” He continues to explain the somewhat hidden turn-off that leads to Walker’s house by drawing an invisible map with his hands. Turns out, I drove right past it multiple times.

“What do you want from him anyway?” Ridge asks as I’m gearing up to leave. He’s the only one of these men who makes me uneasy. I can’t get a good read on him.

“A divorce,” I say, turning to leave. Before any follow-up questions can fly at me, I bolt outside and climb into my rental.

While I was getting directions, the weather turned and it’s suddenly snowing like crazy. Beyond my windshield, all I can see is a sheet of white. A new rush of nerves settles over me. Snow is something we rarely see in Bakersfield, so I don’t have a lot of experience driving in it.

I shake it off. How hard can it be? People drive through snow all the time. I can do this. I have to do this. Suddenly, I’m more than a little pissed off at Walker, because if he hadn’t run off like that, I could be on my way home now. Not that home is any better than driving through this winter hellscape; it’s much worse. But better the devil you know, I guess.

I’m about to drive off when Wilder flags me down. I sigh and roll my window down when he reaches me. He is a cop, after all.

“I wouldn’t recommend driving up that way today. This system moved in fast and we’re due a couple feet of snow before tomorrow. It’s not safe to be driving, especially not in this vehicle.”

“Thanks for your concern, but I only need a signature from him. I should be gone before it gets bad.”

“It’s bad now,” he says.

“Like I said, thanks for your concern. I’ll take it into consideration.”

“All right then. Good luck to you.”

“Thanks.” I roll up the window and pull out onto the road.

Almost immediately, I wish I’d heeded the cop’s warning because I can’t see more than a few feet ahead of me, not to mention the lines on the road. Just go slow. It’ll be okay . Earlier, when I was looking for Walker’s house, I noticed the roads were lined with these tall poles to gauge the depth of the snow. Using them as a guide, I make it out of town, hoping and praying I don’t run into anything.

My GPS alerts me to the upcoming turn, but once I’m on that road, I end my route, knowing it won’t do me any good. Almost immediately, the fairly flat road turns steep. It makes sense, since Rowan said Walker lives at the top of the mountain. I don’t make it a few feet before I lose traction and slide. Panic sets in as my tires try to grip the road again. Nothing about this feels like a good idea, but I need that divorce. I put this off for as long as possible.

Taking a steadying breath, I slow down even more, inching my way up the hill. Rowan said the turn-off was two miles up, so I keep track of my mileage before I start looking for the next road. According to him, it’s only one lane, and the trees and brush tend to disguise it.

There. It’s right there . At least, I hope this is it.

I pass by a yellow sign hung in a tree announcing this is private property. Beyond that is another sign, this one in red, warning there are no outlets, no access, no parking, and no trespassing. Paranoid much? But Walker wasn’t done because another sign comes into view that says, “Life is short. Don’t make it shorter by trespassing,” and above the lettering is a picture of a pistol that appears to be aimed right at me. Yikes . Since I am very much trespassing, these signs don’t give me the warm and fuzzies.

Here’s to hoping I’m not met with a gun when he answers the door.

I can tell the road has been recently plowed, but with the heavy snowfall, there’s at least four inches of new powder. When the hill turns impossibly steep, with a snow bank to my right and a drop-off to my left, my stomach turns. The guardrail consists of short wooden posts with a dinky-looking metal chain connecting them, so it’s clearly not meant to stop vehicles from going over the edge.

The fall would suck. I can imagine the few seconds before crashing would be terrifying, but after that, there’d be nothing. For just a second, I feel the urge to yank the steering wheel to the left. It would be a relief to not have to deal with the realities of my life right now. One sharp tug and it could be over. I’m lost to that thought when my tires lose traction again, only this time, they don’t catch.

I try to think back to what my driver’s ed teacher said about what to do in this situation. Do I turn into it or away? The car makes the decision for me, turning sideways and heading right for the drop-off. Now that death is a reality, I take everything back. I don’t want to die, not yet.

Fuck.

Trusting my instincts, I steer into the turn instead of trying to right myself, and instead of slamming on the brakes, I pull my foot off the accelerator. It doesn’t work, and once the car starts spinning, things happen too quickly for me to try and stop it. I scream as I veer closer and closer to the cliff. Not caring about what I learned in driver’s ed, I do whatever my brain says, cranking the wheel this way and that, pumping on the brakes in hopes I can slow down the spin.

This is it. This is how I’m going to die. Klutch will find out all my secrets, but thankfully, I won’t be around for him to take it out on me—though I wish I could see the look on his face when he learns I’m already married. That’ll fuck him up real good.

I close my eyes, not wanting to see the fall coming, but instead, there’s a crunching of plastic and metal, and not even a second later, I’m punched in the face by the airbag. My head smacks the headrest painfully, and then everything goes silent, minus the slight hum of the engine.

“What the fuck?” I moan, shoving at the pillow in front of my face. Powder fills the air my lungs reject, and a coughing fit hits me as I open the door and stumble out into the snow. I lean my ass against the side of the car until I can breathe without hacking.

I quickly take stock of any potential injuries. Nothing hurts except my shoulder from the seatbelt locking and my face and head from the airbag. That’s good. My teeth chatter as I assess the car’s damage; whether from shock or the cold, I don’t know. Probably both.

In a stroke of luck, a tree stopped me from going over the edge, but just barely. The front right bumper is molded to the tree trunk, while the left is less than an inch from falling into the abyss. My heart pounds in my chest, seeing how close I came to death.

I don’t have time to dwell, though, because I still have to get to the top of the hill. In the distance, there’s a glowing light and smoke from a fireplace, and maybe it’s deceiving, but it doesn’t look that far away. Even if my rental is still drivable, I don’t feel good about tempting fate again.

I guess I’ll hoof it, then call the rental company once I get to Walker’s. Hopefully, they can dig it out or have the car towed if there’s too much damage.

“Glad I opted for the additional insurance. Sheesh,” I mutter as I reach inside the car for my jacket, purse, and phone.

At first, the walk is easy. My feet stay warm and dry thanks to my mid-calf motorcycle boots, but without gloves, my hands quickly turn to ice. I pull the sleeves of my coat over them, hoping to avoid frostbite. After about five minutes, my confidence wanes. It’s exhausting walking in the snow, and since nothing on me is waterproof, I’m soon chilled to the bone.

“What the hell am I doing?” I call out to no one.

I blame tequila and Vegas for this situation. And Walker. If he had just talked to me at the grocery store, I’d be driving my warm car away from Culver Springs. Though that would mean I was going home to accept my fate, no more excuses, and that doesn’t feel like the better option.

The snow falls harder than ever, and I’m out of breath, wishing I would’ve made time to visit the gym now and then. I pause, placing my hands on my thighs and sucking in deep lungfuls of air, only to realize the snow has seeped through my jeans and is currently soaking my socks.

“Damn it,” I say to no one. The snow is indeed deeper than my boots are tall. “This is just perfect. Not only have I taken up talking to myself, but I’m going to freeze to death in a snowstorm three-quarters of a mile from my destination.”

Collapsing into the snow and letting Mother Nature take its course sounds more and more like a good idea, but no. I didn’t make it this far to give up. Minutes feel like hours, and I’m not sure if my limbs going numb is a good sign or bad. At least the pinprick stinging is gone, so I’ll count that as a win.

I curse everyone and everything, allowing anger to propel me forward. Why did I wait fifteen years to get a divorce when I knew it was inevitable? Why didn’t Walker send me divorce papers? After all, he knew where I lived. It took hiring a PI to find out where he lived. After a good old-fashioned pity party, I look up to see the house at the top of the hill is finally in view, and I stop in my tracks to take it in.

It’s dated, for sure, but it fits right in with the unusual terrain of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. Surrounded by tall pines and mature oaks, the porch of the log cabin spans the length of the house, with an overhang held up by natural rock-covered posts, matching the chimney blowing thick and heavy smoke. Under the porch are large, gray, comfy-looking chairs. I can just imagine curling up with a book in one of them during a thunderstorm or on a summer evening as fireflies dance through the air.

The stunning two-story dwelling, built almost entirely of rich redwood, boasts floor-to-ceiling windows that offer panoramic views from every angle. The natural light must be breathtaking, making it worth the cost of a high power bill in both summer and winter.

As I approach the house, I can’t help but notice every single light is on, inside and out. Small globes line the path to the front door, while round bulbs illuminate the porch overhang and fencing. Along the property’s perimeter, posts are adorned with bright lights, casting an ethereal glow across the landscape. As my eyes wander, I spot multiple structures and a fenced-off clearing, most likely for livestock, all of which are also lit up with glowing bulbs. It’s a dazzling sight to behold, and I can only imagine how it looks from above.

It’s good that the green metal roof has solar panels down one side of the pitch, considering all the electricity those lights must use. It’s weird. I mean, to each their own, but the property is better lit than an airport runway.

Little snowballs have formed on my jeans and eyelashes by the time I climb the porch steps, but I can’t be bothered to brush them off, since I’m pretty sure my arms are frozen in place. This is proven when I can’t unfold them from across my chest, so I kick the front door instead.

Inside, a dog barks, startling me. I hear a man yell calming words and then footsteps on creaky floors until the locks disengage and I’m standing in front of the man of my dreams.

But that’s all he is. A dream. And I live in cold, hard reality.