Taken by the Mountain Man (Maple Peak Mountain Men #10)

Chapter 1 Tessa

The first thing I noticed about Maple Peak was the quiet.

Not the dead kind of quiet. The living kind—pine trees moving in a slow mountain breeze, the distant knock of someone’s hammer, a dog barking once and then thinking better of it.

I rolled my window down as I drove the last stretch into town and let the cool, resin-scented air push the last of Seattle out of my lungs.

My GPS announced that I had arrived just as a wide gravel lot came into view.

A long, low building of weathered wood and corrugated metal sat at the far end, with a neat hand-painted sign that read Whitaker Timber & Custom Woodworking.

Stacks of lumber rested under open-sided shelters.

A couple of work trucks were parked near the big sliding doors.

Everything looked solid, practical, and exactly as advertised.

I parked, smoothed my blouse, and grabbed my portfolio. The contract was straightforward on paper: rebrand Noah Whitaker’s business and create a suite of materials for the town’s upcoming autumn festival. Six weeks, maybe less if I worked fast. Then back to the city and the next client.

I had no intention of lingering.

The main workshop door stood open. Inside, the air was warmer and smelled of fresh-cut cedar, sawdust, and the faint metallic note of tools. Sunlight fell in clean shafts through high windows. A radio played low country music somewhere in the back.

“Mr. Whitaker?” I called.

A man stepped out from behind a large workbench.

I had seen a small photo on the business website—nothing more than a headshot.

It had not prepared me for the real thing.

Noah Whitaker was tall and broad-shouldered in the way of someone who actually used his body for work.

Dark brown hair, a little uneven, as if he cut it himself when he remembered.

Steady gray-blue eyes that took me in without hurry.

He wore a faded flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows and jeans dusted with fine wood shavings.

He was good-looking in a quiet, grounded way that made my usual city confidence stutter for half a second.

“You must be Tessa Harlow,” he said. His voice was low and even. “You’re early.”

“I like to get a feel for a place before I start asking questions.” I stepped forward and held out my hand. “Thanks for taking the meeting.”

He shook it once, firmly, then let go. His palm was rough with work. “Office is this way.”

No smile. No extra words. Just a slight tilt of his head toward a doorway at the side of the workshop.

I followed him into a small, tidy office that smelled like coffee and wood.

A scarred desk sat under a window that looked out toward the tree line.

Family photos were arranged carefully on a shelf—most of them of a little girl with the same serious eyes as Noah.

In one of the pictures a smiling woman with warm brown hair stood beside him, her hand resting on his chest. I glanced away quickly.

Noah gestured to the chair across from the desk. “You want coffee?”

“I’m good, thank you.”

He sat. For a moment the only sound was the distant whir of some machine in the shop.

“I’ve looked at the current branding,” I began, opening my portfolio. “It’s solid, but it doesn’t say much about the custom work or the fact that this is a local, multi-generation business. The festival materials need to feel warm and rooted without looking dated. I have three direction options—”

“You came recommended,” he interrupted, not unkindly. “That’s enough for me. Just make it honest. I don’t need flashy.”

I paused, then nodded. “Honest I can do.”

We went through the practical details—timeline, access to the workshop for photos, approval process.

Noah answered every question directly and without wasted words.

He was polite. He was even mildly charismatic in the way competent men sometimes are.

But there was a clear line drawn around him, as if he had decided long ago how close anyone was allowed to stand.

I was used to reading clients. This one was going to be work.

A small sound came from the doorway. I turned.

A little girl stood there, maybe seven or eight, with dark hair in a slightly crooked braid and the same gray-blue eyes as Noah. She wore scuffed sneakers and a sweatshirt with a faded unicorn on it. She looked at me with open curiosity and a touch of caution.

“Lily,” Noah said. His voice changed—still quiet, but warmer. “This is Miss Harlow. She’s going to do some design work for the shop.”

“Tessa is fine,” I said, offering the girl a real smile. “You must be the artist. I saw the drawings on the desk.”

Lily’s cheeks pinked, but she stepped closer. “I like drawing horses. And trees. And sometimes dogs.”

“Those are excellent subjects.”

Noah watched the exchange with an unreadable expression. After a moment he said, “Lily, go finish your snack. I’ll be out in a minute.”

The girl hesitated, then gave me a small wave and disappeared.

When the door closed, the air in the office felt heavier.

“She’s sweet,” I said.

“She’s the best thing I’ve got.” The words were simple and absolute. He stood, signaling the meeting was over. “You can start tomorrow. I’ll have the old logos and any photos you need ready. Hours are flexible as long as the work gets done.”

I rose and slipped my portfolio under my arm. “I’ll see you in the morning then.”

He walked me back through the workshop to the open doors. The afternoon light had shifted, turning the sawdust in the air into slow gold. I stepped out onto the gravel and turned back.

“It was good to meet you, Mr. Whitaker.”

“Noah is fine.” He rested one hand on the doorframe. For a second I thought he might say something else. Instead, he only nodded once. “Drive safe.”

I walked to my car feeling the weight of his gaze between my shoulder blades. When I glanced in the rearview mirror, he was still standing there, solid and unmoving, before he finally turned back into the shadowed workshop.

I drove toward the small rental cabin the town had arranged for me, windows still down, mountain air rushing in. My mind was already sorting color palettes and typefaces. That was the safe part. The part I could control.

What I could not quite control was the quiet impression Noah Whitaker had left—the sense of a man who had built a careful life out of loss and had no intention of letting anyone rearrange the pieces.

Six weeks, I reminded myself.

I would do the work, keep things clean, and leave.

That was the plan.