The Mountain Man (Steamy Shorts #25)

Chapter 1

EMMA

"I'm going to die out here, and nobody will know.

They won't find my body until days or weeks later .

.. if they ever find a body. For all I know, the bears and mountain lions will ravage me and leave nothing but bones.

Wait, are there bears here? God, I should have Googled more about Thorne Range.

It's my fault for seeing the beautiful photos and immediately thinking I can easily navigate it with zero experience. "

My voice echoes pathetically against the trees. No one answers back.

"Death by stupidity. They need to put that on my tombstone."

The setting sun paints the trail I lost hours ago in deepening darkness. My legs tremble, threatening to give out. I have never hiked this much in my entire life. Never. And now it freaking shows. Here I am, physically not ready to do this at all.

Like I said, death by stupidity.

The water bottle in my pack ran dry two hours ago. My head pounds with each heartbeat, vision blurring at the edges. God, my last meal was breakfast, and I only had that stupid bagel with cream cheese. It did not even taste good.

I clutch my camera—the expensive one I bought with three summers of waitressing tips because I refused to ask help from my parents—and sink down against a tree trunk. The bark scratches through my thin jacket. I'm shaking now, not just from fear but the rapidly dropping temperature.

What was I thinking? Thorne Range isn't some tourist trap with clearly marked paths and rangers on standby. It's wild. Dangerous. Beautiful but utterly unforgiving.

Which I would have known had I done some proper research.

In my defense, none of those things seemed to matter while I tearfully packed my bag and drove all the way here.

I, Emma Carter, soon-to-be college graduate with a business administration degree I never wanted, am going to die here because I needed to escape the crushing weight of expectations long enough to take some damn photos.

Dark spots swim in my vision. My breathing comes in short gasps. I recognize the panic building, but can't stop it—not here, not now. Logically, I know it's not a heart attack, but my mind thinks it anyway.

A rustle from the trees ahead makes me freeze. Something large moves in the shadows. A bear? Mountain lion? Cult members about to sacrifice me? My death approaching with claws and teeth?

Oh my God. No. Please no. If I die, let me die in one piece, not chunks. I mean, beggars can't be choosers, but I hope it's swift and—

The figure that emerges is neither animal nor rescue ranger.

It's a man. Massive. Towering.

He stops when he sees me, standing so still he might be part of the forest. His frame blocks what's left of the sunlight. Six and a half feet at least, broad-shouldered, with black hair pulled back and a full beard framing his face. His eyes lock onto mine—piercing blue against tanned skin.

A strangled sound escapes my throat. I press back against the tree, nowhere to run, too weak to stand, and honestly too exhausted to put up a fight. This is worse than bears. A man like this, out here alone—every horror movie I've ever seen flashes through my mind.

He doesn't even need an axe or a machete. He can rip me apart with his bare hands.

The man clears his throat. "You're lost."

I manage a weak nod, clutching my camera to my chest like a shield. If I'm desperate enough, I can hit his face with it, but no, my camera doesn't deserve that fate.

He approaches haltingly, movements super slow, like he's trying not to spook a wild animal. Ironic, since I'm the intruder here.

Up close, I can see a scar cutting across his left cheek, the weathered lines around his eyes, hands hanging at his sides.

"You need water. Your eyes are dry, your skin looks rough, and your lips are cracked."

Normally, I'd be offended by such assessment of my looks, but fair enough. I definitely look like shit. He didn't have to be so blunt about it, though.

Rude.

He unslings a canteen from his shoulder and holds it out. When I don't move, he uncaps it himself and takes a drink before offering it again. My mental faculties are still working enough to know he's basically showing me it's not poisoned.

Something shifts in my panicked brain. If he wanted to hurt me, why would he share his water? Or why would he bother talking to me? Unless … he doesn't want his next meal dry and chewy.

I reach out with trembling fingers and take the canteen. The water is cold and tastes better than anything I've ever drunk. I have to force myself to stop after a few swallows.

"Thank you," I whisper.

"You're going to pass out if you try to walk out of here and back to town. My cabin's twenty minutes that way." He points north. "You can rest, leave at first light."

I should be terrified. I should be calculating how to escape. Instead, an inexplicable sense of relief washes over me. Something about his steady gaze, the careful distance he maintains, the matter-of-fact offer of help without pressing. For some reason, it makes me emotional.

God, the bar is really in hell because I'm being moved to tears by simple kindness and decency.

"I don't—" My voice cracks. "I don't even know your name."

"Wyatt Stone." He extends a hand to help me up. "And you are?"

"Emma. Emma Carter."

I place my hand in his. His palm engulfs mine completely, rough with calluses but gentle in how it closes around my fingers. He pulls me to my feet with effortless strength, steadying me when I sway.

And that's when it hits me—not fear, but a sudden, visceral awareness of him as a man. The breadth of his shoulders under the flannel shirt. The way his beard frames lips that are surprisingly full. The heat of his hand against mine.

My cheeks flush hot, and it has nothing to do with dehydration or exhaustion.

What the hell is wrong with me? I'm lost in the wilderness, accepting help from a stranger who looks like he could snap me in half, and my body chooses now to notice he's attractive?

"Can you walk?" he asks, releasing my hand.

I nod, not trusting my voice. He gestures for me to follow, then turns and starts walking. I scramble to keep up with his long strides, clutching my camera bag and adjusting my small backpack.

"You a professional?" He nods toward my camera without looking back.

"No. Just ... a hobbyist. I do hope to become professional someday, but with the way my parents—"

I stop, belatedly realizing I'm starting to ramble. I was seriously about to dump my entire life on him.

Wyatt makes a sound that might be acknowledgment. We walk in silence after that, me struggling to keep up while my mind races with contradictions.

I'm surprised I can actually breathe better. It's … odd. Terror is definitely nowhere to be found. Instead, I feel safer than I have in months.

I don't know this man. Yet something in me trusts him completely.

He's intimidating as hell. Looks grumpy and gruff, too. But I can't stop looking and wondering how those rough hands would feel against my skin.

The light fades rapidly as we walk. Wyatt moves with the confidence of someone who knows every inch of this forest. Meanwhile, I stumble over roots and rocks, cursing my city shoes. If I trip and snap my neck, death by stupidity again.

"Here." His voice breaks the silence as we crest a small rise.

The cabin sits in a small clearing, nestled against the mountainside. It's not what I expected—not some ramshackle shack, but a solid structure of wood and stone, with a small porch and windows glowing with warm light.

"Wow, that looks nice. Did you build this?"

He nods. "Every piece."

The door opens to a single large room that smells of freshly baked bread. A stone fireplace dominates one wall, embers glowing. Simple furniture—a table, chairs, shelves lined with books. Everything wooden and handmade with evident skill.

I stand awkwardly just inside the door, suddenly aware of my disheveled state.

"Bathroom's through there if you want to clean up." Wyatt points to a door on the right. "There's only one bedroom. You'll take it tonight."

"I can't kick you out of your bed—"

"I'll sleep outside. Done it plenty of times."

"That's ridiculous. You can't—"

"I can and will." He crosses his arms over his chest, and I try to ignore the way my core clenches at the sight of his shirt stretching over the muscles. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll start dinner."

The bathroom is small but functional. A shower stall, toilet, sink. I splash water on my face, rinse my mouth, try to tame my wild blonde hair. The mirror reflects a stranger—face flushed, green eyes too bright, freckles standing out against my pale skin.

Wyatt's earlier comments were actually pretty polite considering.

When I emerge, Wyatt is in the small kitchen area, chopping vegetables with ease. The large knife looks like a toy in his hands.

I hover uncertainly. "Can I help?"

"No need. Sit."

Oh, thank God because I wouldn't know how to help.

I perch at the table, watching his movements. For such a large man, he moves with surprising grace. Economical. Nothing wasted.

"So..." I search for conversation because I've never been too comfortable with silence. "You live out here alone? No neighbors for miles?"

"Just how I like it." He adds something to a pot on the small stove.

"How long?"

"Five years."

I grab my camera and fidget with the strap. "Don't you get lonely?"

He looks up, those blue eyes piercing. "Difference between alone and lonely. Besides, I have my cats."

"Fair point."

Silence falls again, but it's not uncomfortable anymore. I check my camera for damage. It's fine—probably tougher than I am.

"Can I take photos here?" I gesture to the camera. "If you don't want, that's totally fine."

He shrugs, which I take as assent. I snap a few shots—the play of firelight on wood, his hands working the knife, the steam rising from the pot. When I review them on the small screen, I'm struck by the beauty of simplicity captured.

Wow.