Brewing with the Mountain Man (Fall for a Mountain Man #17)

Chapter 1

SADIE

Icrouch behind a lichen-crusted boulder, squinting at the massive man about fifty yards ahead.

To get a better look, I pull the binoculars from an inside pocket of my jacket.

The giant’s got a jar in one hand and a dog he’s holding back as he digs around the base of an old Douglas fir.

Definitely truffles.

And this is an area that absolutely requires a special permit for truffle harvesting.

Which I'm willing to bet my next paycheck he doesn't have. Very few foragers do.

"Got you," I mutter, lowering the binoculars. My heart's doing that thing where it kicks up a notch—part adrenaline, part vindication. I've been tracking reports of illegal truffle harvesting in this sector for three weeks, and I finally have visual confirmation.

The fact that my hands are slightly sweaty has nothing to do with how ridiculously huge this guy is. I'm talking tall-enough-to-play-basketball-with-a-moose huge. Even from this distance, watching him crouch down to examine something on the ground is like watching a mountain fold in half.

But that’s just my professional observation. Nothing more.

I key my radio. "Ranger Giles to base. I've got eyes on suspected illegal harvesting activity, Sector Seven, coordinates following. Moving in to make contact."

The static crackles back. "Copy that, Giles. Proceed with caution. You need backup?"

I almost laugh. Backup is forty minutes away minimum, and I'm not about to let this guy disappear into the woods because I waited around for someone to hold my hand.

I've been doing this job for six years—four if you don't count my internship (which my supervisor usually doesn't) and I'm perfectly capable of confronting one unlicensed forager.

Even if he does look like he wrestles grizzlies for cardio.

“Negative on backup. Single subject, typical foraging activity. I'm making contact.”

“Roger that.”

I clip the radio back to my belt and start picking my way down the slope, keeping my movements quiet.

The mild afternoon sun filters through the pine canopy in dusty shafts, and the forest floor is soft with damp needles.

Good conditions for a quiet approach, except for the part where my pulse is hammering in my ears like I'm sneaking up on actual danger instead of just some guy stealing mushrooms.

Truffles. Not ordinary mushrooms.

God, this job is weird sometimes.

I get within thirty yards before his black lab lifts its head and stares right in my direction.

I duck near a sapling. No! So much for the element of surprise.

The man doesn't seem to notice, at least at first. He keeps working for another few seconds, carefully extracting something from the soil and placing it in his jar with the utmost care and closing it tightly.

Then, slowly, he straightens to his full height.

He’s six and a half feet if he's an inch, with shoulders that could support bridge construction. His hair is dark blond and needs a cut, and when he finally turns to face me, scruffy facial hair glints gold in the light.

But now, brown eyes as rich as the soil are looking back at me.

My throat goes inexplicably dry.

He stills, and it’s like the forest holds its breath.

"This is a restricted area," I call out, pleased when my voice comes out steady and authoritative instead of squeaky and strange. "I'm Ranger Giles with the Forest Service. You have permits for truffle harvesting?"

For a long moment, he just stares at me.

Not threatening, exactly, but not friendly either. The dog wags its tail, tongue lolling, completely undermining whatever intimidation factor this guy might be going for.

"Didn't know I needed permits," he says finally. His voice is deep and rough, like he doesn't use it much. “It’s public land.”

"Public land with protected species and regulated foraging." I move closer, hand resting casually near my citation book—not on my weapon, because that would be escalating and he hasn't done anything threatening. Yet. "Truffles require special permits. I'm going to need to see your identification."

Something flickers across his face. Not quite anger, more like resignation mixed with irritation. He glances down at his dog, then back at me, and I swear I see him calculate his options.

"Don't have ID on me," he says.

"Then I'll need your name and—"

He turns and starts walking away before I can finish…jar in hand, dog at his heels, moving deeper into the forest like I'm not even here.

Oh, hell no.

"Sir! Sir, I'm not—stop!" I break into a jog, crashing through underbrush that he seems to glide over like he's part of the landscape. "I’m a federal law officer! I'm ordering you to stop!"

He doesn't stop. If anything, he speeds up, those long legs eating up ground while I'm dodging branches and trying not to trip over exposed roots. His dog gallops along beside him like this is the best game ever.

"You're making this worse!" I shout, vaulting over a fallen log that barely slows him down. My braid whips behind me, and I'm starting to understand why my academy instructors were so insistent on cardio. "I just want to talk!"

He veers left, following some invisible trail that I can barely detect. I'm keeping pace, barely, my lungs starting to burn.

This is insane. I'm chasing a giant through the Montana wilderness like something out of a fairy tale, except instead of eating children he's stealing fancy mushrooms.

A branch catches my shoulder, spinning me slightly off balance. I recover, push harder, and—

The light changes.

It's subtle at first, that weird greenish quality the air gets before a storm. Then the temperature drops so fast I can feel it through my uniform, and the wind howls through the trees. It goes from still to actively hostile in the space of seconds.

I know these mountains. I've seen what they can do when they're angry.

"Shit." I stop running, turning to orient myself. Where's my truck? I came from the northeast, so if I head—the wind gusts hard enough to make me stagger, and when I look up, the sky has gone from blue to the color of fresh bruises.

This is bad. Spectacularly bad.

I've been so focused on the chase that I didn't notice the warning signs. Didn't check my weather radio in the last hour. Didn't do any of the things I'm supposed to do because I was too busy trying to prove I could handle a simple enforcement action without backup.

My dad's voice echoes in my head: Pride's not a strategy, Sadie-girl. It's just a faster way to fail.

The first drops of rain hit like ice.

I spin back toward where I last saw my suspect, already knowing he's long gone. I need to get to shelter, need to—

But he's standing right there.

I actually yelp, stumbling backward. He's just..

.ten feet away, watching me with those deep brown eyes while his dog snuffles against his leg.

The wind whips his hair, and there's something almost primal about the way he stands—utterly unfazed by the storm building around us, like he's one of the huge pines towering above.

"You need to come with me," he says, and it's not a request. "Now."

"I'm fine." My teeth are already starting to chatter, and the rain is picking up, fat drops that promise worse to come. "I can make it back to my—"

"You're six miles from your vehicle, and this storm is going to hit hard in about five minutes." He takes a step closer, and I resist the urge to back up. "You can cite me after we don't die. Let's go."

Lightning cracks across the sky, close enough that the thunder follows almost immediately. The dog whines and presses closer to the man's leg.

He's right. I hate that he's right, but he is. I can't see twenty feet in front of me anymore, the temperature is plummeting, and I have no idea where I am.

"Where?" I manage to say through chattering teeth.

"My cabin. Half mile." He's already moving. "Stay close. I'm not coming back for you if you get lost."

I should protest or try to maintain some kind of authority here. Instead, I practically run to catch up, because the alternative is freezing to death alone in the woods trying to prove a point.

The storm hits like carnage unleashed. One second we're moving through heavy rain, the next we're in a complete whiteout of wind and hail.

I can barely see the man's broad back in front of me, and can't see anything else at all.

My uniform is soaked through in seconds, cold seeping into my bones, despite my jacket.

A hand grabs my forearm, large and steady,and pulls me forward. I don't resist. Can't resist. I just stumble after him through the screaming wind, trusting this stranger who I was trying to cite ten minutes ago because there's literally no other choice.

I lose all sense of time. Could be five minutes, could be twenty. Everything is cold and wet and loud, and the only solid thing in the world is his iron grip dragging me through the maelstrom.

The cabin appears in flashes, like a mirage—weathered logs hunched against a granite outcrop.

Then suddenly there's solid wood under my feet instead of forest floor, and he shoves me through a door as hail the size of nickels shatters against the steps.

He shuts the weather out behind us.

I stand there dripping on a handmade rug, shivering so hard my vision blurs. The cabin has rough wood walls and a stone fireplace and the kind of rustic charm that magazines try to fake. It’s warm and dry and utterly foreign.

The dog shakes himself, spraying water everywhere, then trots over to a bed in the corner near the fire like this is all perfectly normal.

I look up at the man who just saved my life.

Rainwater has slicked his hair dark, tracing the cords of his neck before disappearing under a wet collar. My rescuer. My suspect. My—

My teeth chatter so hard I bite my tongue. Ow!

"Get out of those clothes," he says, already moving toward another room. "You're hypothermic."

And because this day couldn't possibly get more crazy, my last coherent thought is that I'm stranded in a remote cabin with a six-foot-six hulk who ran from me.

Now I’m completely at his mercy.

My supervisor is going to kill me.

If this mountain man doesn't do it first.