Challenging the Mountain Man (Whispered Echoes Season 2: A Wounded Mountain Man #5)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

Thirty-seven missed calls from Harrison, and she hadn’t even been gone forty-eight hours.

Lark Prescott let his latest voicemail play through the cell phone speaker and let her eyes drift out over the gorgeous Montana sky, bigger and more intimidating than any boardroom she’d ever walked into.

It’s not like Harrison showed her this much attention when they were in the same zip code.

He didn’t love her, didn’t even really care what she was doing.

He just wanted to be sure she remembered she belonged to him.

Unfortunately for Harrison Weston the Third and her father—she didn’t agree with that assessment.

They weren’t even dating, though her father and Harrison had a different opinion.

She let out a cleansing breath. She didn’t have to think about them for at least two weeks.

The mountains rose in jagged peaks around Redemption Ranch.

Their snow-capped peaks, not completely melted at the very tops yet despite being early June, caught the early morning light in a way that made her fingers itch for her camera.

As soon as the voicemail ended, she tucked the phone into her pocket with a sigh.

“Let me guess—Harrison’s wondering when you’re coming to your senses and heading home to plan the wedding?”

Lark turned to find Tara Morgan approaching with two steaming mugs of coffee, her friend’s knowing smile both comforting and annoying.

The gorgeous porch of the main guest house stretched before them, a homey white farmhouse with hunter green shutters with a riot of flowers and flower boxes added to the cheer and welcoming atmosphere—unlike the sterile marble mansion with perfectly manicured gardens Lark had grown up in back in Connecticut.

“Something like that.” Lark accepted the coffee gratefully, inhaling the rich aroma that was so much better than the espresso her father’s staff served every morning at precisely seven-fifteen.

“Along with a detailed itinerary of all the charity events I’m missing.

Apparently, my absence is an inconvenience for several galas, not to mention the boards I should be heading now that I am assumed to be Harrison Weston the Third’s fiancée. ”

“But you’re not, are you?” Tara settled into the chair beside her. “Does he know that?”

“I’ve told him often enough. I have attended galas with him, only because I couldn’t get out of it, but I never accepted the engagement, and we have never once been out on a date.

Not that any of that discouraged my father or Harrison from making their own plans.

” Lark’s grip tightened on the mug. Her father would have been happier in the nineteenth century, where he could control everyone and everything in his life without any pesky rules or women’s rights.

“I’m so proud of you, you know.” Tara’s voice was gentle. “Having the courage to go your own way, pursuing your dreams—”

Lark snorted. “If my father lets me. He’s not thrilled that I quit my position at the company, though apparently, he never expected me to keep it for long, not after I completed the merger.”

She thought of their last conversation, his carefully modulated tone as he’d agreed to “support” her little photography adventure while simultaneously arranging for the most challenging expedition possible.

Mitchell Prescott never said no directly—he was far too sophisticated for that.

He found other ways to dissuade you and persuade you to his way of thinking.

But Lark had learned from the master, from years of being under his control.

She knew his tricks and was too determined to forge her own path.

She was too close to being free to fall for his manipulations.

Tara shuddered. “What a way to talk about marriage.”

Lark shrugged. “That’s Mitchell Prescott. Everything is a business decision.”

The only way she had been able to avoid attending an East Coast prep school was to convince her father that she could make new connections for his business by going to school out west. She had been tired of attending local schools and never knowing if the girls wanted to be her friend or were told to do so by their parents, or if the boys wanted to date her or to garner her father’s favor.

Going to Colorado as a teenager, she could be fairly anonymous and meet at least a couple of loyal friends, including Tara Rawlings, now Morgan.

Now, she was looking for another escape, gambling on her skill with the camera to give her an alternative to marriage to Harrison Weston the Third.

They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, taking in the view.

The morning mist was just lifting off the mountains, revealing layer after layer of peaks that seemed to stretch forever.

A red-tailed hawk circled lazily overhead, and somewhere in the distance, cattle lowed and horses neighed.

The air smelled of pine and wildflowers and possibility—so different from the exhaust and ambition that flavored every breath in Manhattan.

It was cooler than she expected for early June, but that was Montana, she supposed.

“I lived in San Francisco for years,” Tara said softly, watching the mist swirl through the valley below, “and I never realized how much I missed this. There’s something about this place that strips away all the noise and shows you who you really are.”

“That’s exactly what I’m hoping for.” Lark lifted her camera from the table beside her—a top-of-the-line Canon that had cost more than most people’s mortgage payments—and adjusted the lens.

Through the viewfinder, the landscape looked even more dramatic, all sweeping vistas and untamed beauty.

“I want to capture that feeling—that sense of something wild and real. Something that can’t be bought or staged or controlled. ”

Unlike everything else in her life.

Tara was quiet for another moment, her fingers worrying the handle of her mug.

Then she asked carefully, “Are you really ready for this? Hiking in the backcountry isn’t an easy task, Lark.

It’s not like hiking trails in Red Rocks or Roxborough like when we were at school.

You’re going to be out of touch and away from civilization. A lot can go wrong.”

Lark bristled, setting down her coffee with more force than necessary. She expected this negativity from her father and Harrison, hell, from everyone in her life. But she had hoped Tara would be more supportive. The ceramic mug clinked against the wooden table. “Are you doubting me too?”

“No, no—I’m just worried and want to be sure you’ll be okay out there. It’s dangerous, and you’ve never done anything like this before.”

“I’m not completely helpless,” Lark said, irritation creeping into her voice.

“I hiked in Switzerland last summer, and I did that photography workshop in Costa Rica. I’ve been hiking on weekends at various trails and mountains in New England for the past few years, too.

” Even as she said it, she knew those carefully orchestrated experiences were nothing like what she was planning.

But she’d researched every piece of equipment, studied topographical maps until her eyes crossed, and read enough wilderness survival guides to stock a library.

“In addition, my guide should be good enough to keep me safe,” she continued. “We certainly paid enough for the best—”

The rumble of a truck engine cut her off.

They both turned as a dusty black pickup pulled up the circular drive, disturbing the morning quiet.

The truck looked like it had seen some miles—work-worn and practical, with a rifle rack visible through the rear window and mud splattered across the wheel wells.

Lark’s words died in her throat when the driver’s door opened.

The man who climbed out was nothing like anyone she’d ever seen in her world.

Broad shoulders stretched a faded flannel shirt that had clearly been washed a hundred times, worn jeans hugged long legs, and scuffed boots hit the gravel with confident strides.

When he pushed back his cowboy hat, dark hair caught the morning sunlight, and she could see he was deeply tanned—the kind of tan that came from actual outdoor work, not country club tennis.

Everything about him screamed masculine, rugged, real—the exact opposite of the polished, soft men who populated her father’s social circles with their manicured hands and Italian suits.

A German Shepherd jumped down after him, alert and well-trained, staying close to the man’s side without needing a leash.

Something fluttered in her chest that had nothing to do with altitude.

Then he opened his mouth.

“You must be the city girl who thinks she’s ready to play in the mountains.”

Ty Grady had guided plenty of rich assholes into the Montana wilderness over the years, but this job was already setting his teeth on edge before he’d even met the client.

Luke Vincent, owner of the hunting and fishing company that Ty and his brothers worked for as needed, had called him three days ago about a standard one-week backcountry expedition—no big deal.

Ty had been looking forward to it, actually.

A nice chunk of change, and Luke had mentioned the client wanted to focus on wildlife photography, which usually meant less talking and more appreciating the landscape.

Ty could work with that. And it was only one person, so fewer people to corral and manage. A cake walk.

Then this morning, Luke had dropped the bomb: the solo trip with a wannabe nature photographer was with a woman. With more money than sense, according to the file.

“She’s some rich guy’s daughter from back East,” Luke had said, not quite meeting Ty’s eyes. “Wants to document Montana wildlife for a magazine spread.”

Ty should have known something was off when Luke started fidgeting with his coffee cup.

The phone call with Mitchell Prescott on the drive over had made everything crystal clear—and a hell of a lot worse.

“I want my daughter to have an authentic experience,” the man had said in that smooth, corporate tone that set Ty’s nerves on edge. “She needs to understand what she’s really getting herself into out there. The real dangers. The real discomfort.”

Translation: make her miserable enough to quit.

That wasn’t enough to make Ty put anyone, much less a woman, in harm’s way.

Not that Prescott implied that. He was clear on that front.

Just make her uncomfortable. Camp in a tent.

If it was cold and rainy, even better. Eat trail rations, nothing decent or even edible.

Drive the woman off the backcountry and back to her comfortable country club life.

It galled him to do any of that to a woman.

But Prescott didn’t leave him much choice, not with the veiled threat at the end that had Ty’s hands clenching the steering wheel.

Prescott had done his homework. Somehow, he knew something about Ty’s units last mission—a total clusterfuck—and hinted he had inside information on his buddy, Tony Monroe’s death.

Prescott knew about the Monroe’s ranch struggling to stay afloat, knew exactly where to apply pressure.

“I’d hate for the Monroe family to lose their property over something as trivial as a difference of opinion. ”

Ty had given his word to Tony, as had his brothers-in-arms. Hell, they had all moved to Granite Junction to look out for the family. He couldn’t walk away now. If it was between a spoiled debutante and his brother’s family, there was no choice.

So here Ty was, pulling up the circular drive of Redemption Ranch with Caesar panting in the passenger seat, feeling like a mercenary instead of a guide.

The morning sun slanted through the pine trees that surrounded the property, casting long shadows across the manicured gravel.

The main house rose before them, bright white and dark green, looking so clean and bright.

Flowers added to the cheer and only made him feel more morose about what he was about to do and the dreams he was about to destroy.

Caesar’s ears perked up as Ty cut the engine, and he could see two figures on the cozy porch. One he recognized as Tara Morgan, who gave a friendly wave. The other...

Christ.

Lark Prescott was nothing like what he’d been expecting.

Instead of some pampered princess in designer hiking boots, she was.

.. stunning. Her dark hair gleamed in the morning light as she turned toward his truck, and even from this distance he could see the delicate lines of her face, the way her lips parted slightly in surprise.

She wore what was obviously brand-new outdoor gear—spotless hiking pants, a pristine fleece jacket, boots so clean they practically gleamed—but she was adequately prepared, not wearing frivolous gear or, worse, no appropriate attire at all.

She was holding an expensive camera, of course. Probably cost more than he made in three months. But that was to be expected. She was a photographer after all.

Despite his dislike of Prescott’s request, it looked like granting it would be pathetically easy.

He’d bet, her jacket had never been outside for more than the dash between her limo and a building.

There wasn’t a spot on her hiking pants.

And he doubted she ate anything less than a five-star meal.

Yeah, easy request. Yet, somehow, he still felt like an ass for what he was about to do.

Ty’s mood darkened further as he climbed out, Caesar hopping down beside him with practiced ease. The German Shepherd immediately went into alert mode, scanning the area with the instincts that had kept them both alive overseas. Even in retirement, Caesar never fully relaxed in new territory.

This was going to be a disaster. He had to take Little Miss Trust Fund out into the back country, and make her uncomfortable, not that it would be difficult, all at her father’s request. She wasn’t exactly prepared for a hard camping trip, but it galled him to deliberately add to her misery.

But he’d have to play along, make it just unpleasant enough to send her running home to daddy and whatever society marriage was waiting for her.

It all felt sordid. But maybe he wouldn’t actually have to do anything. Nature would do his dirty work.

The woman on the porch set down her coffee mug and stood as he approached, and Ty caught the way her eyes widened slightly as she took him in. He was used to that reaction from city folk—the way they stared at his scarred hands, his weather-beaten face, like he was some kind of exotic creature.

Well, if she wanted an authentic Montana wilderness experience, she was about to get it.

“You must be the city girl who thinks she’s ready to play in the mountains,” he said, not bothering to soften the edge in his voice.

Let the games begin.