Christmas with the Dominant Mountain Man (Mountain Man Brides For Christmas #2)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

DARIO

The shovel plunges into frozen earth with a satisfying crunch.

My breath clouds in the crisp mountain air as I dig, the rhythm almost meditative if not for the fury simmering in my veins.

I'm marking boundaries again. New stakes for land that's been in my family for three generations, land these corporate vultures think they can swoop in and claim.

Not happening. Not on my fucking watch.

A truck engine rumbles in the distance, breaking the silence of my mountain.

I pause, shovel planted in the dirt and scan the tree line.

Only three people would brave the narrow, twisted excuse for a road leading to my cabin.

Roman Kane occasionally drops by to badger me about Club Crimson events when he’s in town.

Silas McCrae, unfortunately, has become a necessary evil in my life since Grandpa Wallace died.

And the mail carrier, who has the good sense to leave packages at the gate.

The black Jeep Cherokee that emerges from the pines belongs to option two. Great. More legal bullshit.

I jam the boundary stake into place with more force than necessary and straighten to my full height, not bothering to wipe the dirt from my hands or the scowl from my face.

Silas parks and climbs out looking exactly like what he is—an estate lawyer who charges five hundred dollars an hour.

Polished boots that have never seen real work, perfectly pressed slacks, and a wool coat that probably costs more than my truck.

"Dario," he calls, approaching with a leather portfolio tucked under one arm.

I don't move to meet him. "If you're here to tell me the county's making another play for my land, save your breath. I've already marked the boundaries again." I gesture to the stakes I've been driving into the perimeter for the last three hours.

Silas stops a respectful distance away. Smart man. "Actually, I have news about your grandfather's will."

"You told me everything was settled." I narrow my eyes. "The land transfers to me. Simple."

"I wish it were that simple." He sighs, and I immediately know I'm going to hate whatever comes next. "There's a provision I missed initially. It was buried in the estate planning documents your grandfather filed separately."

"Spit it out, McCrae."

"The deed transfer requires you to be married."

For a moment, I just stare at him, waiting for the punchline. When it doesn't come, I bark out a laugh. "That's bullshit."

"I'm afraid not." He pulls a document from his portfolio and extends it toward me. "Your grandfather was quite specific. The Wallace homestead can only transfer to a married descendant. Otherwise, it reverts to county auction at year's end."

I snatch the paper from him, scanning the legal jargon until I spot it. The provision is there in black and white, in language even I can understand.

Must be lawfully married to claim inheritance rights.

"This is some kind of sick joke." I crumple the paper. "The old man knew damn well I wasn't planning to marry."

"He also knew how much you love this land." Silas takes the document back, smoothing it out. "Clearly he wanted to ensure its future."

"By forcing me into marriage?" I run a hand through my hair, leaving dirt streaks I couldn't care less about. "That conniving old bastard."

"You have options," Silas says in that calm lawyer tone that makes me want to punch something. "The county auction—"

"Not happening." My voice comes out as a growl. "This land stays in the family."

"Then you need a wife." He states it like he's suggesting I need a new chainsaw. Simple. Practical. "And soon. The deadline is Christmas Day."

"Christmas?" I stare at him. "That's six weeks away."

"Five weeks, three days." Silas's precision would be admirable if it weren't so fucking annoying. "You need to be married with the certificate filed with the county before midnight December 25th."

The weight of his words settles over me. I turn away, looking out over the snow-dusted valley that stretches below my property. The land my grandfather preserved. The land my father expanded. The only thing that's ever truly felt like mine.

"Find a loophole." I don't phrase it as a request.

"I've spent three days looking. There isn't one." Silas clears his throat. "The provision is ironclad. Your grandfather was thorough."

Of course he was. Old man Wallace never did anything halfway. It was one of the things I respected about him, even when we butted heads. Now it's coming back to bite me in the ass.

"What about Jordyn?" I ask, referring to the lawyer's wife. "Couldn't she write up something about the county to buy us more time?"

"She's on maternity leave." His expression softens momentarily. "And even if she weren't, this isn't something that can be delayed. The timeline was established when your grandfather passed."

I press my palms against my eyes, the cold dirt grounding me as I absorb this clusterfuck of a situation.

Five weeks to find a woman willing to marry me, a man who lives alone on a mountain and likes it that way.

A man with particular needs and expectations that most women these days find too demanding, too controlling.

"I need to think." I finally say, lowering my hands.

"Don't think too long." Silas tucks the documents away. "I'll draw up the paperwork for when you find someone, but the clock is ticking."

I watch him walk back to his Jeep, my mind already churning through the short list of women I know well enough to even consider for this arrangement. None of them would be willing to enter a marriage of convenience, even temporarily. None of them would understand what this land means to me.

The Jeep disappears down the winding road, and I'm left alone with my thoughts and the vast stretch of wilderness I might lose. Fuck that. I'll find a solution. I always do.

Back at the cabin, I strip off my dirt-streaked clothes and step into the shower, letting scalding water pound against my muscles.

Steam fills the bathroom as I scrub away the grime and try to wash the tension from my body.

The mirror fogs completely, which is just as well.

I don't need to see the storm brewing in my expression.

Clean and dressed in fresh jeans and a black henley, I move to my office. The space is meticulous, every item in its place. Control in my surroundings helps clear my mind. I boot up my laptop and stare at the screen.

A wife. I need a wife.

Not a real one. I don't have time for the real thing, with its messy emotions and complicated expectations. I need a business arrangement. Someone who understands exactly what they're getting into and what they're getting out of it. Someone who won't expect anything beyond what I'm willing to give.

My fingers hover over the keyboard, an idea taking shape. I open a private browser window and navigate to a classified ad site.

Temporary mail-order bride needed. Business arrangement only. Five weeks, generous compensation.

I stare at the words, weighing my options, which are precisely none. If I want to keep my land, I need to find a woman willing to marry me on paper.

After adding a few more details and my secure email, I hit publish before I can talk myself out of it. Then I close the laptop and pour myself two fingers of whiskey, knocking it back in one burning swallow.

The thought of sharing my space with anyone, even temporarily, sets my teeth on edge. But the alternative is unthinkable.

The next morning brings snow flurries and three responses to my ad.

Two are obvious scams. The third seems legitimate, from a woman named Judith Mars who claims to need a temporary marriage arrangement as badly as I do.

Her message is concise, intelligent, and direct.

No emotional baggage, no romantic expectations.

Just a clear statement of mutual benefit.

I respond immediately, suggesting we meet at The Velvet Antler. Neutral ground in Crimson Hollow, where I can assess whether she's someone I could tolerate sharing space with for a month.

She agrees to meet in two days. Perfect. That gives me time to prepare the cabin's guest room and draft a contract outlining exactly what this arrangement will entail. No surprises, no misunderstandings. Everything laid out in black and white.

By the time I drive into town for our meeting, I've convinced myself this might actually work. A business transaction. Simple, clean, temporary.

The Velvet Antler is quiet on a Wednesday afternoon, just a few locals nursing drinks at the bar. I choose a corner table with a clear view of the door and order a bourbon neat. Then I wait, watching the entrance with the patience of a man who spends most of his time alone in the wilderness.

At precisely three o'clock, the door swings open.

A blast of cold air precedes a woman who immediately commands attention simply by existing.

She's stunning in a way that makes my throat tighten, with rich brown skin and curves that the practical winter coat can't disguise.

Her hair falls in tight natural curls around a face that belongs on magazine covers, not in my remote mountain cabin.

She scans the room, dark eyes sharp and assessing, before they land on me. Surprise or maybe disappointment flickers across her expression before she schools her features into a neutral mask and approaches my table.

"Dario Wallace?" Her voice is smooth and confident, with an educated East Coast lilt.

I rise slowly to my full height, noting how she has to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. Good. "Judith Mars, I presume."

"Call me Judith." She extends a gloved hand, and I engulf it in mine, feeling delicate bones beneath soft leather.

"Sit." I gesture to the chair across from mine. It's not a request.

She arches one perfectly shaped eyebrow, a subtle challenge flickering in her eyes, but takes the seat. "Straight to business, then."