Christmas With the Navy SEAL Mountain Man (Grumpy Christmas Mountain Man #4)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

AARON

The blade of my ax bites into the frozen log with a satisfying thunk. Wood splinters fly as I yank it free and bring it down again. Each swing sends a jolt of controlled strength through my arms. This is the closest thing to peace I've found since Afghanistan.

Swing. Split. Stack.

The routine keeps me sane through the long Montana winters. Especially with Christmas bearing down like an avalanche.

My breath clouds in the December air as I pause to survey the growing pile of firewood.

The temperature has been dropping steadily all morning, and the heavy gray clouds hanging over the mountains promise snow by nightfall.

I need enough wood to last at least a week if the forecasted blizzard hits Grizzly Ridge.

I roll my shoulders, the familiar ache a reminder of the shrapnel still embedded too close to my spine for doctors to safely remove. Just another souvenir from my final mission with the SEALs.

Yesterday's trip into town still has me seething.

I'd gone in for supplies, planning to be in and out of Hilda's General Store without speaking to a soul.

Then I'd overheard that busybody Maggie from the diner telling someone about the Winter Wonderland charity event being planned for the meadow next to my property.

My property. My privacy. My goddamn peace and quiet.

I'd marched straight to Mayor Johnston's office and made it abundantly clear that I wouldn't tolerate strangers tramping through my land to reach that meadow.

The mayor had tried to reason with me, talking about the children's hospital in Billings and community spirit, but I shut that down immediately.

"Find another location," I'd told him flatly.

He'd promised to take it to the town council, but the smug look on his face told me he thought he could change my mind. Or worse, ignore my objections entirely.

I bring the ax down harder, splitting a log clean through with a satisfying crack. Let them try to use that road without my permission. I'll block it off with fallen trees if I have to.

A flash of movement near the road catches my eye. My body tenses instinctively, muscles coiling as I scan the tree line. Living alone on this mountain for the past two years has made me hyperaware of any change in my surroundings.

A red SUV crawls up the narrow access road toward my cabin, tires spinning occasionally on patches of ice. Nobody drives up here unless they're lost. Or looking for trouble.

I lower the ax and narrow my eyes. The vehicle isn't familiar, definitely not one of the locals. I know every truck and car in Grizzly Ridge by now, which isn't saying much for a town with a population of about eight hundred.

As the SUV draws closer, I make out a woman behind the wheel. She's leaning forward, peering through the windshield like she's trying to find something. Or someone.

My jaw clenches. I bought this property specifically for its isolation. Five acres of dense forest at the end of a road that's not even on most GPS maps. The perfect place to lick my wounds and forget the world that had taken everything from me.

The SUV stops at the entrance to my property. The woman checks something on her phone, then nods to herself and steers onto my private drive.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," I mutter, stabbing my ax into the chopping block.

I don't move to greet her. Instead, I cross my arms over my chest and plant my feet shoulder width apart, the same stance that used to make new recruits straighten their backs when I walked into a room.

The SUV pulls to a stop, and the engine cuts off. After a moment, the driver's door swings open, and a woman emerges in a burst of color that seems obscene against the muted winter landscape.

A red wool coat hugs curves that any man would appreciate. Dark hair spills from beneath a knitted hat, framing a heart-shaped face. And her lips—Christ, her lips are the same deep red as her coat, full and lush in a way that makes my body respond despite my irritation.

She spots me and waves like we're old friends meeting for coffee instead of strangers on my private property.

"Hi there! You must be Aaron Wilson," she calls, her voice clear and cheerful in the cold air. She starts toward me, navigating the uneven ground in knee-high boots that look more fashionable than functional.

I don't respond, just continue glaring at her. Most people have the good sense to be intimidated by six foot three of scowling, bearded mountain man. This woman either lacks self-preservation instincts or has the confidence of someone who's never had it challenged.

She stops a few feet away, looking up at me with bright eyes the color of spring leaves. Her smile falters slightly at my silence but recovers quickly.

"I'm Leah Jones," she says, extending a gloved hand. "From the Grizzly Ridge Community Foundation. I work with Wren Taylor at the volunteer center. I understand you've spoken with Mayor Johnston about our Winter Wonderland event?"

I stare at her hand until she slowly lowers it.

"Yeah, I spoke with him. Told him to find another location." I shift my weight, looming over her a little more deliberately. "Not sure why you're here."

Her smile dims a few watts, but she doesn't retreat. Instead, she reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out a folded piece of paper.

"The town council approved our permit for the space this morning, despite your objection." She unfolds the paper, revealing an official-looking document. "We're setting up tomorrow for the Winter Wonderland fundraiser this weekend. It's for the children's hospital in Billings."

My teeth grind together so hard I'm surprised they don't crack. "That land might be town property, but the only access road runs through my land. And I'm not giving permission for anyone to use it."

Her smile disappears completely now, replaced by a look of determination that warns me this conversation isn't going as easily as I'd hoped.

"Mr. Wilson, this event has been planned for months.

We've already sold tickets, booked vendors, and arranged for families from three counties to attend.

" She tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear, revealing a small snowflake earring that catches the weak winter sunlight.

"Wren has put her heart and soul into organizing the volunteers.

Surely we can come to some arrangement."

"Not my problem," I say, turning back to my woodpile. I pull the ax free from the chopping block, a clear dismissal.

Instead of leaving, she steps closer. Close enough that I catch the scent of something warm and spicy, like cinnamon or cloves.

"Look, I understand you value your privacy." Her voice has softened, but there's steel beneath it. "But this event raises money for children with cancer. Children who spend their Christmases in hospital rooms instead of with their families."

Something twists in my chest, sharp and uncomfortable. I know what it's like to spend Christmas in a hospital bed, surrounded by beeping machines instead of people who care. But that's not a memory I'm willing to share with this woman and her too bright lips.

"Find another location," I say flatly.

"There is no other location!" Frustration colors her voice now. "Not in time. The meadow is perfect—it's sheltered from the wind, accessible for families, and large enough for all our attractions."

I heft the ax, setting up another log. "Should have secured your access rights before selling tickets."

She makes a sound of pure exasperation that shouldn't be as appealing as it is. "Mayor Johnston assured us it wouldn't be a problem!"

"Then the mayor should have gotten my signature." I bring the ax down, splitting the log cleanly.

Leah Jones takes a deep breath, visibly composing herself. When she speaks again, her voice is calm and measured.

"Mr. Wilson, I'm trying to be reasonable. This event means everything to the children who benefit from it. I'm happy to discuss compensation for the inconvenience—"

"I don't want your money," I interrupt, setting up another log. "I want to be left alone."

"Well, you're going to be sorely disappointed," she says, folding her arms across her chest. "Because I'm not leaving until you agree to let us use the access road."

I snort, splitting another log with perhaps more force than necessary. "Then you'd better get comfortable, sweetheart. It's dropping below zero tonight."

Her eyes narrow at the endearment, which I'd deliberately made sound anything but sweet.

"You know what? Fine." She turns on her heel and marches back to her SUV. For a moment, I think I've won, but instead of driving away, she yanks open the back and pulls out a large canvas tote.

"What are you doing?" I ask, frowning as she hauls the bag toward me.

"Getting comfortable," she replies, mimicking my tone. "If you won't be reasonable, I'll just wait until you change your mind."

I stare at her, wondering if she's actually insane. "It's twenty degrees and dropping. There's a blizzard coming."

She shrugs, pulling a thermos from her bag. "I checked the forecast. The real snow won't start until morning. I have plenty of time to convince you."

"You're out of your mind," I say, genuinely baffled by this tiny woman who apparently thinks she can outstubborn me.

"No, I'm determined." She unscrews the thermos cap and the rich scent of coffee drifts through the cold air. "And I have hot coffee, hand warmers, and snacks. Do you know what I don't have, Mr. Wilson? Options. So here I'll stay."

For a long moment, we just stare at each other, a silent battle of wills with nothing but the sound of the wind in the pines around us.

Her cheeks and the tip of her nose are already turning pink from the cold, but her green eyes are blazing with resolve. Despite myself, I feel a reluctant spark of admiration. It's been a long time since anyone stood up to me.

"Suit yourself," I finally say, turning back to my woodpile. "But I'm not changing my mind."

I feel her eyes on my back as I resume my work. Swing. Split. Stack.

Only now, with each swing, I'm acutely aware of her presence. The scent of her coffee. The sound of her shifting from foot to foot to stay warm. The weight of her determination pressing against my carefully constructed solitude.

I tell myself I don't care if she freezes her stubborn ass off on my property. It's not my problem if she won't see reason and leave.

But with each log I split, I feel my resolve cracking just a little, like ice on a spring pond.

And I hate her a little for it.