Cowboy Mountain Man (Iron Peak Mountain Man #2)

Chapter 1

ONE

WILLA

The snow claws at my legs like frozen hands trying to drag me under.

Each step sinks deeper, the powder swallowing my boots past the ankles, then the calves.

My lungs burn, raw from the cold air I’ve been gulping since I fled the truck hours—days?

—ago. Time blurs when every breath feels like swallowing glass.

Blood soaks through the sleeve of my jacket, warm at first, then sticky, then icy.

The cut on my arm throbs in time with my heartbeat, a steady reminder of the last thing I remember clearly: the glint of the knife, the shout, the slam of the door as I threw myself out into the storm.

I don’t know how far I’ve come. Only that I can’t stop. If I stop, they find me.

The wind howls, whipping flakes into my eyes, my mouth.

My eyelashes freeze together. I blink hard, stumble, catch myself on a tree trunk.

The bark scrapes my palm. I press my forehead against it for a second, just breathing, just trying not to cry because crying will freeze my face shut and I need to keep moving.

A light flickers ahead. It’s not the moon—too low, too steady. A window. A cabin. My knees buckle at the sight. Relief crashes through me so hard I almost fall again.

I stagger forward, one arm wrapped around my middle where another slice stings across my ribs.

Not deep, but it weeps through my shirt.

The porch steps are buried. I climb them on hands and knees, wood creaking under my weight.

The door is heavy, rough-hewn logs. I pound on it with my fist, the sound swallowed by the storm.

Nothing.

I pound again, harder. “Please,” I rasp. My voice cracks, barely audible. “Please, help.”

The door swings open so fast I almost tumble inside.

A large man fills the frame—broad shoulders, flannel shirt stretched tight, beard dark against tanned skin weathered by sun and wind.

His eyes narrow, green and sharp under the brim of a worn Stetson he must have grabbed on his way to answer.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just stares down at me like I’m a ghost that wandered out of the white.

Blood drips from my elbow onto his threshold, dark spots on the pine boards.

He curses under his breath—low, rough—and reaches out. His hand closes around my good arm, firm but not bruising, and hauls me inside. The warmth hits like a slap. Woodsmoke, coffee, pine. I sway on my feet.

“Sit,” he orders, voice gravel. He kicks the door shut, bolts it, then steers me toward a worn leather couch near the stone fireplace. Flames crackle behind a screen. I collapse onto the cushions before my legs give out completely.

He doesn’t ask questions yet. Instead he disappears through a doorway—kitchen, maybe—and returns with a towel and a metal bowl of steaming water. He drops to one knee in front of me, close enough I can smell cedar and leather on him. His hands are big, callused, scarred across the knuckles.

“Arm first,” he says. No please, no gentleness, but no cruelty either. Just efficiency.

I peel back the torn sleeve. The gash runs from elbow to wrist, jagged. Not from the knife directly—branches, I think, or rocks when I fell. He dips the towel, wrings it, presses it to the wound. I hiss.

“Hold still.” He works fast, cleaning, inspecting. “Deep enough for stitches, but it’ll hold if I wrap it tight. You hit anything vital?”

I shake my head. “I don’t think so.”

His gaze flicks to my face, then lower, to the spreading stain on my side. “Shirt off.”

Heat floods my cheeks despite the chill still clinging to my bones. “I—”

“Now, darlin'.” The word isn’t sweet; it’s a command wrapped in impatience. “Bleeding out on my floor isn’t an option.”

I fumble with the hem, wincing as the fabric sticks to the cut. He helps, careful not to tear anything worse, then tosses the ruined shirt aside. The wound across my ribs is shallower, a long scrape more than a slice, but it’s angry red. He cleans it the same way—methodical, detached.

I study him while he works. Dark hair curls under the hat he hasn’t removed. Jaw set hard. He smells like the outdoors even indoors—pine, smoke, horse maybe. Cowboy, I think dimly. Or mountain man. Maybe both.

“You always answer the door armed?” I ask, nodding toward the rifle leaning against the wall near the door. I didn’t notice it until now.

His eyes meet mine. “Always.”

I swallow. “Good.”

He finishes bandaging my wrists and my side with strips of clean cloth from a tin he pulled off a shelf. Then he sits back on his heels, elbows on his knees, studying me like I’m a puzzle he doesn’t want to solve.

“Who’s after you?”

I flinch. “I don’t—”

“Don’t lie.” His voice drops lower. “Girl shows up half-frozen and carved up in the middle of nowhere during a blizzard? Someone wants you gone. Who?”

My throat closes. I look at the fire instead. “My ex. And… his friends. They—” I stop. The words stick. “They found out I was leaving. For good.”

He doesn’t push. Just waits.

“I took proof,” I whisper. “Documents. Recordings. Enough to put them away if anyone ever believed me. They want it back. And me quiet.”

He exhales through his nose. “How many?”

“Three, maybe four. They were in the truck when I jumped out. I don’t know if they followed.”

He stands, crosses to the window, peers through the frost-laced pane. Snow lashes the glass. Visibility zero. “Storm’s locked everything down. No one’s moving tonight. Maybe not tomorrow.”

Relief makes me dizzy. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” He turns back. “You’re here because I’m not heartless enough to leave you to freeze. But this—” he gestures at the small cabin, one main room with a loft overhead, kitchen nook, single door leading to what must be a bedroom “—this is temporary. My rules are simple.”

I nod.

“Stay quiet. No lights at night unless necessary. No going outside without me. No phone—no signal anyway. And stay out of my bed.”

Heat prickles my neck again. The couch is narrow. The loft looks like storage. There’s only one real bed visible through the cracked bedroom door—big, rough-hewn frame, piled with quilts.

“I’ll take the couch,” I say quickly.

He snorts. “You’ll take wherever I put you. Right now, you need heat and rest. Couch is closest to the fire.”

He moves to the kitchen, fills a kettle, sets it on the woodstove. He pulls down two mugs, coffee, sugar. His movements are economical, practiced. A man used to being alone.

I pull the blanket he tossed over my lap tighter. My teeth still chatter. “What’s your name?”

He glances over his shoulder. “Colt Ryker.”

“Willa Marks,” I offer.

He grunts an acknowledgment as he pours hot water over the grounds. The smell rises, rich and grounding. He brings me a mug, wraps my hands around it. The heat seeps into my palms.

“Drink slow,” he says. “You’re half-frozen. Don’t want to shock your system.”

I sip. It scalds my tongue but I don’t care. “You live here alone?”

“Yep.”

“No wife? Kids?”

His jaw tightens. “No.”

I nod. And I don’t push. The silence stretches, broken only by the pop of the fire and the wind screaming outside.

He sits in the chair across from me, long legs stretched out, hat finally off. Hair tousled. He looks tired. Not just physically. The kind of tired that lives in the eyes.

“You’re safe here tonight,” he says finally. Quiet. “I don’t let things I don’t want on my mountain come close.”

Something in his tone makes my chest ache. Not pity. Trust. The first real sliver of it since I ran.

I meet his gaze. “Thank you, Colt.”

“I’ll get you a dry shirt to wear.” He looks away first, toward the fire. Then, he tromps down the hallway and comes back with a plain white tee. “Get some sleep, Willa. Storm’s just getting started.”

I take the shirt, slipping it over my head. “Thank you,” I say as I curl deeper into the blanket, mug cradled against my chest. The warmth spreads, loosening the knots of fear. My eyelids droop. For the first time in days, I let them.

Outside, the wind howls louder. Inside, the fire crackles. And for the first time since I started running, I don’t feel quite so alone.