Daring With The Mountain Man (Mountain Man Summer 2026 #4)

Chapter 1

Layla

The woman at the front desk of Eight Pines Lakeside Cabins smiles like she already knows I’m running from something. It isn’t intrusive. More like she’s quietly acknowledging that I need a reboot. And I do.

Her smile is warm and easy. It says, Welcome. Whatever brought you here, you can leave it in the car if you want. I shift my bag higher on my shoulder and return the smile.

“Layla Whitman,” I say. “I have a reservation for the week.”

Her fingers move over the keyboard. “Cabin six?”

“That’s me.”

“First time in Cady Springs?”

“Yes.” I tuck a loose strand of blond hair behind my ear. “First time anywhere in a while, actually.”

The words slip out before I can stop them.

“Then you picked a good place.”

I hope so. I need a good place. Somewhere that doesn’t smell like dry-erase markers, construction paper, or the coffee I drink too late in the afternoon because twenty-three second graders can drain every last drop of energy from a person before three o’clock.

I need a place where no one looks at me and quietly wonders whether I’m lonely because I’m alone. Yeah, it’s just me. And honestly, sometimes I am.

The woman slides a map across the counter.

“You’re right here.” She circles a tiny square near the lake.

“Cabin six is one of our smaller rentals, but it has a private porch, a little kitchen, and direct trail access down to the water. Ice machine’s beside the office.

Kayak rentals open at eight. Firewood’s stacked behind the shed, and there’s a community firepit near the dock if you feel like being social. ”

“Social,” I repeat, like she’s used a foreign word.

Her smile widens. “Or not. Plenty of people come here to hide with a book.”

“I brought three.”

“Then you’ll fit right in.”

She hands me an actual key, not a plastic card. The wooden tag is small with the number six burned into it. It feels charming and cottage rustic.

“Wi-Fi password’s on the fridge,” she says. “Cell service gets spotty on the far side of the lake, so don’t panic if your phone drops a bar or three. Around here, we call that a feature.”

I glance at my phone without meaning to. No missed calls. No messages. Good… and not good. That’s the strange thing about divorce. Silence is what I wanted. Silence is also where all the echoes live.

“Anything else I should know?” I ask.

“Stay on marked trails unless you’re with someone local. The lake’s safe in the main swimming areas, but there are coves where the depth changes fast. And don’t go jumping off anything unless you know exactly what’s under you.”

I let out a soft laugh. “That won’t be a problem.”

“You’d be surprised what people decide about themselves after a day or two here. My name’s Kelsey. Let me know if you need anything. Enjoy your stay.”

I laugh again, but it doesn’t feel quite as real this time. Because that is the problem, isn’t it? I don’t know what I’ve decided about myself anymore.

Five minutes later, I pull up in front of cabin six and sit with both hands on the steering wheel.

The lake glitters through the trees, bright and blue beneath the late-afternoon sun.

Pine branches shift in a breeze that carries the scent of water, warm wood, and something sweet blooming nearby.

Somewhere in the distance, someone laughs.

A bird calls from the top of a tree. The whole place feels alive in a way my apartment hasn’t in months.

“There,” I whisper. “You made it.”

It’s just me. Layla Whitman. Thirty-seven.

Elementary school teacher. Divorced. Childless, though not by choice.

Owner of three sundresses, two bathing suits, one divorce decree, and an unreasonable number of feelings I prefer not to examine in direct sunlight.

I get out before I can change my mind and drive home.

Cabin six is prettier than the pictures.

The porch is narrow but private, tucked behind tall pines and a cheerful mess of wildflowers that look like they volunteered without permission.

Two wooden chairs angle toward the lake.

A small table sits between them, just big enough for coffee, wine, or the stack of books currently riding in my tote.

Inside, the cabin is simple and cozy. Knotty pine walls. Soft cream curtains. A two-burner stove. A blue quilt folded at the foot of the bed. A framed watercolor of the lake hangs over the sofa.

I set my suitcase near the bed and unzip it with the determination of a woman who has organized her own breakdown.

Sunscreen. Bug spray. Sandals. Water shoes.

Three books. One journal I may or may not write in.

A ridiculous floppy hat my friend Marla insisted I buy because, according to her, “If you’re going to have a post-divorce awakening, you should at least protect your face from sun damage. ”

I place the hat on the bed and stare at it. Post-divorce awakening. It sounds bold. Almost sexy.

The reality involved stopping twice on the drive to use the bathroom because I drank too much iced coffee, then crying unexpectedly in a gas station parking lot when an old country song came on the radio. Not because of Harold. That’s what people don’t understand.

My divorce didn’t happen because Harold was cruel. There was no cheating, no screaming, no dramatic betrayal. Harold was decent. Responsible. Careful. Safe. Everyone said so.

My parents adored him from the beginning. Harold Langford, accountant. Sensible shoes. Good credit. Five-year plan. The kind of man who reads warranty paperwork and schedules oil changes before the little sticker on the windshield tells him to.

He was not the kind of man who made a woman’s pulse trip over itself. Back then, I told myself that was fine. I had already wanted enough impossible things. Children, for one.

The doctors had been gentle. Clinical, but gentle. They used words like unlikely and options and future conversations. I sat in a paper gown on an exam table and nodded like I understood, like something inside me hadn’t cracked so loudly I couldn’t hear the rest of the appointment.

After that, teaching became both a calling and a place to put all the love that had nowhere else to go. Children were easy to love. Even when they were sticky and cranky and defiant and wiggly.

So I became Miss Whitman. I built bulletin boards and reading corners. I memorized allergies and favorite colors. I tied shoes, dried tears, celebrated lost teeth, and pretended not to notice when Mother’s Day crafts made my throat ache.

Then I married Harold because he was safe and kind and didn’t ask me to be wild. At first, safe felt like rest. Then it became a room with no windows.

Every year when summer break arrived, Harold promised we would go somewhere. Not just visit my parents or take a long weekend to a city where he could check email from the hotel desk. Somewhere different. A mountain lake. A beach. A national park. A tiny town with cabins and trails and stars.

“Next summer,” he always said.

Then next summer became the next tax season. The next promotion. The next client. The next reason not to embrace anything outside his work life.

The night I told him our marriage was a mistake, he came home after ten, loosened his tie, and found me sitting at the kitchen table in the dark. He asked if someone had died.

I said, “Maybe me.”

That was dramatic. I know it was dramatic. But it was also true. Something in me had gone so quiet I was afraid it would never make noise again.

I stop unpacking and press my fingers against the edge of the dresser.

“Nope,” I say aloud. “We are not doing this.”

I didn’t come here to replay the sad parts. This cabin is for lake air, books, sunshine, and maybe one mildly daring activity I can later mention to Marla so she stops sending me inspirational memes in cursive fonts.

I change into denim shorts, a soft green tank top, and sandals. I pull my hair into a messy ponytail, apply lip balm, and try not to look too long at the bathing suit still folded on the bed. One step at a time.

First, explore. Then maybe sit by the water. If I’m feeling very bold, I’ll take off my shoes and let the lake touch my butt-ugly toes.

I glance down and grimace. They are not cute feet. They have never been cute feet. My toes are short and stubborn looking, like they were assembled during a budget crisis. I keep them polished in summer because I am not a monster, but no shade of coral can change their basic personality.

I grab the wooden keyring and step outside.

The trail to the lake begins just beyond my porch.

It winds through trees, past clumps of grass and smooth gray rocks, then opens near a narrow dock.

I follow it along the shoreline, careful where tree roots break through the dirt.

Sunlight scatters across the water in bright pieces.

The lake stretches wide and deep, framed by pines and rising hills that look blue in the distance.

Cady Springs is beautiful in a way that makes me feel almost offended. How dare a place look this alive while I’ve been barely getting through?

A burst of laughter carries over the water -- far away at first. I slow my pace, listening. Voices echo from somewhere beyond a bend in the trail. Excited voices. Then a splash cracks through the air, followed by cheers.

I should turn around. These sandals have very little grip. I didn’t tell anyone where I was going. Kelsey specifically said marked trails, local knowledge, and don’t go jumping off anything unless you know what’s under you. Which is fine, because I am not jumping off anything. I am only looking.

The trees thin as the trail rises. The sound of water grows louder -- not rushing water, but impact water. The explosive slap of bodies hitting the lake from above. My pulse picks up before I see them. Then the path curves around a cluster of boulders, and the cove appears.

“Oh,” I breathe.