Harvest Brew With the Mountain Man (Forbidden In Fall Mountain Man #3)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

CAMILLE

Leaving the coast for the thick mountainous terrain in the fall is the epitome of coming home.

I’m twenty minutes from Eden Ridge, everything I own stuffed in the back of my Jeep. I headed west to Silver Lakes when I was eighteen. I attended college and worked my ass off to get my degree, Bachelor of Fine Arts in Interior Design. I hadn’t planned on staying as long as I did.

Coming home wasn’t in the plan either. But Brian, as with everything he does, soured the freedom I found on the coast.

The rain’s musical pattern hits the fabric covering of my Jeep’s roof. The light, melodic swipe from the windshield wipers adds to the peaceful cadence of my drive.

Suddenly, one bright, cool-toned headlight blinds me through my rearview.

The road into the mountains, at this time, became ghost-like thirty minutes back.

Mom hates it when I drive back this late, but it’s my favorite time for long drives.

It’s when the quiet solitude stretches, clearing my mind from the clutter.

The headlight gets closer. Squinting at the mirror, the silhouette breaks through the darkness and the mosaic painting from the rain. It’s a motorcycle.

My muscles clench. It’s instinctual at this point.

“You’re fine,” I mumble, keeping my eye on the rearview. “Club riders are common on the West Coast. Don’t be paranoid.”

I let out a deep exhale, but my actions betray me as I turn down the volume on the indie rock playing through my car speakers.

Just as my body loosens up, one headlight splits off into two. I’m going seventy down this barely lit back road into Eden Ridge since I never take the main highway.

“Fuck,” I huff under my breath when two headlights split off into three more. “Fucking Brian.”

A woman’s intuition is never wrong. This isn’t a random encounter with bikers. My blood runs cold when they speed up and surround my Jeep. Gripping the leather of the steering wheel, I slow down to fifty. If they’re going to do something reckless, I want to maintain control of my car.

Two Black Feral MC members catch up and ride parallel to me. I recognize the patch design anywhere. A silver skull with a cracked jaw and elongated feral teeth drooling. The eyes are glowing red, and drips of blood decorate the eye sockets and teeth.

Ten minutes before I enter Main Street. If I can just make it…the two bikers flanking me smack the side of my Jeep.

Shit.

Fuck it.

I step on the gas harder, picking up speed again, aware of the risk in this weather.

“Think, Camille, think.”

I calculate the area and search my memory bank for any back roads or upcoming turns I can take to attempt to lose them. No way will Black Feral risk entering Eden Ridge. They’ve already violated Eden’s Forsaken Saints MC rules by riding in their territory.

Panic short-circuits my brain. I suddenly forget the small town I know like the back of my hand as my eyes flick rapidly between the taunting bikers and the road.

Pop pop. Two gunshots.

The Jeep jerks and dramatically spins to the right. They took out my left tires. Hyperventilating, my hands yank the wheel left only to spin into a ditch. My vision blurs, the left side of my head throbbing. My car door is pulled open, and large, rough hands drag me out.

Cold drops of torrential rain beat on my face. I kick and scream, fighting incoherently as nothing is clear—not the men, the road, my surroundings. I shake my head, trying to regain focus while screaming till my voice cracks painfully.

The other men on their bikes surround the ones gripping my arms, laughing.

“Shut the cunt up and get her tied up,” one of them barks.

Which? I couldn’t tell. Masks cover the bottom half of all their faces with horror images.

“You smell that?” one of them laughs. “I bet that’s fresh pussy.”

“One way to find out,” another says, approaching.

“Don’t you fucking touch me,” I yell.

“Oh, fuck yeah. A feisty fresh cunt? Even better.”

I twist my torso, kicking the one holding my arms.

Cursing, his grip loosens. I turn and run into the trees. I don’t get far. A heavy weight slams into my back, taking me to the ground, face-first. I’m flipped around as another catches up and fists my hair at the top of my head, pulling. The one who knocked me down unbuttons my jeans.

My body floods with ice. No, no, no.

I try clawing his face as he pulls my jeans down quickly—too quickly—while ripping off my boots.

I scream even though my vocal cords are raw and painful.

“Fuck, I deserve this,” he grunts, undoing his pants.

I look up at the asshole pulling my hair, who’s darkly laughing. The rain is like small knives hitting my eyes. I see his weapon peeking from inside his patch jacket.

He’s distracted enough. I reach in and pull his gun out from his holster with both hands. I don’t second-guess. I shoot his torso, look down at the one by my feet, his dirty dick already displayed, and shoot it.

Guttural cries rip out of their throats as I’m released. I roll over, get to my feet, gun in hand, and run.

The others who stayed by the road come running. I hear their screams echo behind me as I continue sprinting into the woods. My body protests, aches blooming head to toe, but I can’t think about that. Adrenaline fuels me to run.

I duck as a bullet whistles by my head. I scream instinctively, point the gun behind me, and blindly shoot as I keep running, stumbling, and slipping on roots and branches in my thick socks that tear, poking my bare feet.

Black rock by the willow tree.

I know where I am.

I almost cry with relief, but focus on working out the back paths that only those who grew up in Eden Ridge would know.

If I bank left, hop across the stream, then dive down the drop off, which from the top looks dangerous, I might get away.

I’ve slid down that grassy hill so many winters as a child with a tarp.

The gun is out of ammo. I toss it, following the plan, while I ignore my lungs that want to explode. They feel so tight and heavy.

Tears obscure my vision, especially in this pitch darkness, but muscle memory propels me forward as their heaving grunts, vulgar calls, and continued gunfire urge me on to find someone, anyone in town at this time of night.

I slide down the divot on the far right that’s safe to maneuver and tuck under the brush at the bottom. I wait to hear them pass. I cover my mouth, but no matter how hard I try, my breathing sounds so loud. I’m too scared to get caught.

Forget waiting. I take off toward Main Street.

I can’t stop.

Oh, God. I can’t go home like this. I can’t draw them to my parents. And Drew. I can’t go to him. He’ll start a full-on MC war over this, risking his life. No. This is fucking Brian’s fault, and Brian is my problem. No one else’s.

I helplessly cry out when I finally burst through the forest edge into a back alley on Main Street.

I lean against a brick building, keeping to the shadows.

My body sags as I cover the sob that stutters my aching chest. I watch the forest edge, listening carefully for signs that they’ve found me.

It’s hard to hear when the rain is battering roofs and pavement.

I can’t stay here.

I scan the streets. Everything closes early on Main Street. It’s gotta be past ten by now. I limp closer toward the sidewalk.

“Ridge Dive,” I whisper, eyes wide as relief renews life in my body.

The lights are on inside. It’s the local bar, so not surprising, but it’s also a Tuesday. If I remember correctly, they close early Monday through Thursday. I have no idea who’s there, but I have to get out of the open.

I carefully take the back areas of the businesses until I have to run across the street and around the building. My feet skid to a stop, seeing the huge pile of charred planks and furniture piling high by the back door.

A motorcycle revs up in the distance. My body startles, and I don’t think.

I race to the back door that’s thankfully propped open and rush inside.

I meant to find the storage room to hide out in, but adrenaline has my body continuing, almost reaching the front area, when I catapult straight into a strong, large chest.

Hands take hold of my arms, and fear steals all reason. I fight against my captor.

“Get your fucking hands off me,” I cry, looking for a weak point to attack.

“Hey. Hey!”

A voice so familiar, my body locks up and loses all fight.

The deep tone I used to sit at the top stairway and listen tell stories and laugh for hours.

I’d know it anywhere. My eyes slowly pan up his wide chest, the tan throat peeking out of his flannel, the short bearded jaw, that full bottom lip, then those eyes.

I gasp, taking in the Hunter family trait gray-green hue surrounded by thick, envious lashes.

“West,” I whisper, tears welling at the weight that instantly dissolves from my body.

I can’t hold myself up. The crash comes quick. West curses, sweeping my body up into his arms.

“Fuck, Camille. What happened to you?” he asks, rushing somewhere in the back.

My head feels too heavy—hell, my entire body does. I sag against his body. Every ignored injury decides to make itself known with glaring attention. I shuck in a breath as West slowly sets me down on a couch. My eyes take in the space of an office. Small, cozy, warm.

My body trembles as I finally feel the cold from outside seeping in.

West returns, draping a thick, wool throw blanket around my shoulders.

He kneels in front of the couch and gently cups my face with both hands.

One hand holds a wet washcloth against my temple, which at first touch, stings.

I hiss at the sharp pain. I must have hit my head when the car spun.

The delicate way he handles me has a stream of tears running down my face. West’s normally charismatic, good-natured expression hardens in a way I don’t think I’ve ever witnessed growing up around my brother’s best friend.

“Who. Fucking. Did. This. To. You?” he growls.