Hitched to the Mountain Man (Whispered Echoes Season 2 - A Wounded Mountain Man #4)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

SAVANNAH

The scent of burned garlic hits me the second I walk through the door of my childhood home. I drop my purse on the entry table and head straight for the kitchen, where my father stands over the stove, spatula in hand, frowning at a pan of what used to be chicken.

"Dad, what are you doing?" I pluck the spatula from his grip and nudge him aside with my hip. "You're massacring perfectly good protein."

"I was following the recipe." Sheriff Tom Parker gestures helplessly at his phone propped against the flour canister. "It said medium heat."

"Medium heat doesn't mean cremation temperature." I shut off the burner and scrape the charred mess into the trash. "When did you eat lunch?"

"I had a protein bar around two."

I check my watch. Seven thirty. My father, the man who lectures everyone else about proper self-care, went nearly six hours on a protein bar. Typical.

"Sit." I point to the kitchen table. "I'll make something edible."

He settles into his usual chair with a grateful sigh. "How was the interview?"

My hands still over the vegetable drawer. Right. The interview. The one I bombed spectacularly because telling a restaurant manager that his menu lacks imagination is apparently not the path to employment.

"It was fine." I pull out bell peppers and an onion, buying time before the inevitable interrogation. "They'll let me know."

"That's what they always say." His tone carries the gentle disappointment I've grown to dread. "Savannah, maybe it's time to consider other options."

"Other options?" I slice the pepper with more force than necessary. "Like what, Dad? Working at the diner slinging hash browns? Hostessing at the casino?"

"Practical jobs. Reliable income." He pulls off his badge and sets it on the table with a heavy thunk. "This culinary school dream has been going on for four years. You graduated six months ago, and you're still working at The Grind making lattes."

The coffeehouse job was supposed to be temporary. Just until I found the right opportunity to showcase my skills. But Whisper Vale, Nevada, doesn't exactly overflow with fine dining establishments looking for ambitious young chefs with big ideas and no professional kitchen experience.

"I'm not giving up." I crack eggs into a bowl, whisking with sharp, angry strokes. "I have a plan."

"Your plan is burning through your savings while you wait for something that might never happen." He leans back in his chair, arms crossed in that way that means a lecture is coming. "I'm saying this because I love you. Sometimes we have to adjust our dreams to fit reality."

"Like you adjusted yours?" The words are out before I can stop them.

His face hardens. We both know I'm talking about Mom. About how she left because being married to a small-town sheriff wasn't the exciting life she'd imagined. About how Dad threw himself into work instead of dealing with the pain.

"That's different." His voice goes cold. "I'm trying to protect you from disappointment."

"I'm twenty-two, not twelve." I pour the eggs into the heated pan. "I don't need protection. I need support."

"What you need is a reality check." He stands, restless energy taking over. "The restaurant business is brutal, Savannah. Ninety percent fail in the first year. You're talented, but talent doesn't pay bills."

The eggs sizzle in the silence between us. I plate them with the efficiency of someone who's done this a thousand times, adding fresh herbs I grew on the windowsill because even in my father's basic kitchen, I can't help trying to elevate things.

"Here." I set the plate in front of him. "Eat."

He looks at the omelet, perfectly folded, herbs arranged artfully on top, and something in his expression softens. "It looks restaurant quality."

"Because it is restaurant quality." I pour myself a glass of water, too frustrated to eat. "That's my point. I can do this. I just need a chance."

"And I'm saying that chance might not come." He takes a bite, chews thoughtfully. "Have you thought about culinary school loans? How you're going to pay them back on a barista's salary?"

Seventy-three thousand dollars in student debt. The number haunts my dreams. My degree in culinary arts, my certification in pastry, my summer studying abroad in France. All of it adding up to a crushing weight that grows heavier every month.

"I'm managing." Barely. But he doesn't need to know that I've been skipping meals to make rent, or that I'm one emergency away from financial catastrophe.

"Savannah." He sets down his fork. "Your grandmother's house."

My stomach drops. "What about it?"

"You inherit it when you turn twenty-three. That's six months away." He meets my eyes. "Sell it. Use the money to pay off your loans. Start fresh without that debt hanging over you."

The house. My grandmother's beautiful Victorian on Maple Street with the wraparound porch and the kitchen that sparked my love of cooking. The place where I learned to make perfect pie crust and how to fold butter into croissant dough. Where I felt safe and loved.

"I'm not selling Grandma's house."

"It's sitting empty. Property taxes are due. The roof needs work." He ticks off practical concerns on his fingers. "Be smart about this."

"There's a condition in the will." I've read it so many times I have it memorized. "I have to be married to inherit. Grandma and Grandpa wanted to make sure I was settled before giving me something so valuable."

"So get married." He says it like it's simple. "You and Brett have been dating for what, three months? He's a good guy. Stable job at the utility company."

Brett. My mind conjures an image of my boyfriend with his accounting degree and his sensible sedan and his complete lack of understanding when I talk about flavor profiles or the perfect sear. Brett, who thinks Olive Garden is fine dining and that my culinary dreams are a cute hobby.

"Brett and I aren't there yet." We're barely anywhere. Three months of pleasant dates and lukewarm kisses and increasing certainty that pleasant isn't enough.

"Then find someone who is." Dad finishes his omelet, pushing back from the table. "I have to get back to the station. We've got a situation on Main Street."

"What kind of situation?" I follow him to the door, grateful for the subject change.

"That Reeves boy is causing trouble again." He straps on his duty belt, jaw tight. "Thinks he can just set up shop in town like his record doesn't matter."

Colton Reeves. I know the name, know the reputation. The ex-con everyone whispers about. The one with the tattoos and the motorcycle who spent time in juvie for street racing and general delinquency.

"What did he do?"

"Exist." Dad's voice drips with contempt. "Delivered some metalwork commission to the mayor's wife on Main Street. Blocking traffic with that bike of his. Making decent people uncomfortable."

Something in his tone raises my hackles. "Is he breaking any actual laws?"

"He's a blight on this community." Dad checks his sidearm, that righteous authority settling over him like armor. "Some people don't deserve second chances. They just prove why they blew their first chances in the first place."

He leaves without saying goodbye, and I stand in the doorway watching his patrol car pull away.

The unfairness of it burns in my chest. Colton Reeves served his time, from what I've heard.

Turned his life around. Built a business as a blacksmith and metalworker, teaching at-risk kids welding skills.

But my father sees only the past. Only the mistakes. Only the reasons to maintain distance between the "good people" and the ones who screwed up.

I grab my keys and my jacket, propelled by an impulse I don't fully understand.

Maybe it's rebellion against my father's judgment.

Maybe it's curiosity about the man everyone warns me away from.

Maybe it's just the need to witness something real instead of staying trapped in this kitchen that smells like failure and burned garlic.

Main Street is only a few blocks from our house. I park near the courthouse and spot the scene immediately. A black motorcycle parked at the curb, a tall man in jeans and a black t-shirt standing beside it, and my father's patrol car pulled up with lights flashing like it's a major incident.

I move closer, keeping to the sidewalk, drawn by morbid fascination.

Colton Reeves is taller than I expected. Broader. His dark hair is slightly too long, his arms covered in intricate tattoos that wind from wrist to shoulder. He stands with casual confidence while my father looms over him, using his authority like a weapon.

"Your bike is illegally parked." Dad's voice carries across the street. "I should impound it."

"I'm in a loading zone." Colton's voice is deep and calm, no trace of the troublemaker my father claims he is. "Making a delivery, like I said."

"You're making decent people uncomfortable." Dad steps closer, invading space. "Maybe you should consider taking your business elsewhere. Somewhere more suited to your kind."

Heat floods my face. The blatant prejudice, the abuse of power, the sheer unfairness of watching my father humiliate someone for the crime of existing while trying to earn an honest living.

"Sheriff Parker." Colton's jaw tightens, but his voice remains level. "I have every right to conduct business in this town."

"Rights." Dad practically spits the word. "People like you gave up rights when you chose to break the law. You're trash, Reeves. Always have been, always will be. Best thing you could do is leave Whisper Vale to people who actually contribute to society."

The words land like punches. I see Colton’s hands curl into fists, see him visibly restraining himself from reacting. See the moment he decides that defending himself will only make things worse.

"I'll move my bike." He turns toward the motorcycle, and the defeat in his posture makes my chest ache.