Hot for the Mountain Man (Men of Fire Mountain #2)

Chapter One

Peyton

I first realized how far I was from Seattle when the last stretch of smooth highway gave way to a winding, two-lane road that cut through endless pine trees. Every mile felt like another step into unfamiliar territory. I’d landed at the Missoula airport only two hours ago, picked up a silver sedan from the rental counter, and set my GPS for Ashwood, Montana—a place I’d never heard of until three weeks ago. Now, with early-spring sunlight flickering through the forest canopy, I caught glimpses of distant peaks still capped with snow. The scenery was breathtaking, if also mildly intimidating.

“This better be worth it,” I muttered, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. I was an interior designer from Seattle—a city girl with a love for color palettes and architectural detail, not steep mountain trails. But I’d been hired by the owners of a small mountain lodge in Ashwood to oversee their big renovation project, the biggest job I’d landed in months. I’d pitched them a modern-rustic concept that might revitalize the outdated property. In return, they’d promised me creative freedom and a decent paycheck. Hard to refuse, right?

A battered sign announced I was nearing the Ashwood town limits. I eased off the gas, scanning the landscape. A handful of quaint buildings appeared around the bend—general store, diner, real estate office, maybe a small pharmacy. Beyond them, Fire Mountain towered, stark and majestic against a pale-blue sky. I almost forgot my own nerves at the sight of it.

My GPS chimed to turn right onto a gravel driveway just past a tiny wooden sign that read “Jennings Airbnb.” I’d made arrangements to stay here during my visits, which would probably last a couple of weeks on and off. Not that I planned to move to Ashwood—just a series of extended stays until the remodel was well underway.

Pulling in, I spotted a modest one-story home with green shutters, surrounded by a neat yard still shaking off winter’s chill. Flower pots lined the porch, though no blossoms had appeared yet. A separate little cottage was tucked behind the main house, presumably the unit I’d be renting. Gravel crunched beneath my tires as I parked.

Stepping out, I stretched. The air smelled startlingly fresh, like pine needles and damp earth. Not a whiff of espresso or car exhaust—my typical Seattle atmosphere. I grabbed my rolling suitcase from the trunk, scanning the porch for signs of life. An older woman I assumed was Rachel Jennings emerged from the house, beaming widely. She had a motherly figure wrapped in a floral apron, and in her arms sprawled a colossal orange-and-white cat.

“Hello there!” she called, waddling toward me with the cat in tow. His belly nearly spilled over her forearm. I tried not to laugh. “You must be Peyton Chambers.”

“That’s me,” I said, offering a polite smile. “Thanks so much for having me.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble, dear. I’m Rachel Jennings.” She patted the cat’s plump flank. “And this handsome fellow is Sir Buttercup. Don’t let his lazy looks fool you—he’s a menace when food’s involved.”

Sir Buttercup blinked at me, disinterested, before yawning. I bit my lip to keep from giggling. “He’s…quite impressive.”

Rachel chuckled. “He likes to think so. Well, let’s get you settled. The cottage is right back here.”

We headed along a short path past a small vegetable patch. Rachel carried Sir Buttercup effortlessly, like he weighed no more than a throw pillow. She chattered about the property: how she once ran a daycare, how she keeps the Airbnb for extra income and for the joy of meeting new folks.

“My husband’s been gone some years now,” she explained softly as we rounded a corner. “But I keep busy. You’ll find I like to bake and fuss over guests. Holler if you need anything.”

I nodded, feeling a pang of sympathy. Something about her warm, open demeanor put me at ease. We reached the cottage—a snug single-story unit with a tiny porch. Rachel set Sir Buttercup down, and he meowed in protest, plopping onto the wooden boards like a beached whale.

Rachel unlocked the door, stepping inside. “It’s small but up to date. One bedroom, one bath, plus a living area and kitchenette.” She gestured grandly at the simple but clean layout. Cream-colored walls, wood beams across the ceiling, a comfy sofa, and a short hallway leading to what I assumed was the bedroom. “I keep it stocked with cookware and toiletries, plus I do fresh linens every few days.”

I let my gaze wander, pleasantly surprised. The place had a rustic vibe but was clearly well-maintained. A window over the sink revealed a partial view of Fire Mountain’s slope, which felt oddly comforting. This could be cozy, I decided.

“Thank you, Rachel,” I said sincerely. “This is lovely. So much more personality than a chain hotel.”

She brightened. “I’m glad you think so. Now, if you find yourself hungry, I’m just a knock away. Don’t be shy.”

Sir Buttercup lumbered in after us, sniffing around the floor like he owned the place. Rachel gently nudged him back outside with her foot. “Out you go, mister. Let Peyton settle first.”

He responded with a forlorn meow but eventually waddled onto the porch and flopped down. I tried not to laugh at his dramatic exit. Rachel gave me one last wave, telling me to text if I needed fresh towels, then stepped back outside. Alone in the cottage, I exhaled, dropping my suitcase near the couch. All right, Peyton , I told myself. Time to get professional .

My phone buzzed. Glancing down, I recognized a local number I’d saved earlier: Carson Brooks, the contractor in charge of the main hotel’s structural upgrades. I’d been in email contact with him but never met him in person.

Carson : Hey Peyton, welcome to Ashwood. I heard you arrived. Want a quick tour of the area? Maybe a casual hike on Fire Mountain tomorrow afternoon? Good chance to get inspired for the lodge design.

A slow grin tugged at my lips. That had to be an invitation of sorts, right? I’d peeked at a photo of him online—tall, broad-shouldered, all-American grin. A far cry from the nerdy architects or aged contractors I usually encountered. Maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad place after all.

Me: Thanks, Carson! A hike sounds great. I’m up for it. Let me know time and place.

He replied almost instantly with details: meet at the Fire Mountain trailhead around noon. I typed a cheery acknowledgment, then looked around the cottage again. A day hike, huh? The most “outdoorsy” thing I’d done in Seattle was maybe a weekend farmers market. But if getting a little dirt on my boots improved synergy with the lead contractor, I’d do it. This lodge project was important to my portfolio. I refused to let some scenic trails intimidate me.

The next morning, I woke early to a beam of sunlight cutting across my bed, the crisp mountain air stirring the curtains. I inhaled deeply, half expecting smog or city noise as usual. Instead, birds chirped, and the quiet hush felt like another world. I padded into the kitchenette, found coffee grounds, and brewed a small pot. The aroma filled the cozy space. While sipping, I flicked through outfit ideas on my phone. What does one wear for a “casual hike”? Rachel’s mention of an outfitters store downtown came to mind.

An hour later, I parked in front of Ashwood Outdoor Supply, a small shop with racks of boots and jackets visible through the window. Inside, I approached a bored-looking teenager behind the counter, who half-heartedly recommended a pair of sturdy hiking boots, moisture-wicking socks, a windbreaker, and a basic backpack. The color choices were abysmal—mostly khaki or forest green. I ended up with items in drab olive, a color that didn’t do a thing for my pale skin tone.

By noon, I’d swapped my usual stylish blouse for a plain tee and the windbreaker. My brand-new boots felt stiff, but hopefully they’d hold up. I drove out to Fire Mountain’s trailhead, noticing a scattering of cars in the makeshift parking area. The mountain’s peak soared above, dusted with lingering snow in the highest altitudes, while the slopes near the base looked green and inviting.

Carson was waiting near a wooden sign that displayed the trail map. He wore a short-sleeve athletic top that showed off muscled arms, plus hiking pants that looked freshly laundered. He flashed a bright smile when I approached, and I had to admit—he was even more handsome in person than he’d appeared online. The healthy tan, the confident posture. Like a living advertisement for some high-end athletic brand.

“Hey, you must be Peyton,” he greeted, stepping forward. “Pleasure to meet you. You find the place okay?”

I nodded, forcing my voice to stay upbeat. “Sure did. Thanks for suggesting this.”

Carson smirked. “Absolutely. The best way to appreciate Ashwood’s vibe is from the trails. Nothing beats the fresh mountain air.”

We set off onto a well-trodden path. Despite the morning’s bright sunshine, a mild chill lingered in the shade of tall pines. The first stretch of trail was surprisingly pleasant—soft dirt underfoot, pockets of sunlight flickering through branches. Carson led with an easy pace, occasionally pointing out interesting views. I tried to absorb details that might inform my lodge design: the interplay of stone, wood, and greenery. I wanted to incorporate as many locally sourced natural materials as possible, and envisioned an aesthetic that would bring the outside in, in fresh and creative new ways.

But after twenty minutes, the gentle trail sloped upward, and I began to feel the burn in my calves. Carson maintained a brisk stride, occasionally turning to ask, “Doing okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” I answered, though my cheeks flushed from more than the sun. My brand-new backpack felt heavier with every step—water bottles, some energy bars, my makeup bag. In hindsight, three different shades of lipstick and a selfie stick for my phone didn’t seem as essential to have on hand.

We pressed on. Carson started talking about his personal achievements: triathlons he nearly won, cabins he singlehandedly renovated, top-of-the-line gear he used. He paused to compliment me on my new windbreaker, calling it “cute” and giving me a wink. But the conversation mostly revolved around him—his big plans for expansions, how the lodge owners valued his skills, how he admired “city folks” who ventured into real wilderness.

My breath grew shallow. Focus, Peyton . It wasn’t that the path was extremely steep, but I was new at this. My boots pinched and sweat trickled down my neck. When Carson veered us off the main trail, I got nervous. He insisted there was a hidden overlook just a short distance away. The ground turned rockier, dotted with roots and slimy patches. My heart pounded, but I forced myself to keep up, ignoring the chafing in my heels.

Then it happened. My foot skidded on a damp rock, and I pitched forward, letting out a strangled yelp as my ankle twisted. Pain flared instantly, and my knee cracked against another rock, scraping open. The world spun for a second as I landed in a tangle of limbs.

Carson let out a panicked shout. “Whoa…are you okay?” But when he saw blood staining my leggings, his face went pale. The scrape was deeper than I thought, trickling bright red down my shin.

“Carson,” I hissed, tears of pain stinging my eyes. “Help me…my ankle…”

But he froze, eyes locked on the blood. His complexion turned chalky. “I…I don’t handle blood well. Hang on, I’ll get help.” He staggered backward, swallowing convulsively. Then, to my shock, he spun around and half-ran, half-tripped downhill. “I’ll be right back,” he called, though it sounded more like a desperate exit line.

I sat there, injured and incredulous. He actually left me. My heart thundered from betrayal and mounting pain. The trail was nowhere in sight, so I couldn’t exactly crawl back alone. My ankle throbbed viciously. Great, Peyton. Great decision, trusting a braggart on an unmarked path.

Shame burned my cheeks, tears blurring my vision. Then I heard a quiet rustle of leaves. A deep voice asked, “Need help?”

I jerked my head up. A tall, broad-shouldered man with windblown dark hair and a faint layer of stubble stood a few feet away, scanning me with calm, assessing eyes. He wore simple cargo pants and a T-shirt, both sporting signs of outdoor wear. A small smokejumper patch decorated his sleeve, telling me he was no casual hiker.

“Uh, yes, please,” I rasped, relief washing over me. “I twisted my ankle. It’s really painful. And my leg’s bleeding.”

He crouched beside me, not even flinching at the sight of blood. “Let me see,” he said. His voice was low, confident, with no hint of panic. He set down a small pack and expertly cleaned the scrape using antiseptic wipes before applying gauze. The entire time, I stared at him in awe. He moved with practiced efficiency, focusing on my injury rather than my embarrassing predicament.

When he finished, he glanced around. “Where’s the guy you were with?”

“He freaked out,” I muttered, cheeks heating. “He said he’d get help, but…just bolted. I’m Peyton, by the way.”

He nodded, brow furrowed. “Grant McAllister. Firefighter out of Ashwood station.” He shifted, carefully touching my ankle. I winced. “Might be a mild sprain. Let’s get you off this slope. Think you can stand with support?”

I swallowed hard, letting him slip an arm around me. I leaned on his solid frame, feeling strangely safe. “Thank you,” I whispered, mortified by how shaky my voice sounded.

Grant didn’t answer, just helped me to my feet, guiding me step by step toward more stable ground. My ankle screamed at every movement, but he steadied me. He smelled faintly of pine and musk. We reached a rough, narrow path, and he navigated it with effortless balance, half-carrying my weight. The difference between him and Carson couldn’t have been clearer: one was all talk, the other all action.

Eventually, we emerged near the base trail, where a small cluster of trees opened to reveal the parking area. My rental car sat in the midday sun, and a wave of relief nearly knocked me over. Thank goodness I could drive—my cut was on the left leg, so at least the gas foot was okay.

Grant eased me against the car, letting me catch my breath. He studied me with those gray eyes that betrayed neither pity nor condescension, just practicality. “You’ll want to ice that ankle, then see if it swells. Keep the cut clean,” he said. “Otherwise, it shouldn’t cause lasting trouble.”

I nodded, brushing hair from my sweaty face. “I can’t thank you enough. I… I didn’t expect this to happen.”

“Clearly,” he murmured, glancing at my brand-new gear with mild disapproval. “Off-trail can be dangerous if you don’t know what you’re doing. Maybe find a better hiking partner next time. One you can trust. Even better, sign up for some mountaineering classes.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks. “Right,” I muttered, hating how incompetent I must’ve looked. “Lesson learned.”

He stepped back, arms folding. “You okay to drive?”

“I think so,” I said, wincing at a test shift of my weight. “I’ll manage. Thanks, um, Grant.”

For a moment, I thought he might say something else, but the fleeting spark in his eyes vanished behind a stoic mask. “Take care,” he replied gruffly. Then, before I could protest or ask for his number—something silly like that—he turned and strode toward the tree line, disappearing back into the forest without fanfare.

I stood there, heart pounding, replaying the feel of his arm supporting me. My leg ached and my pride felt battered, yet a peculiar warmth lingered in my chest. Who was this mountain man? He’d just rescued me with calm efficiency and left as though it were no big deal.

Shaking off my daze, I gingerly climbed behind the wheel. Carson was nowhere in sight—big surprise. Starting the engine, I pressed the gas slowly, determined to make it back to the Airbnb without further mishaps. My thoughts whirled with images of Grant’s steady presence, the strong line of his jaw, the quiet assurance in his touch.

He was so… different from anyone I’d met in my Seattle circles. Rugged and laconic, yes, but clearly skilled, brave, and not easily rattled. I swallowed, heat pulsing through me that had nothing to do with the ankle sprain.

“Get a grip, Peyton,” I muttered. “You almost died out there. Well, not died, but… you were in trouble.” Yet I couldn't stop replaying every detail of what happened.

As I drove slowly back into Ashwood, I realized with a shaky laugh that I’d come here thinking I was just going to put my degree to use updating the lodge’s interior. Instead, on day one, I’d nearly gotten lost in the wilderness and found myself rescued by a smokejumper who was the embodiment of the rugged mountain aesthetic I intended to replicate in design. Maybe I could glean real inspiration from him, I thought wryly.

My cheeks flushed at the mental image of seeing him again. I could apologize for my cluelessness and maybe offer to repay him in some way for helping me. Because one thing was certain: I owed Grant McAllister. Big time.

The more I replayed his low, unhurried voice and the firm press of his arms around me, the more determined I became to find him again. Yes, I was only in town to fix up a hotel—but who said I couldn’t satisfy my burning curiosity about the smokejumper who’d turned a humiliating mishap into the hottest encounter I’d had in far too long?