One Night In The Mountain Man's Cabin (Hot Mountain Nights 2 #10)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Anniston

I was going to die out here.

The thought came with absolute clarity as I stumbled over another root I couldn't see in the dark. My ankle screamed in protest. Rain lashed my face. Wind tore at my soaked cardigan like it wanted to rip it off my body.

I should've stayed with the car.

But the car had been cold and dark and getting colder by the minute, and sitting there waiting for help that wasn't coming had felt like giving up. Like every other time I'd waited for someone else to fix my problems.

So I'd started walking.

Stupid. So incredibly stupid.

My phone was dead weight in my pocket. No signal for the past hour. No GPS.

Lightning cracked overhead, turning the world white for one blinding second.

That's when I saw it.

Light, warm and golden through the trees ahead.

I blinked, certain I'd imagined it. Some desperate hallucination conjured by a brain running out of options.

But no, there it was again.

A cabin.

Relief hit so hard my knees nearly buckled.

I pushed forward, using trees for balance as I half-limped, half-dragged myself toward that light. Every step on my right ankle sent pain shooting up my leg. I'd twisted it twenty minutes ago when I'd slipped on wet leaves. Maybe longer. Time had stopped meaning anything.

The cabin materialized through the rain and darkness. Small. Single-story. Smoke rising from a metal chimney that meant warmth, shelter, safety.

I didn't let myself think about who might be inside. Didn't let myself consider that knocking on a stranger's door in the middle of nowhere was its own kind of dangerous.

Because the alternative was freezing to death alone in the woods.

And I'd already made too many choices based on fear.

Three wooden steps led up to a covered porch. I grabbed the railing and hauled myself up, my injured ankle nearly giving out on the last step.

I stood there for a second, catching my breath. Shaking so hard my teeth chattered.

Then I raised my fist and knocked.

Nothing.

I knocked again. Harder.

Please. Please be home. Please?—

The door opened.

A man filled the doorway.

He was tall—easily over six feet. Broad-shouldered in a way that made the small cabin behind him look even smaller. Dark hair plastered to his head from the rain that blew onto the porch. Strong jaw shadowed with stubble.

And eyes that locked onto me with an intensity that made every instinct I had scream danger.

He didn't say anything. Just stood there, taking me in.

I tried to speak. My voice came out as a croak and a stumbled, trying to take a step back. "I—my car broke down. I need?—"

Another violent shiver cut through me.

His gaze dropped to my ankle. To the way I was barely putting weight on it. Back to my face.

The storm howled behind me. Rain hammered the porch roof.

"You're hurt." His voice was low and deep. I could the vibrations as much as I heard them.

I nodded.

He looked past me into the storm. Then back at me. Something shifted in his expression.

He stepped aside.

"Get inside."

I hesitated. Every warning I'd ever been given about strange men and isolated places rang through my head.

But I was soaked through. Shaking uncontrollably. My ankle was swelling inside my ruined shoe. And the temperature had dropped at least ten degrees in the past hour.

I didn't have a choice. So I limped across the threshold.

Heat hit me immediately. Blessed, overwhelming heat from a woodstove in the corner. I stood there dripping on his floor, trying not to collapse.

He closed the door behind me. The sound of the storm muffled to a dull roar.

"Bathroom's there." He nodded toward a door on the left. "There are towels on the shelf. Get out of those wet clothes."

I should've bristled at his tone, but didn’t.

Instead, I just nodded and limped toward the bathroom.

My hands shook so badly I could barely grip the doorknob. Inside, I found a small space with sink, a toilet, and a narrow shower.

I caught sight of myself in the mirror above the sink and almost didn't recognize the woman staring back.

Hair plastered to my head. Mascara smudged under my eyes. Lips pale.

I peeled off my soaked sweater. Everything was soaked and ice-cold against my skin. I grabbed one of the towels from the shelf—rough, worn, but blessedly dry—and wrapped it around myself.

My reflection looked slightly less pathetic.

I dried my hair as best I could and wiped away the smudged makeup.

When I finally opened the bathroom door, he was standing by the woodstove. He turned when he heard me.

His gaze swept over me once. Then he moved to a small dresser against the wall and pulled out clothes. A thermal shirt like his. Sweatpants.

"These'll be too big," he said, holding them out. "But they're dry."

I took them. Our fingers didn't touch.

"Thank you."

He nodded once. Turned back to the fire.

I retreated to the bathroom and changed quickly. He was right. The clothes were enormous. The thermal shirt hung past my hips. The sweatpants had to be rolled at the waist and at the ankles.

But they were warm. Soft. And they smelled like woodsmoke and something else. Something clean and masculine that I didn't want to think about too hard.

When I came out again, he was crouched by the woodstove, adding another log. The firelight caught the sharp line of his jaw. The scar I could now see running along his ribs where his shirt had ridden up slightly.

He stood when he heard me and turned.

His gaze swept over me once—the oversized thermal shirt, the rolled sweatpants—then away.

"Better?" he asked.

"Yes. Thank you."

He nodded. Moved to the small kitchen area without another word.

I stood there, suddenly aware of how small the space was. How there was nowhere to look that wasn't him. Nowhere to be that wasn't close.