Runaway Nanny’s Mountain Men
A t last! I breathe a heartfelt sigh of relief as I finally spot the sign I've been looking out for over the last twenty miles or so.
It's an eight-foot-tall by ten-foot-wide hoarding made from solid-looking pine boards, painted jet black and set up on a sturdy frame by the side of the road.
You can't miss it, just as the text message had promised.
Picked out in white, in a bold, beautiful, old-fashioned flowing script, are the words: Welcome to The Old Forge —and then underneath in smaller letters, Appointments Only – No Cold Callers – No Trespassing .
Not the most welcoming message for a weary traveler, but maybe they've had trouble with vagrants before or something. I'll give them the benefit of the doubt—and anyway, I'm way too tired to even think of turning back now.
I slow down and make the turn off the highway onto the private road that winds upwards between tall pines, spruces, and firs, cutting off all glimpses of the moon and stars that have been keeping me company for the last few hours of my journey.
It's only got the basic trim level, but what it does have is full four-wheel drive, which I had insisted on, knowing I was heading out into the wilderness of the Montana mountains.
I, on the other hand, am completely done in.
I'm exhausted, and I realize that although it's largely from the fourteen hours of concentrating on oncoming traffic, road conditions, and looking out for turnings, it's just as much from the stress and anxiety of the last couple of months—especially the last few weeks.
I take a breath of Montana mountain night air and let it out in a deep sigh.
Hopefully, my nightmare is over. Hopefully he won't be able to find me all the way out here—maybe he won't even try to look. Though in my heart, I know he will.
The track continues upwards for about half a mile, bending first left, then right, the forest a constant presence on either side, hemming me in like a rat in a maze.
Finally, I make one more left turn, and the ground opens into a clearing—a small lake to one side, a cluster of buildings to the other.
As my headlights sweep across the structures, shadows leap up and stretch in strange shapes.
The place looks reasonably neat and tidy, but there's no car or SUV in sight.
Maybe they've parked around the back, or put their vehicles in a garage for the night.
Still, there's a light glowing in the downstairs window of what looks like the main house.
Good—they're home.
I tumble wearily out of my trusty new vehicle, yawning and stretching my stiff muscles as I look around in the moonlight.
Not much to see. Not for the first time, I wonder what they do for a living out here.
Forestry, maybe—there's certainly no shortage of trees.
Or perhaps they're just landowners and lease it to others to work. That would make more sense.
They must be doing pretty well if they're offering both a salary and full board for a nanny. The ad had read: "Wanted: Nanny to one girl, aged six, plus general light domestic duties including shopping, cooking, and cleaning. Remote, mountainous location. Board and lodgings included."
Well, they got that part right. This really is out in the sticks.
Still, that was part of the appeal. The remoteness. It makes it that much harder for Randy to find me.
I hesitate. Do I knock on the front door? Head around the back? What even is the etiquette when you're arriving as the help?
Just then, the front door slams open violently, crashing into a wooden chair on the wide verandah.
A gruff voice shouts, "Whoever you are, stop right there. I've got you covered."
Light spills from the hallway, and a second later, I hear a loud click—the whole yard floods with harsh white light from a half-dozen powerful spotlights.
Silhouetted in the doorway is the bulky outline of a huge man, a rifle or shotgun in his hands. My breath catches. I don't like the look of it—or of him.
I swallow hard, realizing I might have just made a terrible mistake. What had I been thinking? I assumed I was coming to a nice, comfortably-off, middle-class family. But I know nothing about these people.
Worse still—no one knows I'm here.
I freeze. I couldn't move if I wanted to. My feet feel bolted to the gravel.
"Wait a minute!" the man says again, the edge gone from his voice, now replaced by confusion. "That's not a bike thief… That's a woman!"
He ducks his head momentarily back inside and calls out, "Either of you guys ordered a woman?"
Another man's voice answers from somewhere inside, but it's indistinct—I can't make out the words.
In any case, before I have time to clear my head from the shock, and while I'm still blinking against the blaze of spotlights, the man leans his gun against the wall and bounds lightly down the wooden steps toward me.
"Apparently we're expecting you," he says. "First I've heard of it—but hey, no one tells me anything around here. Hi, I'm Karl, and I'm very pleased to meet you. What's your name?"
As he steps into the light, I finally get a good look at him and—oh my God.
The man is an Adonis. An angel. He's tall, blond, with Nordic, almost Viking good looks. His powerful body looks more than capable of taking up an oar in an ancient longboat, or wielding sword or axe in hand-to-hand combat—or for that matter, ravaging any local women he can find and lay hands on.
I shiver—though not entirely in fear. Anticipation? What the hell am I thinking?
I must be more tired than I thought, if I'm fantasizing about being ravaged by this rugged mountain man—who's now grinning at me like I'm a birthday present, gift-wrapped and left on his porch, just waiting to be unwrapped. Oh my God, I'm doing it again. Pull yourself together, Eden.
How long have I been staring up at him in silence? Thirty seconds? A minute?
What must he think of me?
"Err… Louise," I stammer. "My name is Louise Smith." Thank God I remember the fake name I used when I texted about the job. "I've come about the nanny position. The text said to come right away, so… well… here I am!"
"Well, well, well," he says. "I thought nannies were supposed to be frumpy old fifty-five-year-olds with severe Scottish accents and starched underwear.
Not…" —he gives me a slow once-over, like a rancher sizing up a prize filly— "not beautiful, slim, elegant young angels sent from heaven to tantalize, tease, and delight red-blooded men. "
My cheeks flare. I don't know whether to laugh, blush, or punch him.
"Here, let me grab your bag, Louise. You'd better come in and meet the team."
At the name "Louise," I start slightly, but catch myself in time. Right—that's me.
I reach into the car for my purse and phone, while he opens the back passenger door and grabs my overnight valise—the one I'd hastily packed that morning.
A few clothes, toiletries, and my one irreplaceable possession: the only photo I have of my real parents.
Taken at the hospital. My dad smiling beside the bed, a nurse in the background, and my mother holding a tiny newborn—me. They both look so happy. So complete.
For the millionth time, the question resurfaces: what made them give me up?
But this is not the time. I shake myself and refocus.
"Come on in," Karl says, still smiling. "I'll go first."
We head up the steps and through the front door into a wide, well-lit hallway. He opens the second door on the right and gestures me through.
The room is a large, warm kitchen—surprisingly cozy for a place so remote.
A fire blazes behind the glass door of a big stove.
Along one wall is an old wood-fired range, while beside it sits a more modern oven and hob.
The rest is a charming chaos of function and comfort: sinks, worktops, chopping boards, saucepan racks, fridges, freezers, and what looks like a surprisingly fancy coffee machine.
Somehow, the mix of old and new works. The kitchen feels lived-in, capable, and reassuring.
At a long, ancient oak table sits a man I can only describe as a giant. Judging by the size of him, he belongs in a WWF ring or a gladiator pit, not a cozy, Montana kitchen. I thought Karl was big—but this guy looks like he could throw him across the yard.
There's a scowl on his face, but it seems more focused than angry. He's working on something—an engine, maybe. Springs, valves, gaskets, and bolts are scattered in front of him. He glances up at me, then quickly back down again—almost guiltily, like he doesn't want to be caught staring.
Further up the table, away from the tools and mess, sits a third man.
Another large figure, but not as imposing.
Older, with dark hair turning salt-and-pepper in that attractive, dignified way some men seem able to pull off.
His face is lined—the kind of face that has made hard decisions and lived with them.
He looks up as we enter and stares straight into my eyes for several seconds.
Not in a creepy way—more like he's reading me, weighing me up, assessing who I am.
Then, without a word, he looks down again at the receipts and calculator in front of him.
He seems almost relieved for the interruption, as if the books were a burden.
Funny—I've always found bookkeeping oddly satisfying.
I used to do it for my adoptive father on weekends, earning pocket money making sure the numbers balance.
He makes a couple of marks in his notebook with a red ballpoint, then sighs, switches off the calculator and folds the notebook shut with an air of finality.
He gets to his feet and stretches, arms thrown wide toward the ceiling, his muscular chest arched forward—a picture of raw power, like something I'd only ever seen in tigers or lions at the zoo.
He pads over towards me, his huge right hand outstretched.