Own Me, Outlaw (The Mountain Code #4)

1. Chapter 1

Lark

It’s fine.

Totally fine.

There’s absolutely no reason to panic.

Except maybe for the part where I just had to crawl out of the passenger-side window of my car like a clumsy squirrel escaping a bird feeder.

The driver's side is too deep in the ditch, the door won't budge, and now I’ve got a bruised shin and ruined shoes.

Rain sheets down as I scramble up the embankment on hands and knees, slipping twice and muttering things that would make my grandmother cry.

By the time I haul myself onto solid ground, I'm soaked to the bone and breathing like I just escaped a bear. And honestly, if a bear materialized out of the woods, I wouldn't be the least bit surprised at this point.

I take a deep breath and remind myself— again —that everything is fine.

Just because my car is nose-down in a ditch and the rain is coming sideways like I offended it personally doesn’t mean this is a disaster. A meteor hasn’t destroyed the planet. The world hasn’t ended. It’s fine.

I hitch my tote bag higher on my shoulder and squint into the trees. The gravel road ahead curves into darkness, swallowed by the kind of forest they write murder ballads about.

But I’ve come this far. Literally and metaphorically.

Two days ago, I told my boss I was taking a mental health weekend. She nodded like she understood, then handed me a folder of invoices labeled URGENT. That’s when I realized if I didn’t leave town immediately, I was going to have to fake my own death and run away with the circus.

So here I am.

Somewhere deep in the Appalachian Mountains with no phone signal and no map. Just a screenshot from a rental app that glitched halfway through checkout and a set of GPS coordinates that look suspiciously made-up.

I keep walking.

By the time I spot the cabin, I’m soaked from scalp to socks. Rain drips from my ponytail, and my canvas sneakers squish with every step. But there it is, tucked into the trees like something out of a fairytale.

A little crooked. A little weathered. And completely perfect.

I haul myself up the porch steps and try the lockbox beside the door.

1-9-3-7.

Beep. Red light.

I check the screenshot on my phone, verify that I’m typing in the right code, and try again. Still nothing.

“Come on, come on,” I mutter, wiping water from the screen and punching in the code with stiff fingers. “Don’t do this to me. I am one unexpected thunderclap away from losing it.”

Another red light.

I try jiggling the box. Threatening it with violence. Begging softly.

It doesn't open.

I step back, scanning the porch for a hidden spare key. There’s not one under the mat. No cute ceramic frog with a secret compartment. I even check under a potted plant—dead, soggy, and definitely not hiding anything helpful.

That’s when I notice the window. The one tucked just beside the porch, slightly cracked like someone forgot to latch it.

It’s a bad idea. The worst idea.

But my legs are trembling from the hike, and my teeth are starting to chatter, and it’s not breaking and entering if I have a reservation… right?

A thought niggles at the back of my mind. What if this isn’t the right cabin?

Well, if it’s not, it’s going to make one hell of a story someday.

I ease the window open with a groan of old wood and wet glass. It gives.

“Okay,” I whisper. “This is fine. I’m not breaking in. I’m just… making a creative entrance.”

I shove my tote through first, then hoist myself up with all the grace of a rhinoceros. My foot slips, my hip knocks into the sill, and I tumble inside with a shriek and a crash.

Something shatters.

I land flat on my back on a braided rug, staring up at the timber ceiling. “Ow…”

The room is dim, lit only by the flickering fire in the hearth. The fire that’s already going.

Is that weird for a rental? Or is the host just really considerate? Did they start the fire so it’d be ready when I arrived?

I sit up slowly, heart banging in my chest. There's a broken clay pot beside me, the potting soil scattered across the floor in a messy splash. A sad little houseplant lies on its side, leaves bent at awkward angles like it's judging me.

“Hello?” I call out. “Is anyone here? If so… sorry about your plant.”

No one answers. That’s a good sign, isn’t it?

Before doubt about whether I’m in the right cabin can fully bloom, my brain does what it does best: compartmentalizes.

One: the cabin was unlocked. More or less. It’s not like I broke the window to get in…

Two: it totally matches the description.

Three: surely, the odds of accidentally breaking into the wrong cabin are low.

Four: my luck can’t be that bad. Right?

“Right,” I say aloud.

I spot a wool blanket draped over the back of the couch and wrap it around myself without hesitation. It smells like cedar and campfire and something warm and masculine. Something that sends a very confusing thrill straight to my stomach.

Does this blanket belong to a man? Is this his cabin?

Don’t read into it, Lark , I tell myself. They probably just used scented laundry detergent. Mountain Fresh or something.

I make my way to the electric kettle on the counter. There’s already water in it, so I press start. While the water’s boiling, I reach for the tin of tea bags next to the kettle. I pick the one that smells like chamomile and lavender. This should be just the thing to help me relax.

A few minutes later, I’m clutching a warm mug in my hands. My bones start to thaw. The sound of the storm outside fades into background noise as the fire crackles.

I ease down onto the couch and pull my sketchbook from my tote, flipping to a blank page. The blanket is soft. The tea is perfect. And for the first time in months, I let myself breathe.

This is just what the doctor ordered.