Possessed By the Mountain Man Veteran (Valor in the Mountains #1)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

MAX

The metal glows orange in the dim light of my forge, heat radiating against my face as I shape what will eventually become an eagle's wing. Or maybe it won't. Maybe it'll end up in the scrap pile with the rest of the pieces I've ruined this week.

Three months in Grizzly Ridge and I still haven't figured out how to make my hands create what my mind sees. The TBI scrambled something in there, crossed wires that used to connect seamlessly. Now I fight for every clean line, every curve that matches the image burning behind my eyes.

The hammer comes down. Once. Twice. The rhythm steadies me the way nothing else can. Not the pills the VA tried to push on me. Not the meditation bullshit the therapist suggested. Just fire and iron and the bone-deep satisfaction of bending something hard into something beautiful.

My shop sits at the edge of town, far enough from Main Street that nobody wanders in by accident.

That's how I like it. Logan tried to get me to set up closer to the center of things, but I've never been good with people dropping by.

With small talk and friendly waves and all the normal human interactions that feel like speaking a foreign language I never learned.

The bell above my door jingles.

I don't turn around. Whoever it is will figure out soon enough that I'm not interested in company.

Most folks in town have learned to leave me alone by now.

Maggie still sends food from the diner sometimes, delivered by one of her staff who knows better than to stick around for conversation.

Logan checks in once a week, sits with me in silence, doesn't push.

That's about all the social interaction I can handle.

"Excuse me?"

Female voice. Young. Uncertain.

I set down my hammer and wipe my hands on my leather apron, still not turning around. "Shop's not open. Come back tomorrow."

"I'm not here to buy anything."

Something in her voice catches me. A thread of determination underneath the nerves. I've heard that particular combination before, usually from people who aren't going to take no for an answer.

I turn.

She stands in the doorway, afternoon light silhouetting her figure.

Petite. Natural hair twisted up in some kind of protective style.

Skin like burnished copper. She's wearing jeans and a soft sweater that's seen better days, and she's got a duffel bag slung over one shoulder like she just stepped off a bus.

For a second, I don't recognize her.

Then she steps forward, out of the glare, and I see her eyes.

Marcus's eyes.

The world tilts sideways. My chest goes tight, and for a horrible moment I think I'm having one of my episodes. The kind where reality fractures and I'm back in the desert, sand in my teeth, blood on my hands, Marcus's voice crackling through the radio.

But no. This is real. This is happening.

"Claire?"

Her face transforms with a smile that stops my heart. Marcus's smile. The same warmth, the same light.

"You remember me."

Remember her. Jesus Christ. I remember a skinny kid with braces who used to follow me around at cookouts asking endless questions.

I remember teaching her three chords on an old guitar because she wouldn't leave me alone until I did.

I remember the weight of her small hand in mine at her father's funeral, her tears soaking through my dress whites while I sat frozen, unable to offer any comfort except my presence.

That was ten years ago.

The woman standing in my shop is not that girl.

"What are you doing here?" The words come out harsher than I intend, but I can't seem to soften them. My heart is pounding too hard, my thoughts too scattered.

Her smile falters slightly, but she lifts her chin. Stubborn. Just like Marcus.

"Looking for you."

"Why?"

She hesitates. Sets down her duffel bag like she's planning to stay awhile. "Can we talk? It's been a long drive and I could use a glass of water, if you have one."

I should say no. Should tell her to get back in whatever car she drove here and go home to Virginia where she belongs. Should do anything except stand here staring at her like an idiot while my brain tries to reconcile the child I remember with the woman in front of me.

Instead, I hear myself say, "Upstairs. I've got an apartment."

Stupid. So fucking stupid.

But she's already nodding, already following me toward the back stairs, and it's too late to take it back.

My apartment isn't much. One room that serves as bedroom, living space, and kitchen, with a tiny bathroom carved out of one corner. The walls are covered with my sketches. Eagles, mostly. Mountains. The occasional portrait that I tear down whenever I catch myself staring at it too long.

Claire takes it all in with those dark eyes, and I watch her catalog every detail. The unmade bed. The stack of books on the nightstand. The guitar propped in the corner that I haven't touched in months.

"You still play?" she asks, gesturing toward it.

"No."

She doesn't push. Just accepts the glass of water I hand her and settles onto my worn couch like she belongs there.

I stay standing. Keep distance between us. Try not to notice the way her sweater clings to curves that definitely weren't there ten years ago.

What the fuck is wrong with me?

"How did you find me?" I ask.

"Mom kept your letters. The ones you sent with money over the years." She takes a sip of water, watching me over the rim of the glass. "I found one a few weeks ago. Had a return address for Grizzly Ridge, Montana."

The letters. Right. I'd forgotten about those. Anonymous donations I'd convinced myself were just me keeping my promise to Marcus. Watching over his girls from a safe distance.

"You shouldn't be here, Claire."

"Why not?"

Because you have your father's eyes and it's killing me to look at them. Because the last time I saw you, you were thirteen years old and crying at a funeral. Because I made a promise to a dying man and sitting here alone with you feels like breaking it.

"Because I'm not the person you remember," I say instead. "I'm not anyone you should be wasting your time on."

"I remember the man who held my hand for two hours at my father's funeral." Her voice goes soft, and something in my chest cracks open. "I remember you were the only one who didn't tell me to be strong. Who didn't feed me bullshit about Dad being in a better place. You just sat with me."

"Claire."

"And then you disappeared." She sets down the glass. Meets my eyes with a directness that reminds me so much of Marcus I can barely breathe. "Ten years, Max. Not a word, not a visit. Just money in envelopes like you could buy your way out of actually being there."

The accusation lands like a punch to the gut. Mostly because she's right.

"It wasn't like that."

"Then what was it like?"

I can't answer her. Can't explain that looking at her was like looking at a ghost. That every time I saw her face, I saw Marcus bleeding out in the sand, heard his voice begging me to watch over his girls.

Can't tell her that I stayed away because I was supposed to be on that mission. Should have been the one to die.

"It's complicated," I finally say.

"Then uncomplicate it." She stands, closes the distance between us before I can retreat. Up close, I can see the faint freckles across her nose. Can smell something sweet and clean, like vanilla and fresh laundry. "I drove two thousand miles to find you, Max. I think I deserve an explanation."

She's standing too close. Close enough that I can see the pulse fluttering at the base of her throat. Close enough that if I reached out, I could touch her.

I take a step back.

"Why are you really here, Claire? And don't tell me it's because of some old letters."

Something flickers across her face. Pain, maybe. Or fear. Whatever it is, she hides it quickly behind that stubborn chin lift that's so fucking Marcus it makes my teeth ache.

"I needed to get away," she admits. "And you were the only person I could think of who might understand."

"Understand what?"

She hesitates. Looks away for the first time since she walked into my shop.

"What it feels like to have your whole world fall apart."

The words hang there, raw and honest, and I know I should ask more. Should find out what happened, what drove her across the country to a broken man she hasn't seen in a decade.

Instead, I'm looking at the curve of her neck. The fullness of her lips. The way her chest rises and falls with each breath.

And I hate myself for it.

Because she came here looking for safety. For the man who held her hand at her father's funeral.

Not the man who's standing here wondering what her skin tastes like.

"You can stay at the Mountain Haven Inn," I hear myself say. "I'll call ahead, let them know you're coming."

Her face falls, just slightly. "Max."

"It's not up for discussion." I move past her, careful not to let our bodies touch. "I'll get you settled tonight. Tomorrow we can talk about why you're really here."

I expect her to argue. Marcus would have argued.

But she just nods, picks up her duffel bag, and follows me out of the apartment without another word.

And the whole way to the inn, I feel her eyes on me like a brand.