Protective Mountain Man (Iron Peak Mountain Man #1)

Chapter 1

evelyn

The Iron Peak Ridge Public Library is smaller than my apartment in Lumberjack Lagoon. Was. Smaller than my apartment was. Past tense. That place doesn't exist anymore. Neither does the woman who lived in it, technically. So we're all just moving forward here.

I park my ten-year-old Honda Civic and pat the hood.

She’s got a cracked dashboard and one headlight that flickers when it’s cold, but she’s still kicking.

I get out in front of a brick building that’s seen better days.

It’s tall and wedged onto the street between an empty lot, a converted mining warehouse and close to The Ridge Diner which appears to be a café with fogged windows.

I let out a breath. “This is it I guess.”

The library has a green door and a hand-painted sign that says OPEN in letters that lean slightly to the left. There’s a window box with dead marigolds that someone hasn't gotten around to pulling yet and I think I might be in love.

It's perfect. This building isn’t trying to impress anyone. Right now that's exactly the energy I need from my new employer.

I check my reflection in the rearview mirror.

My dark curls are piled into a messy bun that says, I promise you can trust me even though my life is chaos.

My eyes look huge, which is what happens when you sleep three hours in a motel outside Pueblo and then drink gas station coffee until your hands vibrate.

My black-framed glasses are slightly crooked. I straighten them twice, but they slide back and I give up. If I let myself, I could totally cry right now. But I won’t. I’m simply not the kind of person who cries over the details.

"Let’s go Evelyn. You are a person who has a library science degree," I tell my reflection. "You are a person who is qualified for this job. You are a person who is for sure not going to throw up in the parking lot on her first day. Get your shit together lady."

Okay, so the pep talk needs work. But the bar is low. In fact, the bar is in hell. Or at the very least it’s underground and buried somewhere beneath this little mountain town at the bottom of a box canyon where nobody is going to come looking for me.

That's the hope, anyway.

I grab my bag and get out of the car. The air hits me first. It’s cold, sharp, and so clean it almost hurts.

The canyon walls rise on either side of town like massive granite arms. They’re steep cliffs streaked with waterfalls that feed into hot springs somewhere below Main Street.

I can see the steam curling up between buildings.

The whole place feels like it's breathing easily… At least someone is. My breath comes in short gasps. My heart rate is at its usual four-million beats per minute and my eyes water from the cold. But there isn’t any going back now.

I push through the green door and a silver bell chimes overhead. It’s an actual bell, not an electronic beep, because this town is apparently frozen in a decade I can't identify. Another reason to love it here.

"You must be Evelyn."

The woman behind the circulation desk is in her mid-forties with her long dark hair braided over one shoulder.

She’s tall and lean and wearing a wool skirt with a cardigan.

She’s smiling at me. It’s not like she’s sizing me up…

It’s more like I'm a niece she hasn't seen in a while. She’s just straightforwardly warm and I’m taken aback.

"June?" I manage.

"That's me. You made it through the canyon in one piece. That’s the first test. Come on, I'll show you around. It won't take long."

She laughs when she says it, gesturing at the space, and she's right… The whole library isn’t big.

It’s got low ceilings, wood floors that creak, and mismatched shelves that look like they were built by someone who cared more about sturdiness than aesthetics.

June opens a metal drawer for my purse, then jumps right in. I try to keep up.

There's a kids' section in the back corner with a braided rug and beanbags. A row of windows along the east wall lets in watery mountain light. There’s an old staircase that leads to the archives and a mysteriously locked cabinet that June claims contains “local records.”

“You’ll meet the ladies, at some point. Jocelyn is lovely, she’s our unofficial event planner.

And some of our locals. Willa tutors in the back most days…

” She keeps talking and paints a picture that’s hard to believe.

June’s from here and I can only hope that this town becomes as much my home as it is hers.

We get to a staff room and there’s a pot of tea ready. It smells like old paper and pine cleaner. It’s no bigger than a closet but the low hanging pendant lights and the oak furniture make it cozy somehow. There’s not a social media worthy corner here. I’m ready to move in.

From there, June walks me through the basics.

We cover the circulation system, hold requests, and the town regulars I'll get to know.

There are loggers who come in for audiobooks.

Tour guides who use the printers. Old-timers who sit in the reading chairs for hours and don't check out a single book, but get personally offended if you try to rearrange the magazine rack.

"Iron Peak takes a minute to warm up to new people," she says, leaning against the desk. "But once it does, you're stuck with us. Fair warning."

"I can handle being stuck," I say, and I mean it more than she knows.

“Stuck here without your friends and family?” She pauses and gives me a look.

It’s not exactly prying, just perceptive. But it’s enough to make me look away.

“Thank you for the tour. I think this will be a great fit. I’m ready for you to put me to work.”

That’s all it takes. June doesn’t need to be told twice.

Thirty minutes later I’m hard at work shelving returns like I’ve always been here.

It’s mindless, physical, and monotonous.

The routine wraps around me like a warm blanket on a cold night.

Of course, my hands knowing what to do can’t stop my brain from spinning.

I’m balancing a too tall stack of books on my palm with expert precision. But my mind is busy cycling through every possible worst-case scenario on a loop like a deranged carousel.

What if he finds you. What if someone here knows someone who knows someone. What if you left a trail? What if the bank account… What if your mother told him? What if…

I shove a copy of Dear Debbie between two other Freda McFadden mysteries and focus on the spines.

Letters. Breathe. Order. Breathe.

This is what I do now. I notice the spiraling and I put my hands on something real. I breathe until the carousel slows down. My therapist taught me that. Before I lost access to her and everything else in my life.

I'm halfway through the Cs and nearly into the Ds when the bell above the door chimes. I don't look up right away. Mostly because I can’t. I'm crouched on the floor with a stack of picture books balanced on my knee.

It’s probably one of June's regulars who won’t bat an eye in my direction. I’m going to disappear into the shelves. I imagine an old-timer here for the magazines, or a logger looking for the next Jack Reacher. In this town, everything is going to be low stakes and low stress.

But then June says, "James! Jocelyn said you'd be stopping by. A big date from what I hear."

Adorable. Real life second chance romance loading. Maybe a widower. Love it.

A voice answers. “She didn't give me much of a choice." The response is low, quiet, but it doesn’t sound old. It’s the kind of voice that doesn't need volume to fill a room.

I look up and my heart skips a beat.

Oh.

Oh my.

He’s not old at all… And he’s smoking hot, which is the last thing I need. I blow out a breath. I thought this place would be a bubble of whimsical old timers, not a place where romance cover models walk off the page and into the library.

The man is tall and broad-shouldered in a way that makes the library feel like a dollhouse.

It’s like the doorframe was a suggestion he's choosing to humor. His dark hair is a little too long, and it’s pushed back from his face in a way that shows off his jawline.

It could have been carved out of the same granite as the canyon walls outside.

I should for sure look away… But I do not in fact look away.

My eyes keep roaming their way down his body.

I can’t help myself because there are tattoos.

I can see them creeping out from under the rolled cuffs of his flannel.

Dark ink winds up his massive forearms and disappears underneath the thin fabric of his shirt.

His hands are big, rough-knuckled, and wrapped around a travel mug.

I’ve never been jealous of a mug before.

He looks less like a man and more like a mountain. A large, brooding, ungodly attractive mountain who is currently looking directly at me. His stare makes heat pool low in me.

My throat runs dry and I turn away. Be cool Evelyn, act like you’ve seen people before. I blow out a deep breath. But when I look back, he’s still staring at me or more like through me.

My glasses slip down my nose again. This time, I shove them back up. Meanwhile he takes a step toward me, then another.

"Hey.” His voice is a growl that reverberates through every part of me.