Reclusive Mountain Man (Iron Peak Mountain Man #4)

Chapter 1

EMORY

Silence.

Actual, honest-to-God silence.

I stood on the back porch of the cabin I’d be calling home for the next three weeks and just listened. No roommates arguing about whose turn it was to buy toilet paper. No neighbors blasting music at two in the morning. No car alarms, sirens, or people shouting in the parking lot.

Just birds. Wind threading through the trees. The distant rush of water somewhere—maybe a creek. Maybe a stream.

I could cry. I might actually cry.

Instead, I pulled out my phone and checked my email.

Three messages from my property law professor about an upcoming exam. Two from my study group asking where I’d disappeared to. One from my mom with the subject line ARE YOU ALIVE, complete with seven exclamation points.

I typed back a quick response to my mom, assuring her I hadn’t been kidnapped, then silenced my notifications. The whole point of coming to Iron Peak was to escape distractions. If I kept checking my phone every five minutes, I’d defeat the purpose.

The cabin was small but perfect. One bedroom, one bathroom, and a kitchen that opened into a living area with a wood-burning stove.

The owner—a woman named Eunice, who I’d connected with through a house-sitting website—had left detailed instructions about everything from the finicky garbage disposal to the best hiking trails nearby.

She was spending three weeks in Italy visiting her sister and needed someone to water her plants and keep an eye on the place.

I needed somewhere quiet to study for midterms without losing my mind. It was a perfect arrangement.

I’d arrived yesterday afternoon, unpacked my suitcases full of textbooks, highlighters, and legal pads, and promptly passed out on the couch for twelve hours.

That was how exhausted I’d been. Between my three roommates, our paper-thin walls, and the construction happening in the apartment above us, I hadn’t slept properly in weeks.

Now it was morning—early, based on the angle of the sun—and I felt like a new person.

The weather was unseasonably warm for early spring in the Colorado mountains.

Eunice had warned me to pack layers, but when I stepped outside to grab my coffee, the air had been almost balmy. Shorts weather. Tank top weather.

Yoga weather.

I hadn’t done yoga in months. There was never enough space in our cramped apartment, and I always felt self-conscious with my roommates wandering past. But here, with nothing but trees and mountains and blessed quiet, I could stretch without anyone watching.

I changed into my favorite leggings—the high-waisted ones that actually stayed up—and a sports bra. Then I grabbed my mat and my earbuds and headed outside.

The back deck was wide and wooden, overlooking a small yard that backed up to another cabin. That one looked similar to mine, maybe a little larger. A truck sat in the driveway. Eunice had mentioned a neighbor but said he mostly kept to himself.

Perfect. The last thing I needed was some chatty local interrupting my morning routine.

I rolled out my mat, popped in my earbuds, and pulled up my favorite playlist. The first notes of a slow instrumental track filled my ears as I moved into mountain pose.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

I flowed through the familiar sequence, letting my thoughts fade. Forward fold. Halfway lift. Step back to plank. Lower down. Upward dog. Downward dog.

God, this felt good. The sun warmed my back, the air was crisp and clean, and for the first time in months, I wasn’t thinking about torts or contracts or civil procedure.

I moved through warrior one, warrior two, extended side angle. My body remembered the poses even though it had been a while. I might be curvy—okay, very curvy—but I was flexible. Always had been.

Triangle pose. Half moon. Standing splits.

By the time I came back to downward dog, I was breathing hard but smiling. I held the pose, enjoying the stretch in my hamstrings, and let my gaze drift to the space between my feet.

That was when I saw him.

A man stood on the porch of the neighboring cabin, a coffee mug in his hand, staring directly at me. He wasn’t even pretending not to look. Just standing there, frozen, like I’d caught him in the middle of something.

I straightened quickly, pulling out one earbud. Our eyes met across the two yards.

He was tall. That was the first thing I noticed. Tall and broad, with dark hair cut short and stubble shadowing his jaw. He wore a plain gray T-shirt and jeans, and even from this distance, I could make out the definition in his arms. Construction worker, maybe. Or someone used to physical labor.

He was also scowling. Like I’d personally offended him by existing.

For a long moment, neither of us moved. I considered waving, introducing myself, doing the normal neighborly thing. Before I could decide, he turned and walked inside. The door closed behind him with a definitive click.

“Okay then,” I said to no one. “Nice to meet you too.”

I rolled up my yoga mat and went inside, telling myself not to feel self-conscious. So the neighbor had seen me doing yoga. Big deal. I was fully clothed. Mostly clothed, anyway. Sports bras covered more than some bikini tops.

Still, something about his stare stayed with me as I showered and got dressed for the day. It hadn’t been friendly. But it hadn’t been openly hostile, either. It had been…intense. Like he was trying to figure something out.

I shook off the thought and set up my study station at the kitchen table. Laptop open. Textbooks stacked. Color-coded highlighters lined up in a perfect little row.

I had three weeks to cram as much legal knowledge into my brain as humanly possible. I didn’t have time to worry about grumpy neighbors.

The morning passed quickly. I worked through two chapters of property law, took notes on an online lecture, and quizzed myself on key concepts. By noon, my brain felt like mush, but I pushed through. That was why I was here.

Around four o’clock, I decided to reward myself with a cup of tea. I filled the kettle, set it on the stove, and turned on the burner. While I waited for it to boil, I wandered into the bathroom to wash my face.

That was when I noticed the water was cold.

Not cool. Not lukewarm. Cold.

I turned the handle all the way to hot and waited. Nothing. Just a steady stream of icy water that made me yelp when I stuck my hand under it.

“No, no, no,” I muttered, rushing to the kitchen sink. Same thing. Cold water only.

Something was wrong with the hot water heater.

I found Eunice’s instructions and flipped through them, heart thudding. There was an entire section dedicated to the heater, complete with a diagram and troubleshooting tips. I followed each step carefully. Checked the pilot light. Checked the thermostat. Checked the pressure valve.

Nothing worked.

I texted Eunice.

Hi! So sorry to bother you, but the hot water heater seems to be broken. I tried all the troubleshooting steps but no luck. Any suggestions?

Her reply came twenty minutes later, while I was still standing in the utility closet, glaring at the unit like I could shame it into working.

Oh no! That thing is so temperamental. I should have warned you. Ask Kai next door—he fixes everything for me. Just knock and tell him I sent you. He won’t mind.

Kai. The same guy who’d stared at me mid–downward dog and vanished without a word?

Great.

I glanced down at myself. I’d pulled on an oversized sweatshirt, determined to get more studying done before showering. My hair was twisted into a messy bun, and I wasn’t wearing any makeup. Not that it mattered. I wasn’t trying to impress anyone. I just wanted hot water.

I crossed the yard and climbed the steps to his porch before I could overthink it. The cabin was quiet. No lights visible through the windows. I knocked anyway.

Nothing.

I knocked again, louder. “Hello? I’m Emory—from next door. Eunice said you might be able to help me with something.”

Heavy footsteps approached. Then the door opened.

Up close, he was even more imposing. His eyes were dark—brown or deep hazel—and they swept over me with the same intensity I’d felt that morning. His jaw was sharp, his shoulders impossibly wide, and he had the kind of presence that seemed to take up space all on its own.

He didn’t say anything. Just waited.

“Hi,” I said, aiming for cheerful. “I’m house-sitting for Eunice. My hot water heater isn’t working, and she said you might be able to help.”

He stared at me for a long beat. Then he turned, disappeared into his cabin, and reappeared seconds later with a toolbox.

“Let’s go,” he said. His voice was low and rough, like he didn’t use it often.

“Right. Okay.”

I led him back to my cabin, acutely aware of how silent he was behind me. I couldn’t even hear his footsteps on the grass.

Inside, I gestured toward the utility closet. “I tried everything in Eunice’s instructions. The pilot light’s on, the thermostat’s set correctly, and the pressure valve seems fine. But the water’s still freezing.”

He walked past me without responding and crouched in front of the heater. I hovered nearby, watching his hands as he worked—large, steady hands, callused palms, a faint scar across one knuckle.

The silence stretched. I wasn’t good with silence.

“So,” I said, “have you lived here long? In Iron Peak, I mean. Eunice mentioned you’ve been neighbors for a while. It’s really quiet out here. That’s why I came—I needed somewhere peaceful to study. I’m in law school, and my apartment back home is kind of a disaster. Three roommates, thin walls…”

He grunted.

“I really appreciate your help,” I added quickly. “I’d be lost without hot water. I skipped my shower this morning, and—”

Another grunt.

I stopped talking.

He opened an access panel at the base of the unit and leaned closer, studying something I couldn’t see. Then he sat back.

“The burner’s clogged,” he said. “Sediment buildup. Happens with these older units.”

He pulled out a small wire brush and began cleaning the burner assembly. Dirt and residue fell away as he worked, his movements efficient and sure. I felt mildly foolish for not thinking to check that—though I wouldn’t have known what I was looking at.

A few minutes later, he closed the panel and stood. “Should fire up now,” he said. “Give it twenty minutes to heat.”

“Oh my gosh, thank you.” I clasped my hands. “Can I make you dinner? As a thank-you? I was planning pasta, and there’s plenty—”

“No.”

Flat. Final. He was already heading for the door.

“Okay,” I said to his retreating back. “Thank you. Seriously.”

He paused with one hand on the frame, like he might say something else. His shoulders were taut, his expression unreadable.

Then he left.

I stood in the kitchen for a long moment, staring at the closed door. He was rude. Borderline hostile. Clearly someone who didn’t want to be bothered.

So why couldn’t I stop thinking about the way he’d looked at me?

I shook it off and went back to my laptop. I had studying to do. I didn’t have time to fixate on some gruff mountain man who barely spoke.

But later that evening, sitting on the back porch with a glass of wine and my textbooks, my gaze kept drifting to his cabin. The lights were on now. Shadows moved behind the curtains. I wondered what his story was. Why he lived alone out here. Why he kept everyone at arm’s length.

And whether he was wondering about me.