Chapter Two
Mack
I hadn't planned on bringing anyone to my cabin—Ever. The whole damn point of living up here was solitude—me, Scout, and the mountains. No expectations. No pity. No reminders of what I'd lost.
But there she was, unconscious in my passenger seat, blood trickling from the cut on her forehead, lips faintly blue from the cold. The storm pummeled the truck, raindrops exploding against the windshield faster than the wipers could clear them. Scout whined from the backseat, his wet nose nudging my shoulder as if to ask what the hell I thought I was doing.
"Not now," I muttered, gripping the steering wheel hard enough to whiten my knuckles.
My head throbbed. The thunder had started before I'd even spotted her wrecked car, triggering the familiar tightness in my chest, the cold sweat down my spine. Each crash reverberated through my skull, hauling me back to a place I'd spent three years trying to forget. I'd been driving back from Ashwood, desperate to get home before the storm grew worse—before I lost my grip on reality completely.
That's when I saw the sedan, crushed against the guardrail and tilted precariously down the embankment. My training had kicked in before conscious thought could intervene. Marine Corps instinct, impossible to extinguish—assess, respond, rescue. It was the one part of me that still functioned reliably.
The woman—Brynn, she said her name was—hadn't moved since passing out ten minutes ago. Her breathing remained steady, though, her chest rising and falling beneath that ridiculous cashmere sweater that probably cost more than my monthly check from Ian. The designer purse clutched in her lap even in unconsciousness, the delicate gold watch on her slender wrist, the manicured nails—everything about her screamed money and privilege. Everything about her screamed that she didn't belong anywhere near my world.
What the hell was a city girl like her doing alone on a mountain road during the worst spring storm in years?
None of my business. I'd patch her up, let her use the radio to call for help, and send her on her way. The less interaction, the better for both of us.
Another crack of thunder shook the truck. I flinched, almost swerving off the narrow dirt road leading to my property. Scout pressed closer, sensing my distress, his warm weight a solid reminder of the present.
"Nearly home, boy," I promised, both to him and to myself.
The cabin finally appeared through the sheets of rain, a dark silhouette against the tree line. Nothing fancy—just a two-bedroom structure with a wraparound porch that needed replacing in sections. But it was mine. Or as much mine as anything could be when you were living on your brother's charity.
I pulled up close to the steps, killed the engine, and sat for a moment in the sudden silence. Rain drummed steadily on the roof. Thunder rolled in the distance. The familiar weight of memories pressed down, threatening to crush me beneath their mass.
"Breathe," I commanded myself, using the techniques the VA therapist had taught me before I'd stopped going. Four counts in. Seven counts hold. Eight counts out. Repeat until the past retreats.
It didn't work, not entirely, but it pulled me back enough to function. I turned to my unconscious passenger, noting the pallor of her skin against the darkness of her hair. The cut on her forehead wasn't deep, but the bruising suggested a concussion. The way she'd crumpled in the seat wasn't normal exhaustion—it was shock, maybe mild hypothermia from exposure.
"Dammit," I muttered. I couldn't just drop her off somewhere—not in this condition, not in this weather. I was stuck with her, at least for tonight.
I got out, circled to her side, and opened the door carefully, making sure she wouldn't fall out. Scout jumped down from the back, shaking water from his coat before trotting up the porch steps, clearly done with the rain and the unexpected complication to our evening.
"Brynn," I said, the unfamiliar name feeling strange on my tongue. "Hey. Can you hear me?"
Nothing. Dead to the world. Fine. I'd done this before, carrying wounded soldiers to safety under far worse conditions.
I unbuckled her seatbelt and slid one arm beneath her knees, the other behind her back. She was light—alarmingly so, like she existed mainly on caffeine and city stress. Her head lolled against my chest as I lifted her, and something tightened in my gut. Something I didn't want to acknowledge.
Scout waited impatiently by the door, giving me a look that clearly communicated his disapproval of the situation. I managed the door without putting her down, years of carrying wounded comrades making the maneuver second nature. Inside, the dog immediately claimed his usual spot by the fireplace, watching with suspicious eyes as I carried the woman to the couch.
I laid her down carefully, then stepped back, suddenly aware of how my living space might appear to an outsider. It wasn't filthy, but it wasn't exactly welcoming either. Empty coffee mug on the side table. Dog toys scattered across the rug. A half-empty bottle of whiskey that I should have hidden. Books stacked haphazardly on every surface—the only luxury I allowed myself these days.
She'd judge me for it when she woke. They all did, the few people who'd seen the inside of this place since I'd returned from my final deployment. The pity in their eyes was always worse than the judgment, though. Poor Mack, living like a hermit. Poor Mack, so damaged he can't function in society. Poor Mack, existing on his brother's handouts because he can't hold down a normal job.
I shook off the thought and went to the kitchen for the first aid kit. By the time I returned, she was stirring, eyelids fluttering open to reveal hazel eyes clouded with confusion.
"Don't move too fast," I warned, keeping my distance to avoid looming over her. "You hit your head."
She blinked several times, disorientation quickly giving way to alarm as she took in the unfamiliar surroundings. She sat up too quickly, wincing as her hand went to her forehead.
"Where..." Her voice trailed off as her gaze found me. Recognition dawned slowly, followed by wariness. "You...Mack. You pulled me from the car."
I nodded once, keeping my stance non-threatening. The last thing I needed was for her to panic. "You're at my cabin. The roads are bad. You passed out."
She glanced down at the dried blood on her fingertips. "I'm bleeding."
"It's not deep, but it needs cleaning." I set the first aid kit on the coffee table, just within her reach. "Bathroom's down the hall if you want to do it yourself."
Her eyebrows lifted slightly at my brusqueness. "Oh. Thank you. I'm sorry to impose like this."
The polite formality in her voice grated on me. As if this were some social call, some pleasant visit instead of an emergency forced by a dangerous storm.
"It's fine," I said flatly. "I need to let the dog out back and get the fire going. Make yourself comfortable, I guess."
I turned away before she could respond, whistling for Scout. The dog followed me through the kitchen to the back door, but hesitated on the threshold, looking back toward the living room.
"I know," I muttered. "But she can't stay out in the rain."
I left the door cracked for Scout and moved to the woodstove, needing something to do with my hands. My heart still hammered against my ribs, adrenaline from the rescue mixed with the lingering effects of the thunder. My shirt clung to my back, damp with cold sweat. I focused on the familiar routine of adding logs and kindling to the stove, trying to anchor myself in the present.
The cabin was the one place I could breathe without feeling the weight of others' expectations and disappointment. Now it felt smaller, the walls pressing in with the presence of a stranger. A beautiful stranger at that, which only complicated things further.
She was too pretty, too young, too damn delicate to be in a place like this with a man like me. I was toxic. Damaged goods. A collection of jagged edges and raw wounds that had never properly healed. The physical scars were the least of it.
By the time I had a fire going, I could hear movement from the living room followed by water running in the bathroom and then the soft padding of bare feet on hardwood. I straightened, rolling my shoulder against the familiar pull of scar tissue, and steeled myself to face my unwanted guest.
She'd removed her wet sweater, wearing just a thin camisole tucked into dark jeans. Her feet were bare, toenails painted a soft pink. The cut on her forehead was now clean, though the bruising around it had darkened. Her dark hair hung in damp waves around her shoulders, and she hugged her arms against her chest, looking small and lost in the middle of my living room.
She was beautiful in a way that made my chest ache—not the artificial, high-maintenance beauty that graced magazine covers, but something softer, more genuine. The kind of face that showed everything she felt.
Right now, what she felt was clearly uncertainty tinged with fear.
"Is there...do you have a phone I could use?" she asked, voice steady despite her obvious discomfort. "Or maybe you could drive me to town once the rain lets up?"
I moved to the kitchen, needing distance. "No cell service out here. Radio to call the road service, but with this weather, no one's coming tonight. There's a landline for emergencies, but it's spotty in storms."
I opened a cabinet, pulled down a mug, and poured coffee from the pot I'd made before heading into town hours earlier. I didn't offer her any. Hospitality wasn't my strong suit anymore.
"Oh." The single syllable carried a weight of disappointment. "So I'm stuck here tonight?"
I took a sip of coffee, grimacing at the bitter taste. "Looks that way."
"I see." She shifted her weight, glancing around my place with barely concealed curiosity. Her gaze lingered on the bookshelf, then drifted to the shadow box on the wall—the one with my medals and folded flag. Recognition flashed in her eyes, but she didn't comment.
Smart woman.
"You can take the bed," I said, the words coming out more like an order than an offer. "I'll sleep out here."
"I couldn't possibly…"
"It's not a debate." I cut her off, harsher than necessary. "You hit your head. You need real rest."
She flinched slightly at my tone, and something like guilt twisted in my gut. Not her fault she crashed. Not her fault I was a poor excuse for a host. Not her fault that the mere presence of another person in my space made my skin feel too tight, my breath too shallow.
"Thank you," she said after a moment, dignity gathering around her like armor. "That's very kind."
Kind. Right. I almost laughed. There wasn't much kindness left in me these days, just the hollow echo of the man I used to be. The man who died with his team in a sunbaked hellscape thousands of miles from here.
Another crack of thunder rattled the windows. I jerked involuntarily, coffee sloshing over the rim of my mug and onto my hand. The hot liquid barely registered—I was already halfway across the desert, dust in my mouth, the smell of burning fuel and flesh flooding my nostrils.
"Are you okay?"
Her voice yanked me back to the present. She'd moved closer, concern evident in her expression. Too close. I could smell the faint scent of her perfume beneath the more immediate odors of rain and antiseptic from the first aid kit.
"Fine," I snapped, setting the mug down with enough force to chip the ceramic. "Just tired."
She retreated a step, clearly recognizing the lie but unwilling to call me on it. Her eyes assessed me with unexpected perception. "The storm...it bothers you."
Not a question…An observation.
I turned away, unable to face the understanding dawning in her gaze. The last thing I needed was her pity. "I'll get you some dry clothes. You can't sleep in that."
Scout chose that moment to scratch at the back door. I let him in, grateful for the distraction. He shook himself, then padded cautiously toward our visitor, nose working overtime as he assessed her.
"That's Scout," I said unnecessarily. "My German Shepherd. He won't hurt you. Probably won't even warm up to you, so don't take it personally."
To my surprise, she crouched down, extending her hand palm up for the dog to sniff. "Hello, Scout," she said softly. "Thank you for sharing your home with me tonight."
The dog regarded her warily, nostrils flaring as he took in her scent. Then, the traitor, he stepped forward and allowed her to gently stroke his head.
"He likes you," I said, unable to keep the surprise from my voice.
She glanced up, a small smile curving her lips. "Animals usually do. I'm more nervous around people, honestly."
Something about the simple admission, the hint of vulnerability in it, made me look at her more closely. Beyond the fancy clothes and polished manners, there was something in her eyes—a wariness that echoed my own.
For a moment, just a fraction of a second, I felt a dangerous pull. A recognition. A possibility I hadn't allowed myself to consider in a very long time. Fuck my damn luck.
I shut it down immediately, turning away to rummage through a drawer. "You should eat something. I've got..." I surveyed the sparse options. "Canned soup. Some bread that's probably still good."
"That sounds perfect, actually." She straightened, still giving Scout gentle scratches behind the ear. "Can I help?"
"No." The word came out too sharp, a knife's edge of rejection.
I heard her soft intake of breath, felt her withdraw emotionally if not physically. Good. Better that way. Better for both of us.
"I'll just...sit then, shall I?" She moved to the couch, perching on the edge like she might need to flee at any moment.
I focused on the mechanical process of preparing the easiest of meals, my back to her, trying to ignore the weight of her presence. Scout, the disloyal companion, had followed her to the couch and now lay at her feet as if he'd known her for years.
The silence stretched between us, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the steady drum of rain on the roof. In that silence, I could feel her questions gathering, curiosity about the scars, the medals, the isolation. The same questions everyone had. The ones I never answered.
Let her wonder. By tomorrow, the rain would stop, the roads would clear, and I'd drive her to town. She'd get her car towed, find a hotel or make her way to wherever she’d been heading, and become nothing more than an awkward memory. Another brief encounter with the outside world that left me more certain than ever that solitude was the only peace I'd ever find.
I glanced over my shoulder, catching her staring at the burn scars visible at my neck. Her gaze dropped immediately, color flooding her cheeks. But in that brief moment of eye contact, I saw not pity but something else entirely.
Understanding.
A chill crawled up my spine that had nothing to do with the rain outside. No. She didn't understand. No one did. No one could.
And I'd make damn sure it stayed that way.
What the hell was I thinking, bringing her here? I should have driven her straight to town, straight to the hospital, despite the conditions. I was barely holding it together on a good day, and today was anything but good. The hardware store trip had been necessary—the fence around my property needed repairs before summer—but venturing into Ashwood always left me raw, exposed. The stares, the whispers, the forced smiles of people who didn't know what to say to the scarred recluse who'd once been the pride of their little town.
Add a thunderstorm to that mix, and I was already walking a knife edge before I ever spotted her car.
Now here she was, this outsider with her delicate features and perceptive eyes, bringing chaos into the one place I'd managed to carve out some semblance of peace. I felt trapped in my own home, sweat beading on my forehead as I fought to maintain control.
I'd get rid of her as soon as possible. First light, I'd take her to town, regardless of road conditions. The cut on her head wasn't serious. She'd be fine.
But even as I resolved this, I knew I wouldn't actually throw her out into the storm tonight. Not with the thunder still rolling over the mountains, the rain still lashing against the windows. Not with her head injury, the lingering shock in her system.
One night. I could manage one night of unwanted company. I'd survived worse. Much worse.
I set a bowl of soup on the coffee table in front of her, along with a chunk of bread that, thankfully, showed no signs of mold.
"Thank you," she said, looking up at me with those wide eyes of hers that made me want to stare into them like she was some Medusa.
I nodded stiffly and retreated to the far side of the room, creating as much distance between us as the cabin allowed. One night, and then she'd be gone. One night, and my sanctuary would be mine alone again.
I just had to make it through the next twelve hours without completely falling apart.