Chapter Three
Brynn
Morning arrived with reluctance, gray light seeping through unfamiliar curtains. For several disorienting moments, I stared at the rough-hewn ceiling beams, piecing together the previous day's events—the crash, the rescue, the taciturn mountain man who'd given me his bed while he presumably slept on the couch.
Mack.
I sat up gingerly, assessing the damage. My body felt like I'd gone three rounds with a prizefighter, but nothing seemed permanently damaged. The cut on my forehead had scabbed over, tender but no longer bleeding. A dull headache pulsed behind my eyes, but even that was manageable.
The bedroom was spartan but surprisingly clean—a dresser with nothing on top, a nightstand with a reading lamp and a dog-eared copy of Hemingway, a closet with the door firmly shut. No photographs. No personal touches. Nothing to indicate the personality of the man who normally slept here, except perhaps the books stacked neatly on the floor beside the bed—classics, military history, and unexpectedly, a collection of poetry by Mary Oliver.
I swung my feet to the floor, noting with embarrassment that I still wore my jeans, though someone—Mack—had draped a flannel shirt over me during the night. It smelled faintly of pine and wood smoke, which I found oddly comforting.
Rain continued to patter against the windows, though without yesterday's apocalyptic intensity. I padded to the window and peered out at a landscape shrouded in mist, mountains barely visible through the low-hanging clouds. The world beyond the cabin seemed soft-edged and dreamlike, as if reality stopped at the property line.
My small wheeled suitcase stood by the door—another courtesy from my reluctant host. I rummaged through it, grateful to find clean clothes. After a quick, self-conscious wash in the attached bathroom, I changed into fresh jeans and a sweater, running fingers through my tangled hair in lieu of a proper brush.
Presentable, if not exactly polished. It would have to do.
I hesitated at the bedroom door, nervous about facing Mack in the daylight. Last night he'd been all gruff efficiency, his discomfort with my presence obvious. I couldn't blame him. Who wants a stranger invading their sanctuary?
The scent of coffee finally lured me out. The main room looked different by day—larger, airier than it had seemed in last night's shadows. Windows lined the far wall, framing the misty forest like living artwork. The furniture was mismatched but solid—leather couch showing signs of Scout's claws, a recliner positioned to capture the mountain view, bookshelves bowing under their literary burden.
Mack stood at the counter, his back to me, shoulders tense beneath a faded flannel shirt. Scout lay nearby, ears perking up as I entered. The German Shepherd's tail thumped twice against the wooden floor—not quite a welcome, but at least acknowledgment.
"Morning," I ventured.
Mack turned, coffee mug in hand. Without the distortion of shock and pain, I could see him more clearly now. The scars were more extensive than I'd first realized, running from his jawline down his neck and disappearing beneath his collar. But they didn't detract from what was, objectively, a striking face—strong jaw, prominent cheekbones, eyes like dark coffee beneath straight brows. His hair, a shade between brown and black, curled slightly where it brushed his collar.
Not conventionally handsome, perhaps, but arresting. Interesting. The kind of face that told stories.
"How's the head?" he asked, eyes flicking to my forehead before returning to his coffee.
"Better, thank you." I hovered awkwardly at the threshold between hallway and living area. "And thank you for the bed. You didn't have to do that."
He shrugged, a dismissive lift of one shoulder. "You were injured."
"Still. It was kind."
His jaw tightened at the word "kind," as if it were an accusation rather than a compliment.
"Coffee's ready," he said, nodding toward a pot on the counter. "Cups in the cabinet above."
I helped myself, inhaling the rich aroma gratefully. "Black is perfect," I said when he glanced questioningly at the refrigerator. "I practically mainline it this way back home."
"Back home being?"
"Manhattan," I replied, taking a cautious sip. The coffee was surprisingly good, robust without being bitter. "Upper West Side."
He nodded as if this confirmed something, then gestured toward a box of cereal and a bowl he'd set out on the counter. "Not much for breakfast. There's milk if you want it."
The simple offering was thoughtful in its way—clearly the best he could manage with limited culinary skills, judging by last night's soup and stale bread.
"This is perfect, thanks," I said, helping myself to cereal.
I carried my bowl to the small kitchen table, Mack joining me after a moment's hesitation. He sat with his back to the wall, eyes on the door and windows—a military habit, I guessed, remembering the evidence of service I'd glimpsed last night.
"What brings you to Ashwood?" he asked, breaking the silence. "Not exactly a tourist hotspot this time of year."
The question was casual enough, but I sensed genuine curiosity beneath it. I'd prepared a generic explanation before leaving New York, knowing I couldn't reveal my true purpose.
"I rented a cabin for a few weeks," I explained. "Needed some space to work on a project. My apartment in New York feels suffocating sometimes."
"What kind of project?"
Here it was—the moment where I typically manufactured a vague profession to avoid revealing my true occupation. People acted strangely once they learned I wrote romance novels, either embarrassed or inappropriately curious about my personal life.
"Just some writing," I said, deliberately vague. "Nothing exciting."
He seemed to accept this, not pressing further. I noticed he didn't share information about himself either. We were both guarding our privacy, it seemed.
"The weather looks a bit better today," I ventured, changing the subject. "Do you think I could use your phone to call about my car? Maybe get a tow service out here?"
Mack glanced toward the window where rain continued to fall, gentler now but steady. "Roads will still be bad. Creek usually rises after storms like this, sometimes floods the lower access road."
My heart sank. "So I'm still stuck here?"
"For now." He rose, carrying his empty mug to the sink. "I'll check the creek level after breakfast. If it's passable, I'll take you down to where you can get cell signal, call for a tow."
"Thank you. I really appreciate everything you've done."
He shrugged again, that same dismissive gesture. "Anyone would've helped."
But we both knew that wasn't true. Not everyone would stop on a storm-lashed road to help a stranger. Not everyone would bring that stranger home, give up their bed, feed them the best they could manage.
"Well, I'm grateful it was you who found me," I said softly.
He turned away, clearly uncomfortable with my gratitude. "I've got chores to finish. Make yourself comfortable."
And with that, he was gone, the back door closing firmly behind him. Scout hesitated, looking between me and the door before eventually following his master.
Alone, I exhaled slowly, tension I hadn't realized I was carrying releasing from my shoulders. Mack's presence filled the cabin even in his absence—a prickly energy that kept me constantly aware, constantly on edge. Not from fear, exactly, but from something else that made my pulse quicken.
I carried my coffee to the window, watching as Mack crossed the muddy yard to a sturdy outbuilding, Scout trotting at his heels. Rain plastered his dark hair to his head, but he seemed oblivious to the discomfort, moving with the purposeful stride of a man accustomed to physical hardship.
My fingers itched for my notebook. This was why I'd come to Montana, wasn't it? To find authenticity. To experience something—someone—real. And Mack, with his scars and silences, his grudging kindness and obvious demons, was more real than anyone I'd encountered in years.
I retrieved my journal from my bag, settled onto the worn leather couch, and began to write:
Observations: The scarred man moves with military precision, each action economical yet fluid. Nothing wasted. Nothing for show. His eyes hold a well of conflict—duty warring with despair, connection battling isolation. He wears his pain like armor, keeping others at a distance. But kindness leaks through the cracks despite his best efforts.
I paused, pen hovering over the page. This felt invasive somehow, reducing him to character notes when he was clearly struggling with genuine trauma. And yet, wasn't this exactly what I'd come for? Authentic emotion? Real passion buried beneath real pain?
Guilt prickled at my conscience, but I continued writing:
His hands—broad, calloused, capable—betray a gentleness at odds with his rough-hewn exterior. The contrast between strength and restraint creates an almost unbearable tension. What would those hands feel like against bare skin? How would that carefully maintained control finally breaking feel?
I slammed the notebook shut, cheeks burning. This was getting out of hand. I barely knew the man. He'd rescued me, nothing more. Any attraction I felt was likely just gratitude mixed with proximity and the heightened emotions of my accident.
To distract myself, I rose and wandered the main room, taking in details I'd missed last night. Bullet casings on a shelf, sorted by size. A folded Marine Corps jacket hanging by the door. A package of military MREs tucked beside canned goods in the pantry. And most tellingly, a shadow box mounted on the wall containing medals and citations—confirmation of my suspicions about his military service.
I leaned closer, reading the name on one citation: Mackenzie J. Thornton, Staff Sergeant, United States Marine Corps. Awarded for ‘exceptional valor in the face of enemy fire.’ The date was three years ago.
The back door opened, and I jumped away from the shadow box like a guilty child caught snooping.
Mack stood in the doorway, rain dripping from his hair and shoulders, eyes immediately finding me near his medals. His expression darkened.
"Creek's running high," he said, voice tight. "Road's flooded."
I swallowed hard. "So I won’t be able to get a tow?"
"For a couple days, at least." He stripped off his wet jacket, hanging it with precise movements. "Once it stops raining, the creek will recede."
My heart raced with a complex mixture of emotions—disappointment at being stranded, anxiety about imposing further, and beneath it all, an unexpected flutter of anticipation at the prospect of more time in this cabin, with this man.
"I'm sorry to be such a burden," I said.
"You're not." The words sounded forced. "Just bad timing with the storm."
He disappeared down the hallway, presumably to change out of wet clothes. I sank back onto the couch, mind whirling. Days, not hours, in this isolated cabin with a man who clearly preferred solitude to company. Days to observe, to absorb, to understand the complexity behind those guarded eyes.
Days that could provide exactly the material I needed to save my writing career.
The thought brought another wave of guilt. Using Mack's pain, his obvious trauma, as fodder for my romance novels felt exploitative, manipulative. He deserved better than to be reduced to literary inspiration.
And yet.
I glanced at my notebook, then back to the hallway where he'd disappeared. I couldn't deny the pull I felt toward him—not just as a writer seeking material, but as a woman responding to something raw and magnetic in his presence. I shivered with the realization.
That night, long after we'd navigated an awkward dinner of more canned food—soup again, but a different variety this time, with crackers instead of bread—I lay awake in his bed, listening to the creaking floorboards in the living room. Back and forth, back and forth. Restless pacing, the rhythm of insomnia familiar to my own sleepless nights in Manhattan.
Was it the storm that kept him awake? The lingering thunder? Or something deeper, darker?
I pressed my face into the pillow that smelled faintly of him—pine, smoke, something indefinably male—and made a decision. I would learn more about Mackenzie Thornton, not just for my book, but for myself. I would sneak through the cracks in his walls and slowly make my way to the innermost sanctum of his fortress until I discovered the creature who lived within.
But I would never, ever let him know that I was a romance author in search of authentic inspiration. Some truths were better left unspoken, especially when trapped together in a remote cabin with nowhere to escape.
Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance, and I fell into a restless sleep.