Rescued by the Mountain Man (Men of Fire Mountain #7)

1. Hannah

Hannah

T he man at the gas station squinted at me like I'd asked for directions to Narnia instead of Dr. Caleb Hale's cabin.

"You're going up there alone?" He wiped his grimy hands on his overalls, his gaze dragging from my face to the pristine rental SUV. "Storm's rolling in. Not a day for tourists."

"I'm not a tourist." I straightened under his scrutiny, trying to look more rugged than my brand-new backpack and still-breaking-in hiking boots allowed. "I'm here on business with Dr. Hale."

He snorted, unimpressed. "Business with the mountain man? Good luck with that. He doesn't talk to anyone."

Mountain man. So the rumors about Hale's hermit lifestyle were true. I pulled out my phone and showed him the faculty photo from Georgetown's website.

"This is the Dr. Hale I'm looking for. Environmental toxicologist."

The attendant squinted at the screen, then let out a surprised laugh. "That city slicker? Yeah, that's him alright—or was. You wouldn't recognize him now." He gestured to his own face. "Full beard. Long hair. Eyes that look right through you. Comes down for supplies once a month, barely speaks ten words."

I studied the photo again—those intense gray eyes, strong jawline, broad shoulders filling out his tailored blazer. The academic polish hiding something wilder beneath.

"Environmental assessment," I said, not elaborating. With FireCore's expansion permit hearing in just seven days, I didn't have time to wait for better weather. I held out my too-clean map of the area. "Is there a trail that leads to his cabin?"

He studied me a beat longer, then gave a noncommittal shrug and pointed it out for me. "Your funeral. Trail gets rough past the campground. North ridge. He lives up there." He leaned in, lowering his voice. "But don't expect a warm welcome. Folks say he used to be someone important before he ghosted everyone."

I paid for gas, then climbed back into the SUV as rain began to speckle the windshield. Caleb Hale. Once-celebrated scientist, now a recluse. The ghost I needed to bring back to life, for the case and for justice.

My phone buzzed with a text from my brother Michael: Any luck finding your mountain scientist yet?

Not yet, I typed back. But close. Stop worrying.

Just be careful, Han. These big companies play dirty.

A smile twitched on my lips. Big brother always had to play protector. All of us Danvers took care of one another, but I was closest to Michael.

He wasn’t wrong, FireCore did play dirty. My smile faded. I knew that better than most. The same way I knew that without Hale's baseline data from before FireCore ramped up operations, we'd never prove causation in time to stop the expansion.

***

Thirty minutes later, I stood at the Fire Mountain trailhead, inhaling the crisp alpine air. It was nothing like the salty breeze of Sunset Cove or the recycled grit of New York City. This air felt... honest. I closed my eyes for a second, centering myself. I was here. For the case. For justice. And to find the man who could help me deliver both.

I adjusted the pack on my shoulders and mentally ran through my checklist: water testing kits, sample containers, camera, GPS, batteries, first aid, water, emergency beacon, and carefully prepared notes on Caleb Hale's research history. The deadlines loomed in my mind—Friday for the court filing, next Wednesday for FireCore's permit hearing.

The rain had intensified, and thunder rolled in the distance. Storm warnings had been clear, but I couldn't wait another day. Not with FireCore already moving equipment toward the north ridge.

I'd prepped for this. Researched. Trained, sort of. Two weekend hikes upstate didn't make me a wilderness expert, but I knew how to read a map and I wasn't afraid to get dirty.

At least, that's what I told myself.

The first mile proved otherwise. The incline bit into my calves, and the boots—sturdy but traitorous—rubbed hot spots into my heels. Still, I pressed on, fueled by purpose and a stubborn need to prove I wasn't just some city lawyer playing field biologist.

By the second mile, the rain had turned steady. Leaves slicked the path, and my jacket, which claimed to be waterproof, surrendered without a fight.

At the fork, I hesitated. Left led to the scenic overlook. Right, narrow and unmarked, pointed toward the north ridge. Toward Caleb Hale.

I imagined the scientist in his cabin, sitting at a cluttered table, surrounded by microscopes and sample jars. I imagined him gruff, maybe antisocial, but brilliant. Someone who didn't smile much, but when he did, it meant something.

I took the right.

The trail narrowed, overgrown and twisting through dense pine. The sound of the river whispered through the trees. Three miles in, my muscles screamed, and the rain had soaked through everything. Still, I kept climbing. My phone had no signal, of course.

The reasonable thing would've been to turn around.

But Friday's deadline wouldn't wait, and neither would FireCore's bulldozers.

That's when I slipped.

One second I was upright, the next I was skidding on pine needles and mud. My ankle twisted sharply, pain stabbing up my leg, and then I was falling—tumbling down an embankment, helpless against the momentum.

The impact knocked the breath from me. Something cracked—maybe a branch, maybe my pride. My head hit something solid, and white exploded behind my eyes.

Rain pelted my face as I tried to rise. The forest spun. My ankle throbbed. I collapsed again, the mud cold against my skin.