Rescued By the Rugged Protector (Mountain Man Rescue #2)

Chapter One

Birdy

I tuck three Café au Lait dahlia tubers into a box and check them one last time before closing the lid and sticking the shipping label on top.

It’s crazy how, in just a few months, these ugly clumps will turn into gorgeous dinner-plate flowers with creamy peach and soft pink colors. Magic, if you ask me.

“Hey, Birdy,” Nell, my boss and the owner of Timber Peak Petals, says as she steps inside the large greenhouse.

“Did the crate with hardy perennials for Becky’s Blooming Blushes go out yet?

She just called to ask us to add fifty extra mint plants to her order.

Apparently, there’s some kind of viral trend going around on social media where people make a minty cocktail. Demand has gone through the roof.”

“Fifty extra?” I ask.

“I know, crazy, right? She already ordered two hundred and fifty plants.” Nell’s eyes shine. “If we manage to sell out this year, I’m doubling your seasonal bonus, Birdy. You’re my best employee.”

I laugh as I move through the narrow aisle of the greenhouse to find the extra mint plants. “I’m your only employee.”

“True, but you’re still the best,” she says, already checking another list on her clipboard.

She looks as if she hasn’t slept for weeks, but her eyes are always bright. Her flower farm is her passion and her entire personality. I don’t mind. I love flowers and plants myself, and it’s nice to see someone go after their dreams and smash their goals.

Nell’s flower farm isn’t some big, soulless company. It’s got heart and that specific Timber Peak Valley small-town vibe that attracts customers from all over the country.

“Once you’ve got Becky’s mint sorted, take the rest of the afternoon off. You’ve been packing tubers for six hours straight,” she says.

“I’m fine, Nell. There are still lots of orders to pack. We need to get these tubers out in time for dahlia season.”

She puts her hand on my arm. “It’s okay. One afternoon won’t ruin us. Besides, I have to run to the hardware store for more chicken wire. The girls have escaped. Again.”

“Your chickens are such cheeky adventurers. But are you sure that’s all?”

She frowns. “What do you mean?”

“Are you sure you don’t have a spare roll of chicken wire lying around? I have a feeling you’re heading to the hardware store in the slim chance of running into Reid.”

“Of course not. He hardly ever comes into town. Sometimes I wonder if he’s glued to the top of these mountains,” she says, her voice an octave higher than usual.

“One of these days, you’re going to have to talk to him,” I say, stacking the trays of mint on the packing shelves and pulling off my gardening gloves. “I won’t stop nagging you about it until you do.”

“He’s not talkative. And I’m not interested in him,” she protests, her cheeks growing redder by the second.

“Uh-huh. Sure. You’re so busted, Nell.”

“Go and enjoy your afternoon off before I change my mind,” she says with a shake of her head, but she’s grinning nonetheless.

“Thanks, Nell,” I say as I grab my coat from the hook by the sliding door. “See you tomorrow. Fingers crossed Reid needs something from the hardware store too this afternoon.”

I slide the door closed behind me and shiver. Outside, the temperature is way colder, despite the sun being out. When you’re spending so much time inside a warm greenhouse, you tend to forget how chilly it still is at this time of year.

I shove my hands into my pockets and take the road back to town.

It takes me about fifteen to twenty minutes.

I know every crack in the asphalt, every mailbox, and the exact spot where the Wheelers’ dog charges the fence before losing interest. I honestly hardly ever register it anymore since I’ve walked it so many times.

I slow my pace. Maybe I should enjoy this walk more. The afternoon sun gilds everything in soft gold, and I almost missed it because I was just going through the motions.

I tip my head back and look at the mountains on either side of the valley. They always look wise and unhurried, like they’re Yoda and they’re trying to tell me something.

Which is ridiculous, of course. They are mountains.

Why do I feel like I’m living on autopilot?

Don’t get me wrong, I love my job. It’s the best one I could ever have asked for.

Nell is wonderful. My rented studio apartment has an east-facing window that floods my living room with gorgeous light every morning.

My family loves me, even though they live three hundred miles away.

It’s a good life. But it still feels like it’s not completely mine.

Like what I’m doing is living the way other people, or society, expect me to.

I’m always trying to be a good girl. But what if I’m more than that?

To the right, a trail marker peeks out from the tree line.

Ridge Path Loop — 3.6 miles.

I’ve passed this marker a hundred times or more already, and not once have I turned right to see where this ridge path loop leads.

What do you want, Birdy? I ask myself.

I genuinely don’t know. That’s the whole problem. I’m twenty-eight already, and I don’t know what I want from life. Every time I try to picture it, I get a fuzzy blur of nothing. No clear direction. All I have is a vague sense that I’m supposed to have figured it out by now.

3.6 miles is going to take me, what, about two hours? Maybe three if there are steep inclines. That’s just enough time to walk this loop and be home before dark.

I turn right and step onto the trail. I’ve lived here since I was twenty-three.

It’s time I finally saw more of these mountains.

Hell, it’s the reason I moved here in the first place.

Because I craved somewhere remote and wild, with a tight-knit community.

I always felt out of place in the town I grew up in.

Sure, there was a community there too, but it was all cliques and gossip and keeping up appearances.

At least in Timber Peak Valley, there is that friendly town atmosphere where people look out for one another.

The first stretch of the trail winds uphill through tall pines, and I force myself to actually look at things for once instead of just moving through them on autopilot.

A squirrel freezes on a log when I walk past, and a woodpecker goes absolutely feral on a dead tree somewhere above my head.

I breathe in the mountain air and smile.

My shoulders immediately drop about three inches. I didn’t even realize I was holding them up like that. Next, I notice how my jaw is clamped shut, and I force it to relax as well.

The trail steepens after the first bend, and I welcome the burn in my calves.

There’s something satisfying about physical effort that has nothing to do with printing out shipping labels or packing dahlia tubers.

My brain, for once, goes quiet, but it doesn’t feel wrong.

I mentally welcome the break in my obsessive thinking and just walk.

I’ve been walking for well over an hour and a half when I pull out my phone to check the time. My battery sits at fifty-eight percent, and it’s past four o’clock. Huh. I’m still going up. Shouldn’t I have been looping back down the mountain already?

Then it dawns on me that I haven’t seen a trail marker in what seems like ages. Shit. Did I miss one because I was too busy gazing up at the clouds and the birds in the trees? Now what?

The smart thing to do would be to turn around and retrace my steps, but I can’t even remember if I took a left or a right at the last fork in the road. I should try nonetheless.

I decide to take a small path leading east. This is fine. People go slightly off trail all the time, right? This is not a big deal at all. I’m not going to get lost in the mountains and become a local news headline for a day or two.

It doesn’t take long before the path stops at a sign stating that this is private property. Behind it is a high fence.

Great. So I veered off trail and wandered onto someone’s land. I peer into the distance. There’s a cabin with a smoking chimney on this land, so maybe whoever lives here might be able to guide me back to the official trail.

I’m about to try to find a fence gate when I hear a low sound that makes the hairs on my arms stand up. I look to the side, and my heart stops beating. Sweat pops out all over my body, and an involuntary shriek leaves my throat.

There’s a bear about forty feet away. Huge and black, his coat gleaming, his nose snuffling at the base of a rotting log.

It hasn’t noticed me yet. I read somewhere that black bears mostly go about their business and that they’d rather avoid you than confront you.

I need to get out of here as soon as possible, so I take one very careful step backward.

The bear’s head comes up, and we look at each other.

There’s no thought, no plan, no brave last stand. My body just moves. I run along the fence line. I’m crashing through the undergrowth while branches whip at my face. The sound behind me is enormous and close.

My foot catches a root. All the air gets knocked clean from my chest as I hit the ground hard. I roll onto my back, and the bear is right there. I’m not ready to die.

“Please,” I whimper, as if a black bear knows human language.

Tears roll down my cheeks.

Then a deep, completely unafraid voice echoes through the air.

“Back! Off!”

I open my eyes to see the bear’s butt disappearing into the woods. Heavy footsteps crunch through the undergrowth toward me.

I’m still flat on my back, staring up at a strip of sky through the pine canopy, my heart hammering hard as a shadow falls over me.

Before I can move or blink, a huge man scoops me up in his arms.

And runs.