Chapter Two
Jude
I don’t expect anything from my days anymore.
That’s the whole point of being up here on this mountain.
I’ve done more than enough for the world during my years as a military disaster relief coordinator.
Fifteen years of showing up wherever everything had gone wrong, wherever people had lost everything, wherever the ground was still shaking or the water hadn’t receded yet.
I built shelters. Coordinated supply drops.
Held things together in places where nothing wanted to hold together. And I’m proud of that. I am.
But there’s only so much a man can give before the tank runs empty, and mine hit zero about three years ago. All I’m asking for now is that the world leaves me alone to enjoy the rest of my life in peace. So far, this mountain has been very obliging about that.
I’m on my third coffee, standing at the window.
I’m not looking at anything in particular, just watching the tree line.
It’s a habit I picked up somewhere between my second and third tour and never quite managed to shake.
Up here, it’s mostly pointless. Nothing ever comes out of the trees except the occasional deer and, sometimes, a lost hiker.
I take a sip of coffee and let my eyes drift across the fence line and the tree line beyond.
Another quiet Tuesday on Timber Peak. Another day of absolutely nothing happening, which is exactly what I moved up here for.
I’ve got a pension that covers my needs and a mountain that asks nothing of me, and after years of the Army asking everything, that’s not nothing. That’s everything.
Then I see movement. A curvy woman in a dark coat is standing right at my fence line with her back to me. On my property. Past my very clearly worded “No Trespassing” sign.
What the hell is she doing here? Didn’t she see the sign?
I grit my teeth. I fucking hate trespassers.
Tourists who come up here thinking the mountain is their personal playground, lacing up their hiking boots and making their little influencer videos and acting like private property signs are just a suggestion, a quirky bit of local color that obviously doesn’t apply to them.
Honestly, I should probably replace my fence with barbed wire.
That’s when a bear steps out of the tree line behind her. Every thought I’ve ever had leaves my body.
My mug is still in my hand when I hit the porch, and I just drop it. It shatters into pieces, but I don’t care. There’s a woman. And a bear. I’m not letting her get hurt on my watch.
I’m running, and my only thought in the entire world is run faster, Jude.
I don’t notice that I haven’t even put on my boots until I hit the ground and the wet grass moistens my feet.
Doesn’t matter. Right now, nothing matters because the bear is forty feet from the woman and closing while she stands there, frozen—which is actually the right call but is still the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen.
And then she fucking runs. Hell, no. She shouldn’t do that! I watch in horror as she trips and falls. The bear catches up fast.
Running faster, I scream at the bear, telling it to back off while I make myself as huge as possible. I hope it gets the message. Walk away. I promise you don’t want this.
The bear swings its massive head toward me, its small dark eyes finding mine across the grass. I hold my ground. I don’t flinch or blink. I just stare it down the way you stare down anything that’s testing whether you’re serious.
You better believe I’m damn serious.
A long moment passes where I’m not entirely sure if the bear will give up, but then it turns and runs back into the trees. I exhale for what feels like the first time since I looked out the window.
The bear might be gone, but the woman is still on the ground. My stomach drops. I close the remaining distance in a few long strides and crouch over her.
For one awful second, my brain goes somewhere I don’t want it to go, but then I see her eyes are open. She has a cut above her eyebrow and dirt on her cheek. She doesn’t speak, though. It’s clear she’s in shock, but at least she’s alive.
The relief that moves through me is so fast and so disproportionate to the situation that it almost knocks me sideways.
I don’t know this woman. I have never seen her before in my life.
She was trespassing on my property not five minutes ago, and I was furious about it.
And now I don’t understand a single thing about what I’m feeling.
All I know is that it’s a lot and nothing I can deal with right now.
I slide one arm under her knees and one behind her back. She grabs at my shirt with both hands, a startled sound escaping her, and I stand up with her held against my chest.
I run back to my cabin. The bear will think twice, but it could always show up again.
By the time I reach the porch, the woman in my arms has stopped shaking quite so hard, and her head has dropped against my shoulder. I step on one of the shards from the mug I dropped earlier, but it barely registers. I need to get her inside.
With my other foot, I push the front door open and gently lay her down on my couch.
I crouch in front of her, and my fifteen years of military experience kick in.
I know exactly what to do with a person in shock.
I’ve done it a hundred times in a hundred different places.
After floods and other horrible disasters that break people in ways that take years to put back together.
I have to stay calm and get her talking.
“Hey. Look at me,” I say, trying to keep my voice low and even.
She blinks. Her eyes find mine slowly, like she’s coming back from somewhere far away. They’re brown. Warm brown and ready to get lost in and—
Wow. No, no. I cut that thought off before it finishes.
I clear my throat. “Can you tell me your name?”
She blinks again.
“Take your time,” I say. “You’re safe. The bear is gone. You’re inside now.”
“I’m Birdy,” she squeaks.
“Birdy,” I repeat, because apparently that’s a name. It suits her, though. “Okay. Good. I’m Jude.” I hold up two fingers. “How many fingers?”
She looks at my hand, and I see the faint hint of a smile. “Two. I’m not concussed. I just, um, there was a bear. A real one.”
“There was,” I agree.
“It was really big.”
“It was.”
She stares at me for a second, and then something shifts in her expression. She’s processing. Good. That’s good. That means she’s coming back to herself.
“You’re bleeding,” I tell her, nodding at the cut above her eyebrow. “Not badly, but I’m going to clean it up.”
When she reaches up and touches the cut, she winces. “Ouch.”
“Don’t touch it.”
She drops her hand immediately, and I stand up and head to the bathroom to grab the first-aid kit.
While I rummage through the cabinet under the sink, I tell myself that the only reason my chest feels like that is because of the residual adrenaline from running barefoot across my backyard to chase off a bear. That’s all it is.
That’s definitely all it is.
I slam the cabinet door shut and head back to the living room with my first-aid kit. Birdy is sitting up. The faraway look in her eyes has gone, and the color has returned to her face. All good signs.
I sit down on the table in front of her and open the kit. I’ve treated worse wounds in worse conditions with worse equipment, so this should be easy.
“This might sting,” I tell Birdy.
“I can handle it.”
I lean in and get to work, and I’m very focused on the cut.
I am entirely, one hundred percent focused on the cut and nothing else.
Not on how close I have to get to clean it properly.
Not on the fact that she smells like flowers and potting soil.
Not on how soft her skin feels under my rough hands.
“You’re good at this,” she says.
“Fifteen years of practice.”
“Doctor?”
“Military. Disaster relief coordinator.” I press the butterfly closure carefully into place and sit back. “All done.”
She reaches up again instinctively, and I catch her wrist before she touches it.
“Better not touch it yet,” I say.
We both go still. My hand is wrapped around her wrist, and her pulse is racing under my fingers. I let go before she thinks I’m someone who uses aggression. I don’t. And I would never. But she doesn’t know that.
“Sorry,” I say, which is not a word I use often.
“It’s okay,” she says and smiles at me.
I close the first-aid kit and stand up, putting a reasonable amount of distance between us.
“Is there someone I should call?”
She shakes her head. “No, there’s no one.”
I don’t know what to do with that. It doesn’t sit right with me that she has no one to call after a near miss with a bear. No one who’d want to know she’s okay. That’s a lonely thing, even if she doesn’t say it like it is.
But somewhere underneath that thought is another one I like even less. A flash of relief that there’s no man waiting for her somewhere. That she’s unclaimed. That no one can take her away from me.
“I should go,” she says. She’s already shifting forward on the couch, planting her feet on the floor like she’s testing whether her legs still work. “I’ve taken up enough of your time. Sorry.”
“It’s getting dark,” I say. “And you don’t know these trails. I’m not letting you go.”
“You’re not?”
I lock my jaw before I speak. “That came out wrong. I’m not keeping you prisoner, Birdy, but I can’t in good conscience let you walk back into those woods.”
She glances at the window. Outside, the last of the light is draining out of the sky, and the temperature is dropping fast. She knows I’m right.
“I can call someone,” she offers. “Nell, she runs the flower farm. I’m sure she’ll come and pick me up. I work there, but we’re also friends. Not that any of that information is important. Anyway, sorry, I’ll call right now and get out of your hair.”
“No, you won’t. I’m driving you down this mountain myself,” I say, and I grab my jacket before she can argue.