Rough Hands on the Prairie (The Original Mountain Man #1)

1. June

June

T he sun beats down on my face, sweat beading on my brow, my hair clinging to my cheeks.

God, I really need to cool down.

I pause, pulling a canteen from my bag and taking a long swig. The water hits the spot. I sigh. Hydrate or die , right? I’m always reminding my blog readers to bring more water than they think they’ll need—but I might’ve underestimated it myself today.

Planting a foot on a rock near the river, I stare down at the water.

Could I get away with a quick dip?

It’s not like many people hike this trail—especially not mid-summer. The Colorado Rockies aren’t exactly known for being tourist-friendly, and this far out? It’s just me, the trees, and the buzz of dragonflies.

A swim would be heaven. Just a quick dunk. In and out before midday.

Decision made, I scramble down the rocky hillside toward the river. Birds tweet their commentary from the trees, but I ignore them. I pull out my phone to snap a few pics—sunlight glittering on the water, the wild edges of this forgotten place. I need something stunning for my next post.

But the real magic of a trail like this?

Putting the damn phone down and disappearing.

I toss my pack aside, along with my phone. This part? It’s not for the blog. This is just for me. My followers know everything—my van, my fire-cooking tips, my favorite ways to stay safe on solo hikes—but this little rebellion? Skinny-dipping in a remote mountain river?

This part stays mine.

One last glance toward the trail. No one’s coming.

I unzip my jacket, kick off my shoes, and strip fast—before I can lose my nerve.

A wicked buzz shivers through me. I’ve always had a defiant streak, the kind that refuses to stay quiet or behave.

It’s what drove me to the road in the first place.

And yeah—skinny-dipping in the Rockies? Sounds exactly like the kind of dumb, free thing I’d do.

The cool air kisses my bare skin. Goosebumps rise.

I dip a toe in the water and squeal—it’s freezing.

Still, I slide to the edge of a flat rock, close my eyes as sunlight dances over the surface, and slip under.

The shock of the cold nearly steals my breath—in the best way.

Every bit of road dust, regret, and burnout washes off my skin. I dunk my head under, resurfacing with a gasp, blinking at the sky. No one around. No sound but birdsong and rushing water.

I’m not done yet.

I swim into a still pocket of the river, a quiet little cove where the water eddies gently. The cold seeps through me, bone-deep and cleansing. It feels like a baptism I didn’t ask for but desperately needed.

Sunlight filters through the trees. Shadows dance across the rocks.

And for one suspended moment… everything stops.

Like the earth took a snapshot.

Just for me.

I smile, dunk again, and swim farther out?—

And when I come up, something’s wrong.

It takes a moment to click. Everything looks the same—same rocks, same trees, same birdsong. But there’s something off. The air feels heavier. The silence feels different .

I run my hands through my hair, slick it back, blink the water from my lashes?—

And freeze.

My backpack is gone.

My heart slams against my ribs.

I scan the riverbank, panic rising. Maybe I left it somewhere else? Maybe I’m disoriented?

But no. It’s gone. The spot where I left it is empty. My pulse spikes.

Shit.

Someone must have taken it. But how? Who could’ve snuck in and out while I was swimming?

"Hello?" I call out, voice bouncing off the rocks.

Nothing.

I glance toward the rock where I left my clothes—also empty.

Okay. Now I’m really screwed.

My breath catches. I part my lips to shout again—but stop myself.

If someone stole my stuff, they might still be here. Watching. I don’t want to draw them in. If they’re bold enough to rob me, what else would they do?

I drift downstream, keeping low, letting the river cover me. I scan the trees. My mind races. Is this a prank? A creeper trying to scare me? Or worse—someone trying to snap photos of me naked for clicks?

My stomach flips.

And then—I spot movement on the trail above.

A man.

Relief blooms in my chest—until I really look at him.

He’s dressed like a Civil War reenactor. Long, dark hair tied back with leather. A beat-up shirt. A rifle slung across his back. A heavy wool coat, despite the heat.

He stares at me. Unmoving. Expression unreadable.

"Well?" I yell, arms crossed over my chest. "Are you going to just stand there or help me?"

His voice is slow, wary. "Why should I be in a hurry to do that, ma’am?"

Ma’am?

I let out a sharp breath. "I don’t know what kind of roleplay this is, but you can drop the old-timey speech. I promise I won’t break character."

He narrows his eyes. "And what exactly am I meant to be reenacting?"

Okay. So maybe he’s not just a cosplayer. Maybe he’s crazy. But he doesn’t seem dangerous.

"I don’t care—just give me your damn jacket and help me out of here!" I snap. "Someone stole my stuff. I need to get back to my van?—"

"Slow down, woman," he says, lifting one brow. "Your what?"

I blink. "I’ll explain when I’m not naked! "

A pause.

Then, without a word, he shrugs off the coat and tosses it onto the rocks beside me.

I snatch it up and wrap it around myself, avoiding his gaze.

But I can feel him watching.

And for some reason, I don’t feel afraid.

I feel something else entirely.