S’more Mountain Man (Hot Mountain Nights #1)

Chapter One

“Houston, we have a problem.”

Skye

I gripped the steering wheel of my powder blue Kia Soul and squinted through the bug-splattered windshield at what was supposedly a road but looked more like a deer trail having an identity crisis. The GPS on my phone had given up twenty minutes ago, right around the time the last cell tower decided I wasn't worth the effort. The July heat made the inside of my car feel like a greenhouse, even with the AC cranked to arctic levels.

"Turn right at the big pine tree," I muttered, mimicking Mandy's vague directions. "It'll be obvious, she said. You can't miss it, she said." I passed the thousandth big pine tree. They were all big. They were all pine. Nothing was obvious except that I was spectacularly lost.

The astronomy camp started in—I checked the dashboard clock—two hours. Two hours to find a campsite that existed in some parallel dimension where GPS signals feared to tread and cell phones became expensive paperweights.

Mandy had called eighteen hours ago with the desperate plea only a college roommate could pull off. "Star Babe, I need you. Like, desperately need you. Like, I will owe you free drinks for life need you."

"You already owe me free drinks for life from the great hair dye incident of junior year," I'd reminded her, already sensing my weekend plans evaporating. Those plans had primarily involved air conditioning, ice cream, and binging that new wilderness survival show with the unrealistically hot host. Ironic, considering where I was about to end up.

"Okay, fine, I'll throw in my secret brownie recipe. Look, our astronomy instructor just bailed. Food poisoning. I've got twelve tweens showing up tomorrow for Stellar Nights: A Journey Through the Cosmos and nobody to teach them which end of a telescope to look through."

"Can't you just—"

"Skye. Please. You literally teach middle school science. You have that whole space unit. You own four telescopes."

"Three…I donated one to the school."

"Whatever. You're perfect for this. One night. That's all. Drive up, wow them with your nerdy space facts, make s'mores, drive home. Easy peasy. These kids are great—I've had most of them in other programs. They'll love you."

Famous last words.

I hit another pothole—crater, really—and my entire car shuddered. The graham cracker boxes in the back shifted with an ominous crunch. I'd cleaned out three grocery stores of their s'mores supplies, because if I was going to pretend to be a camp counselor, those kids were getting the full experience. My trunk looked like Willy Wonka had decided to specialize in campfire treats. Towers of Hershey bars, bags of marshmallows puffed like cumulus clouds, and enough juice boxes to hydrate a small army.

I cranked down the window, letting in a blast of humid summer air that instantly made my tank top cling to my skin. Mosquitoes immediately recognized the invitation and swooped in. I slapped at one on my arm, cursing under my breath.

"Okay, Skye. You've got this." I gave myself a pep talk, something I'd gotten good at since Dad died two years ago. He would have loved this—getting lost while trying to teach kids about the stars.

"You're just a tiny bit lost in the Montana wilderness with no cell signal, wearing completely inappropriate footwear, with a trunk full of melting chocolate. What could possibly—"

The pothole that swallowed my sentence could have eaten Jupiter. My car lurched sideways with a mechanical shriek that would haunt my dreams. The steering wheel jerked right, and I fought to control the vehicle as it limped to the side of what barely qualified as a road.

"No, no, no, no, no." I pumped the brakes and wrestled my wounded Kia to a stop between two Douglas firs. The engine ticked like a time bomb in the sudden silence. Only the rat-a-tat-tat of a woodpecker somewhere above disturbed the oppressive quiet. Sweat trickled down my spine, making my "Future NASA Scientist" tank top stick to my back.

I turned off the engine and pressed my forehead against the steering wheel. The vinyl was warm from my sweaty palms, and it smelled faintly of the vanilla air freshener dangling from my rearview mirror—now swinging like a pendulum of doom.

"Okay. Flat tire. You've seen people change flat tires. How hard can it be?"

Twenty minutes later, I had my answer: impossible.

The spare tire—a pathetic donut that looked like it belonged on a shopping cart—lay abandoned in the dirt. My actual tire had shredded itself with spectacular thoroughness. Strips of rubber curled away from the rim like black party streamers from hell.

The jack, which I'd excavated from beneath seventeen layers of sleeping bags and telescope cases, sat at a useless angle. The lug wrench had vanished into the underbrush after I'd lost my grip during round three of woman-versus-bolt. The bolts themselves hadn't budged a millimeter, as if Zeus himself had personally tightened them.

Sweat trickled down my spine, making my tank top cling even more uncomfortably. My wedge sandals—cork-soled with cute star-shaped cutouts that had seemed camp-appropriate this morning—were already caked with dirt. They were perfect for summer brunches in Missoula, maybe even an air-conditioned planetarium tour. Not so much for bear country.

"Dad would be laughing his ass off right now," I muttered, glancing skyward. "Astronomy camp in the mountains in sandals? Really, Skye?"

Thunder growled in the distance, low and menacing.

I straightened, pressing my palms into my lower back. The forest pressed in from all sides, an endless wall of green that blocked out most of the afternoon sky. Shafts of sunlight pierced through gaps in the canopy, illuminating swirls of pollen and tiny insects. The air tasted of pine resin and that electric, heavy scent of approaching rain. The humidity hung like a blanket, making each breath feel like drinking soup.

"Okay, think, Skye. What would Dad do?" The answer came immediately: Dad would have had AAA, a full-size spare, and proper hiking boots. He also wouldn't have volunteered for something he was completely unqualified for in real life just because he couldn't say no to his best friend.

But someone had to live out here. A house, a cabin, a ranger station—anything. I'd walk a little ways, find help, and be back before the chocolate melted completely into goo. Not that I still wouldn’t eat it.

I grabbed my phone from the cup holder. The screen mockingly displayed "No Service" beneath a battery icon that was already at sixty percent. At least the flashlight would work if I needed it. I locked the car, because apparently I was worried about wilderness thieves with a specific interest in astronomy equipment and diabetes-inducing amounts of sugar.

The road curved ahead, disappearing into shadow. My sandals slapped against the packed dirt with each step, the sound embarrassingly loud in the forest quiet. A mosquito whined near my ear, and I swatted at it with more force than necessary, nearly losing my balance in the process.

Within minutes, I'd revised my "just around the bend" theory. There was no bend. Just more trees—towering conifers that could have been standing since the pioneers crossed these mountains—and a road that seemed to narrow with each step.

"Hello?" My voice cracked slightly. "Anyone? I have a flat tire and enough s'mores supplies to feed a small country!"

A squirrel chittered at me from a branch overhead, its tail twitching with what looked like disdain. A bead of sweat trickled between my breasts, and I wished for the thousandth time I'd worn something other than a tank top and yoga pants. My romance novel heroes would never be caught dead in the woods without proper gear. Then again, those broad-shouldered, flannel-wearing wounded mountain men of my favorite books always seemed to know exactly where they were going.

I kept walking, certain my car was just behind me. The road had to lead somewhere. That was literally the point of roads. They connected things. Basic civil engineering.

Except when I turned to check my progress, the road looked identical in both directions. Trees crowded close on either side, their trunks as wide as my car. The dirt beneath my feet was soft from years of pine needle accumulation, muffling my steps. My car had vanished as thoroughly as if the forest had swallowed it.

"Don't panic." My voice sounded thin in the vast quiet. "You came from that way." I pointed with wavering conviction at what I was reasonably sure was the right direction. The trees offered no confirmation.

A raindrop splattered on my bare shoulder, surprisingly warm.

"No. Rain was not part of the deal." I tilted my head back. The sky had darkened to the color of old pewter while I'd been focused on the ground. Another drop hit my forehead with sniper-like precision.

I needed to get back to my car. I turned and started walking fast, my sandals protesting against the pace. Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen. No cheerful blue Kia appeared to rescue me from my own stupidity.

The sick, hollow feeling in my stomach confirmed what my brain refused to accept.

I was lost. Lost in the actual woods like some cautionary tale they'd tell future camp counselors: Remember that science teacher who went looking for help? They found her three weeks later, surviving on marshmallows and conducting lengthy philosophical discussions with pinecones.

The rain shifted from scattered drops to a steady patter. Unlike the cool spring rains back home, this summer downpour felt almost as warm as bathwater, doing nothing to cut the humidity. Water droplets clung to my eyelashes, blurring my vision. My tank top became a second skin, and my carefully straightened hair began its transformation into what my students called my "mad scientist" look.

I stumbled off the road, seeking shelter under the thicker canopy. The undergrowth caught at my pants, leaving wet streaks across the fabric. My left wedge found a root hidden beneath the pine needles, and I windmilled my arms to keep from falling.

A gap in the vegetation caught my eye—not quite a trail, but a deer path where countless hooves had worn down the forest floor. Path meant animals. Animals meant water. Water meant civilization. It was basic wilderness logic, according to every survival show I'd half-watched while grading papers.

I pushed through the gap, shoving aside branches heavy with moisture. They retaliated by dumping their collected rainwater down my neck and arms. Ferns brushed against my legs, leaving their green scent on my skin. The path twisted between massive trunks, each turn looking exactly like the last.

"Stupid woods. Stupid car. Stupid shoes." I paused to catch my breath, one palm pressed against the rough bark of a pine. Sap stuck to my fingers, tacky and impossible to wipe off. The path had disappeared, or I'd lost it, or it had never been a real path at all.

Something skittered across a fallen log nearby—possibly a lizard, but my brain helpfully supplied "giant venomous tarantula" instead. I yelped and jumped back, only to lose my footing on the slick ground.

Thunder crashed directly overhead, the sound so loud I felt it in my chest. The rain went from steady to biblical in seconds. Water ran into my eyes, down my neck, pooling in my unfortunate choice of footwear. I tried to run, though the concept of direction had become meaningless. Branches whipped at my face and arms. Roots appeared from nowhere to catch my feet. The ground turned to pudding beneath my useless sandals.

The root that finally took me down was a masterpiece of natural engineering—thick as my wrist and perfectly positioned.

I hit the ground hard, palms skidding through mud and pine needles. My right knee found the only rock in a ten-foot radius. Pain shot up my leg as mud oozed between my fingers. I stayed there on all fours, rain hammering my back, mud seeping through the knees of my favorite yoga pants, fighting the burn behind my eyes.

"This is not happening." But it was. I was lost in the Montana wilderness, soaked through, covered in mud and tree sap, with no phone signal and no idea which direction led to civilization. Or my car. Or anywhere that wasn't here. The camp would start without me. Mandy would think I'd flaked. Those kids wouldn't learn about constellations or make s'mores or—

A branch snapped behind me. The sound was different from the rain and wind—deliberate.

I froze, still on my hands and knees like I was searching for contact lenses in the mud. Another snap, closer. My mind cycled through every possible woodland danger: bears, mountain lions, wolves, serial killers who specifically targeted nerdy science teachers with poor navigation skills.

Slowly, I turned my head.

A man stood ten feet away, and my brain short-circuited trying to process what I was seeing. He was massive—well over six feet—with shoulders that blocked out what little gray light filtered through the trees. Rain ran in rivulets down his bare chest, following the lines of muscle that belonged on an anatomy textbook page labeled Examples of Perfection . His hair, darkened by water to the color of wet bark, hung past his collar—if he'd been wearing a shirt to have a collar. A full beard covered the lower half of his face, dripping steadily. But it was the axe in his hand that really commanded attention. Not a hatchet or camping tool, but an honest-to-god axe with a worn wooden handle and a blade that caught what little light remained.

Green eyes, pale as winter sage, studied me with an expression I couldn't read.

We stared at each other. Me, on all fours in the mud like I was bowing to the forest gods. Him, standing there shirtless with an axe like some kind of wilderness fever dream that would either save me or end very badly. My heart pounded in my chest, and not entirely from fear.

He looked like he'd stepped straight out of one of my dog-eared romance novels—the kind with titles like Hot for the Mountain Man or Caught by the Lumberjack . The kind where the heroine gets lost in the woods and finds a gruff, gorgeous recluse who saves her from the elements before saving her from her clothes.

Finally, he spoke. "You lost?" His voice was low, rough as tree bark, the kind that probably sounded amazing when it wasn't potentially the last thing you'd ever hear.

I pushed myself up to sitting, mud squelching between my fingers. My brain, which had abandoned me somewhere around the flat tire incident, offered up the only response it could manage.

"Are you about to murder me, or...?"