Stranded with the Mountain Man (Whispered Echoes #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

DEENA

R ain batters my windshield as I navigate the winding mountain road, each curve more treacherous than the last.My knuckles turn white on the steering wheel, and the GPS signal flickers in and out like my patience.

"Turn left in two hundred feet," the robotic voice instructs before cutting to static.

Left? There's nothing but dense forest and a sheer drop to my left.I slow the car to a crawl, wiping condensation from the inside of my window with my sleeve.The weathered wooden sign I use as a road marker appears in my headlights, nearly consumed by overgrowth with the words "Lavender Hill" barely visible.

"Finally," I mutter, turning onto what can only loosely be called a driveway.

My compact rental car protests as I navigate the rutted path, branches scraping the sides like fingernails on a chalkboard.After twelve years in Atlanta's manicured botanical gardens, these untamed mountains feel like another planet.One that's currently trying to swallow my vehicle.

Three more bone-jarring minutes and my great-aunt Millie's once-charming cottage appears, though it's now a sad shadow of the place where I spent my summers.The white paint has surrendered to a murky gray, shutters hang at dejected angles, and the porch sags like it's exhausted from standing so long.

"Oh, Millie," I whisper, grief tightening my throat."What happened here?"

I park and make a dash through the downpour, suitcase held over my head in a futile attempt to stay dry.The key sticks in the lock before surrendering with a reluctant click.

Inside, the air is heavy with must and memories.I flick the light switch--nothing.Perfect.

My phone flashlight reveals what daylight would have made gentler, peeling wallpaper, water stains mapping the ceiling like continents, furniture draped in sheets like ghosts of a happier past.The place is exactly as the estate lawyer described, "in need of significant repair."

That's lawyer-speak for "total disaster."

I find the electrical panel and reset the breaker.Lights flicker on, illuminating my temporary inheritance in all its dilapidated glory.Six months. That's how long I have to renovate this place before I need to decide whether to sell or somehow make it work as my permanent home.Six months away from my carefully cultivated life in Atlanta.

Six months in Serenity Hollow, the town I fled twelve years ago with scientific textbooks and broken dreams as my only luggage.

A steady drip leads me to the kitchen, where a pot catches water from a ceiling leak.Beside it sits another pot. And another.I count seven makeshift water catchers spread across the room.

"That's promising," I mutter, opening the fridge to find it empty except for baking soda and what might have once been jam.

My stomach rumbles in protest.After a six-hour drive from Atlanta, I'd hoped to at least make a sandwich before tackling this catastrophe.I rummage through my purse and find an organic, locally sourced, and completely unsatisfying granola bar.

Thunder rattles the windows as I explore the rest of the house, cataloging each issue like I would specimens in the lab.

Bathroom: functional but sporting black mold in artful patterns.

Bedroom: musty but salvageable.

Living room: home to what appears to be a family of mice.

"You guys are cute," I tell my new roommates, "but this is still an eviction notice."

My great-aunt's bedroom remains untouched since her passing three months ago.I can't bring myself to enter yet.I sigh. That's tomorrow's emotional hurdle.Instead, I settle into the guest room where I always stayed during those childhood summers.

The twin bed still has the lavender quilt Millie made me, though it's now faded from purple to a gentle gray.I run my fingers over the stitching, remembering her hands guiding mine as she taught me to sew.

"Plants are easier," I'd told her."They don't mind if you mess up."

She'd laughed. "Nothing worth making is ever perfect, Dee-Dee."

Dee-Dee. No one's called me that since I left.

My phone buzzes with a text from Dr. Hammond, my department head at the Atlanta Botanical Research Center.

Dr. Hammond:

How's the mountain air? Found any interesting specimens yet?

I smile despite my exhaustion.Leave it to Hammond to think of plants before basic comforts like, say, a roof that doesn't double as a colander.

Me:

Just arrived. House is worse than expected.Might have discovered new species of mold, though.Will collect samples tomorrow.

I add a laughing emoji to show I'm joking, though part of me is already wondering if the bathroom mold might actually be worth studying.

Hammond replies instantly.

Dr. Hammond

That's my girl. Remember, this sabbatical is mandatory relaxation.No turning your aunt's house into an extension of the lab.

Me:

Too late. I've already mentally designated the sunroom as a perfect propagation space for the native plant samples I plan to collect.

I unpack the essentials, arranging my bottles of shampoo and face wash in a neat row on the bathroom counter in an attempt to bring some form of normalcy in this chaotic house.I turn toward the dresser and halt as I take in the drawers that are all suspiciously chewed.Yep, my clothes will remain in my suitcase.At least for now.

The storm intensifies, wind howling through cracks I hadn't noticed before.I wrap myself in the lavender quilt and sit by the window, watching lightning illuminate the mountains in brief, brilliant flashes.

Somewhere out there is the rest of Serenity Hollow, the town I once knew every inch of, from the cracked sidewalk outside Wilson's General Store to the hidden swimming hole beyond Miller's Creek.And somewhere out there, possibly, is Rosco.

No. I force the thought away before it can fully form.Twelve years is long enough to forget someone.Especially someone who chose a motorcycle club over you.

A particularly violent thunderclap makes me jump, and simultaneously, the lights flicker out.

"You've got to be kidding me." I fumble for my phone and head back to the electrical panel.

This time, resetting the breaker does nothing.I try again. Still darkness.

The sound that comes next sends ice down my spine.A loud crack followed by an ominous creaking above me.I shine my phone light toward the ceiling just in time to see a widening fissure spread across the plaster.

Water begins pouring through, not in the polite drips I'd found earlier, but in a steady stream that quickly becomes a waterfall.

"No, no, no!" I scramble to move my suitcase, slipping on the increasingly wet floor.

More cracking sounds from above, and now the ceiling is sagging visibly, bulging downward like a pregnant belly about to deliver.

I need to get out. Now.

Grabbing my purse, phone, and car keys, I make a dash for the front door, the quilt still wrapped around my shoulders.Outside, the rain is coming down in sheets, but it's safer than whatever structural collapse is imminent inside.

I sprint to my car, soaked in seconds despite the quilt.The engine turns over, but my headlights reveal a massive pine branch now blocks the driveway, brought down by the storm.

"Perfect." I rest my forehead against the steering wheel for a moment, considering my options.

Option one: Sit in my car all night during a severe thunderstorm next to a house that's actively falling apart.

Option two: Try to move a tree branch that probably weighs more than I do.

Option three: Call for help.

I choose option three, reaching for my phone.No signal. Of course.

I switch to option two, stepping back into the deluge to assess the fallen branch.It's exactly as immovable as it looked from the car.

That leaves option four, the one I've been avoiding: Seek shelter elsewhere.

In a town this small, there are limited possibilities.The nearest hotel is thirty minutes away in good weather.Most of my childhood friends have long since moved away.My parents relocated to Florida years ago.

Which leaves only one viable option, the person whose property borders Millie's at the far edge.

The only person in Serenity Hollow who probably hatesme.But who I heard from Aunt Millie in great detail before she passed had move back a few yearsago.

I fight the idea, but another glance at the house, where I can now see part of the ceiling has indeed collapsed through the window, solidifies mydecision.Pride isn't worth pneumonia or possibly being crushed in mysleep.

I pull my emergency backpack from the trunk, and zip the lavender quilt insideit.At least I'll have something dry to changeinto.

The walk is going to bemiserable.Three miles of mountain road in a thunderstorm, atnight.But I know these woods, or I usedto.And I know exactly where I'm going, even if it's the last place I want tobe.

I lock the car, take a deep breath, and start walking toward the path that will lead me up the mountain to the only shelter available withinmiles.

To Rosco Stone's cabin.

By the time I've hiked a mile, I'm questioning every life decision that led me to thismoment.

The rain shows no sign of letting up, turning the dirt path into a muddy creek that pulls at my boots with everystep.My jacket, a lightweight, allegedly waterproof shell perfect for Atlanta drizzle, surrendered to the mountain downpour twenty minutesago.I'm soaked through, my curls plastered to my scalp, my glasses so water-streaked they're practicallyuseless.

Lightning cracks open the sky above me, illuminating the path ahead momentarily before plunging me back intodarkness.I count, the way my father taught me. One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, before thundercrashes.Two miles away. The storm is gettingcloser.

"Just keep walking," I mutter through chatteringteeth."One foot in front of theother."

I try to distract myself by cataloging the flora I can make out in my phone's flashlightbeam.Oak. Hickory. Mountainlaurel.The familiar exercise is comforting, scientific names creating order inchaos.

Quercus montana. Carya ovata. Kalmia latifolia.

A flash of movement catches my eye of something large darting between trees to myleft.I freeze, beam pointed shakily in thatdirection.Probably just a deer, I tellmyself.Or a very large, possibly hungry,raccoon.

When nothing else moves, I continue upward, pacequickening.The path steepens, my legs burning with theeffort.I'd forgotten how much more intense these mountain trails are compared to my casual walks through Atlanta'sPiedmont Park.

Another fork in the trail, and Ihesitate.It's been twelve years since I regularly hiked thesewoods.Left leads deeper into the forest; right should take me toward Rosco's property if he even still lives in the sameplace.

I choose right, hoping muscle memory serves me better than my fading mentalmap.

Twenty minutes later, I'm rewarded by the outline of a structure through thetrees.Not the small, rustic cabin I remember, but something larger, moresubstantial.I pause, wondering if I've taken a wrong turn and ended up at someone else'sproperty.

But this is definitely the right location, the same ridge overlooking the valley below, though I can barely make out the view through thestorm.This must be Rosco's place, just significantly upgraded from the hunting cabin heinherited.

As I approach, I note the upgraded craftsmanship. There are hand-hewn logs, a wide covered porch, and windows that reflect my flashlightbeam.It's beautiful in a rugged, deliberately isolatedway.Like its owner used tobe.

No lights are visible inside. Either he's asleep, not home, or no longer liveshere.

None of these options improves my currentsituation.

The porch steps creak under my weight as I climb them, legs trembling with cold andexertion.I hesitate before knocking, suddenly aware of how I must look. I look down at my soaked clothes. A drowned rat is probably a generousdescription.And what will I say? Sorry for breaking your heart and leaving town without a proper goodbye twelve yearsago.Mind if I use yourcouch?

Before I can overthink further, I rap firmly on thedoor.Noresponse.

I knock again, louder this time, almostpounding."Hello? Anyone home? I needhelp!"

Still nothing. I try the doorknob. Locked, ofcourse.

Desperation makes me bold. I move to the nearest window, cupping my hands around my eyes to peerinside.Dark, but I can make out the shapes of furniture, a stone fireplace, what looks like a well-equippedkitchen.Definitely notabandoned.

"Great," I mutter, returning to the door for one last attempt, hammering with the flat of myhand."Hello! Isanyone--"

The door flies open so suddenly I stumble backward, nearly falling off theporch.

A massive silhouette fills the doorway, backlit by what must be firelight frominside.Broad shoulders, imposing height, and the unmistakable barrel of a shotgun pointed directly at mychest.

"You have five seconds to explain why you're trying to break into my house before I make a decision I won't regret." The voice is deep, graveled with sleep or disuse, but I'd recognize itanywhere.

Rosco.

I raise my hands slowly, light-headed with relief andterror."It's me," I manage through tremblinglips."Deena Wilson. Millie'sniece from over on Lavender Hill.My house--her house--the ceiling collapsed,and--"

The shotgun lowers a fraction. "Deena?"

"Yes." I push wet hair from myface."I know this is awkward, but I needshelter.Just until the stormpasses."

He says nothing, though the gun lowerscompletely.I can feel him staring, assessing, though his face remains inshadow.

"Please," I add, hating the desperation in myvoice."I have nowhere else togo."

Another beat of silence stretches between us, filled only by the pounding rain and my hammeringheart.

Finally, he steps back, opening the doorwider."Get in before you catch your death," he says, voiceflat."And before I change mymind."

I step into the warmth of his cabin, the door closing behind me with a finality that sounds remarkably like fate laughing at myexpense.