Stranded with the Mountain Man (Darkmore Mountain Search and Rescue #1)

1. Elisa

one

Elisa

The Darkmore Lodge appears through my windshield like something from a fairytale—rustic wood beams and stone, nestled against a backdrop of imposing mountains. Perfect. Absolutely perfect for the Harrington-Clarke wedding. I check my lipstick in the rearview mirror, smoothing a non-existent wrinkle from my blazer before grabbing my signature wedding planner binder from the passenger seat.

"You've got this, Elisa," I whisper to myself, tightening my ponytail. "Just another venue walk-through."

Except it isn't. The Harringtons aren't just any clients. They're the clients—the ones who could launch my fledgling wedding planning business into the stratosphere if I pull this off. Winter destination wedding with a guest list that reads like a Who's Who of Toronto society? No pressure at all.

The air hits me like a shock when I step out of the rental car—crisp, clean, and so cold it makes my lungs ache. I clutch my binder like a shield and make my way toward the entrance, mentally adding "remind guests to pack appropriate footwear" to my ever-growing list.

"So glad you made it safely, Ms. Fox." A woman with silver-streaked hair and a warm smile greets me at the door. "I'm Helen Baxter, the lodge manager. We spoke on the phone."

"Call me Elisa, please." I shake her hand, noting her firm grip. "Thank you for accommodating my last-minute visit. Mrs. Harrington is... particular."

Particular is an understatement. I flash back to our meeting three days ago in her Yorkville penthouse.

"Elisa, darling," Victoria Harrington had said, stirring her barely-touched tea. "The Banff venue simply won't do. Cassandra Jenkins is having her son's wedding there in the spring, and I refuse to follow trends. I need somewhere exclusive, somewhere with... gravitas." She'd fixed me with that steel gaze. "You have seventy-two hours to find me the perfect winter wonderland, or I'll need to reconsider our arrangement."

Just like that, three months of planning circled the drain. So here I am, three days and four potential venues later, pinning my hopes on this rustic-luxe lodge in the heart of Alberta's mountains.

"Let me give you the tour," Helen says, pulling me back to the present.

I follow her through the grand entrance hall, making rapid notes on my tablet as we walk. The space is magnificent—soaring ceilings with exposed wooden beams, a stone floor softened by plush area rugs, and windows that frame the mountain views like living paintings. I mentally arrange reception tables, visualizing the space transformed by crystal and white flowers, calculating maximum capacity without sacrificing the dance floor dimensions Mrs. Harrington specified.

"The dining room can accommodate up to two hundred guests," Helen explains as we enter a room dominated by a wall of windows facing the mountain range. "And for the ceremony, many couples choose either our outdoor terrace with the mountain backdrop or—"

"The terrace would be too cold in December," I interrupt, then catch myself. "I'm sorry. Please continue."

Helen smiles knowingly. "Or our great room with the cathedral windows and stone fireplace. It's just through here."

The great room steals my breath away. It's perfect—rustic elegance with enough raw material for me to elevate into something spectacular. A massive stone fireplace dominates one wall, currently surrounded by scaffolding where a man works with his back to us.

"We're just doing some seasonal maintenance," Helen explains. "Making sure everything's perfect for winter bookings."

I barely hear her as I pace the room, envisioning white roses and crystal icicles hanging from the beams, the fireplace adorned with candles, guests in formal attire against the backdrop of snow-covered mountains. It's sophisticated yet unexpected. Victoria would love it.

"What about catering capabilities?" I ask, making notes. "Mrs. Harrington will want a five-course dinner with specific wine pairings."

"Our kitchen is fully—"

A loud clatter interrupts as something metallic falls from the scaffolding. I jump, nearly dropping my tablet.

"Sorry 'bout that," comes a deep voice from the fireplace area.

I turn to see the source of the interruption and find myself staring at possibly the most ruggedly handsome man I've ever encountered. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a dark hair that looks like he's run his fingers through it a dozen times. He's covered in a fine layer of soot and plaster, work gloves tucked into the back pocket of his jeans.

"No problem, Jace," Helen says. "This is Elisa Fox, a wedding planner scouting for a December event."

He nods in my direction, and I get a glimpse of hazel eyes that assess me in one quick sweep. "December, huh? Better check those weather contingencies."

"I always have multiple contingency plans," I reply, somewhat defensively. "It's literally my job."

One corner of his mouth quirks up. "Mountains make their own weather, city girl. Your plans might need plans."

Before I can formulate a suitably professional response that doesn't include telling him where he can stick his condescension, he turns back to the fireplace. But not before our eyes lock for a moment that stretches just a beat too long.

Helen clears her throat. "Let me show you our bride's preparation suite."

The rest of the tour passes in a blur of notes, measurements, and mental calculations. This place could work—would work—with the right touches. By the time we circle back to the lobby, I've filled six pages with notes and sent twenty-eight emails to vendors.

"I'd like to see the terrace anyway," I tell Helen. "Just to get a complete picture of the options."

"Of course." She glances at her watch. "Though we should make it quick. The forecast has changed since this morning."

"Changed how?"

"Winter storm warning. Came up suddenly. We get that here sometimes—weather shifts faster than the forecasters can track it."

I follow her outside, where the cold air has taken on a different quality—heavier, expectant. The sky that was blue upon my arrival now hangs low and gray.

"It's beautiful regardless," I say, snapping photos of the panoramic mountain view. This is definitely plan B for the ceremony, weather permitting, but the photos will sell the venue to Victoria better than words.

The first snowflakes begin to fall as I complete my exterior measurements—lazy, fat flakes that seem innocent enough.

"We should head inside," Helen suggests, looking skyward with concern. "When it comes in this fast, it can get bad quickly."

"Just one more minute," I promise, trying to get the perfect angle for my final photo.

By the time we reenter the lodge ten minutes later, the snow is falling in earnest—no longer picturesque flurries but a thickening curtain that obscures the mountains.

"You might want to hit the road soon," Helen advises. "The pass can get tricky in weather like this."

I glance at my watch. I'd planned at least another hour to finalize details.

"I'll make it quick," I promise, though we both know I won't leave until I have everything I need. This wedding, this client—they're too important. I've never let a freak April snowstorm interfere with my meticulous planning, and I don't intend to start now.

Famous last words.