Teaching the Mountain Man (Whispered Echoes #20)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

I t was a breathtaking day—one of those rare, golden moments that felt like a gift. The sun blazed high in a cloudless sky, warm and bold, casting a honeyed glow over the earth. Birds filled the air with melodic chatter, flitting through branches as if the long Montana winter had never touched them. A crisp breeze carried the scent of pine and damp earth, slicing through the sun’s heat just enough to make the warmth feel earned. She tilted her face to the sky, closing her eyes and letting the rays sink into her skin, soaking in the comfort like a balm. After months of snowbanks taller than she was and the constant threat of icy roads and sudden storms, it felt like a small miracle to be outside with nothing heavier than a light jacket on her shoulders.

But miracles never lasted long.

She was being watched.

The sensation coiled in her gut like a snake, tightening with every breath. It had started days ago, subtle and slippery—a shadow just out of reach, a brush of movement in her peripheral vision. But now it was a steady hum in her bones, a presence she couldn’t shake. She knew the feeling too well. Knew it like the familiar ache of old wounds. Ever since she’d fled Massachusetts, dragging her fractured life across state lines and through countless new identities, the feeling had haunted her. It had taken up residence in her spine, whispering reminders that she was never truly safe. That he would always find her.

He always did.

He was relentless, single-minded—better than any bloodhound, more tenacious than a badger locked onto its prey. And if she didn’t leave soon, he might succeed this time. Might kill her.

But damn it, she didn’t want to run again. Not this time. Not when she had finally found a sliver of peace, a place to belong. She loved her students—bright, curious, rough-around-the-edges kids who soaked up knowledge like the dry earth soaked spring rain. She was helping them. Changing them. And that mattered. Maybe, just maybe, she could hold out until the end of the school year. Maybe she could give them that much before disappearing again.

Maybe it was all in her head. Just paranoia.

It could be a grizzly. They were waking up from hibernation—restless, hungry, territorial. It wasn’t unreasonable to be on edge out here. Maybe it was just nerves, an overactive imagination born from too many nights staring out dark windows and flinching at creaking floors.

Still, she scanned the slope of the mountain where she stood, letting her eyes travel across the tall grasses swaying gently in the breeze. Years on the run had trained her to spot the tiniest details—a glint of glass, the faint imprint of tires in dirt, a bent blade of grass too fresh to be natural. But nothing stood out. No lens. No vehicle. No broken twigs or heavy footfalls. The birds still sang. The forest was vibrant, alive. When she’d first entered the clearing, the animals had gone quiet—on alert, uncertain. But now they chirped and rustled again, signaling peace.

She should trust them. Wildlife had better instincts than she ever had.

They wouldn’t have been lured in by the flash of a charming grin, the polished mask of a handsome face and steady paycheck. They would have sensed the rot beneath the surface, the predator behind the practiced smile. They would have fled.

She hadn’t.

She could learn from them. That’s why she was out here today—not to court danger, but to reconnect. To observe. To document. She wasn’t foolish enough to bring a bear or mountain lion into her classroom, but photos of local flora and fauna would help her teach her students about the world that surrounded them. Here, in Granite Junction, Montana, the kids spent more time in the fields and mountains than in front of screens. They needed to understand their environment—what could nourish them, what could harm them. She owed it to them to be prepared, even if she wasn’t.

She’d studied all winter, devouring field guides and botany books by the firelight, but theory wasn’t enough. Practice was humbling. She still felt out of her depth.

A shadow passed over the sun, and her gaze lifted instinctively. Thick, fast-moving clouds were rolling in, gray and ominous. A sudden shiver danced along her skin, the temperature dropping so quickly it stole her breath.

Time to go.

She’d ignored the tight itch between her shoulder blades for hours now, chalking it up to tension, to fear. But now? Now it roared in her blood.

Danger.

The world had gone quiet.

Utterly, unnaturally silent.

No birdsong. No rustling leaves. Just the faint rush of her pulse in her ears. The kind of silence that screamed.

A chill skittered up her spine like a spider. The air felt too still, too damp, the kind of air that presses against your skin like a warning.

She stuffed her field guide and phone into her bag, zipping it with shaking fingers and slinging it over her shoulder in one swift motion. One last glance over her shoulder—and then she turned to descend the trail.

That’s when she saw it.

The flash.

A glint of metal, sun bouncing off something cold and precise.

A lens?

Or something worse.

Crack!

The gunshot tore through the silence. She screamed as the dirt exploded inches from her foot, a vicious spray that stung her skin.

She ran.

Her heart slammed against her ribs as she launched herself downhill, legs pumping, lungs burning. She zigzagged instinctively—something she’d heard once on TV, or maybe it was in a self-defense class. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but speed and survival.

Another shot rang out. More dirt burst near her heel.

She choked on a sob, every breath scraping her throat raw.

Then her foot struck a hidden rock, and her ankle twisted violently. Pain screamed up her leg and she went down hard, tumbling, rolling, crashing through bramble and brush until her body finally came to rest in a gulley beside a cold, shallow creek.

She lay there, gasping, head pounding, pain radiating from her ankle and shoulder. Curled tight in a defensive ball, her arms cradling her head.

And then—nothing.

Darkness wrapped around her like a shroud, and she let go.

S omeone was on his mountain.

Okay, so technically he didn’t own the whole damn mountain, but that didn’t matter. In his mind, it was his—every trail, tree, and shadowed glade. He claimed stewardship over it, had earned that right through blood, sweat, and a near-feral solitude. This land trusted him, relied on him to keep it unspoiled and wild. So when someone trespassed—especially sneaking in through the back trails like a thief in the night—he took it personally.

If people wanted to see him, they could use the road. If their vehicle could handle the rough terrain, they were welcome to try. He didn’t make it easy for a reason. He wasn’t friendly. He didn’t want company. He was an ornery bastard and damn proud of it. That was the whole point of living off-grid—to be left the hell alone.

He was mid-check on his trail cameras, footage he shared with the park rangers to monitor the wildlife corridors, when the sound broke the calm. It was distant, but sharp. The kind of sound that didn’t belong out here.

A gunshot.

His head snapped up, breath held tight. No. That couldn’t be right. No one hunted here. The land was protected—by regulation, and by the reputation he’d cultivated. The locals knew better. Hell, even the out-of-towners had learned fast. You didn’t mess around on Case Savage’s mountain.

Then came another sound, carried on the shifting wind. A high-pitched cry—soft, pained, almost inhuman. An injured animal, maybe? Or...

His gut tightened.

The forest around him went still. Unnervingly still.

No birdsong. No rustle of small creatures in the brush. Even the insects seemed to hold their breath. That kind of silence only came when something dangerous moved through the woods—an apex predator, a threat. He’d lived out here long enough to recognize it. But this time, it wasn’t a grizzly or wolf.

It was human.

He moved swiftly but silently, instincts razor-sharp as he closed in on the creek where the sound had originated. He caught sight of her before he smelled the blood, before he saw the bruises blooming on pale skin.

A woman.

Lying on her side among crushed wildflowers and scattered leaves, her body limp, limbs twisted awkwardly as if she’d fallen. Even from several feet away, he recognized her.

Gemma Van Buren.

He’d seen her plenty in town—always with that too-bright smile, always asking too many questions about the wildlife, always too damn curious about him. She was pretty, no doubt about it—young, fresh-faced, with a sweetness in her voice and fire in her eyes that stirred something long dormant inside him. And that made her dangerous in a way bullets never could.

He crouched low, scanning the area, muscles taut with tension. No obvious signs of struggle. No prints. No threat. But something tugged at his instincts, a low buzz in the back of his brain that kept him wary. He waited a beat longer, until the forest slowly came back to life—the cautious chirps, the whisper of wind through pine needles, the return of sound easing the tight grip on his nerves.

Still alert, he moved to her side, checking her pulse with two fingers against her throat. Strong. Steady. Her breathing was deep, unlabored. But a dark knot was already forming on her forehead, and when he glanced around, he spotted the gnarled root jutting out beside her. She must have hit her head when she fell. Lucky she hadn’t landed in the creek. Lucky she hadn’t drowned.

He brushed back a damp strand of hair clinging to her cheek, noticing the lighter blonde roots beneath the warm brown. A detail he hadn’t known before. Something too intimate. He didn’t like how it made his chest tighten.

Still, he dipped a cloth into the creek’s cold water and wiped the dirt and sweat from her face. His fingers were rough, calloused, but his touch was careful, almost reverent. He scanned her for other injuries, keeping his gaze clinical, though it was hard not to notice the curves beneath her clothes—the softness, the shape of a woman too long absent from his world.

It had been years since he’d touched anyone like this.

Gemma Van Buren was trouble, even unconscious.

Too sweet. Too curious. Too innocent for a man like him—gruff, possessive, and carrying too many damn ghosts. He’d kept his distance, deflecting her with clipped answers and sending her off to the park rangers or to Luke Vincent when she’d tried to draw him into conversation. He hadn’t trusted himself around her. Still didn’t.

And yet…here she was.

Right on his doorstep.

Her eyelids fluttered, then opened wide. The moment her gaze landed on him, she sucked in a gasp, panic rising as she tried to scramble back. But her cry of pain stopped her cold, one hand shooting to her leg.

“It’s okay, Gemma. It’s me. Case Savage. You’re safe now.”

Her wild eyes blinked, focusing. Confusion shifted to recognition, then slowly melted into relief. But the fear didn’t vanish completely—it just dulled, replaced by something softer, vulnerable.

“What happened, Case?” she whispered, voice hoarse and trembling.

He eased back on his heels, giving her space but keeping his eyes on hers. “I was hoping you could tell me, darlin’. What do you remember?”

She frowned, trying to sit up. He steadied her with a hand on her arm, but didn’t push when she winced.

“I was gathering plants… some flowers and leaves for my class nature project,” she murmured. “I heard something, I think. Then I must’ve tripped.”

Her eyes slid to the side as she spoke, and he caught it—that subtle hesitation. She was holding something back.

He’d let it go. For now.

“Can you walk?” he asked, voice gentler than he intended.

She glanced at her ankle, and he followed her gaze. It was already swelling, red and angry above the edge of her worn sneaker. Terrible footwear for this terrain.

“I don’t think so,” she admitted, wincing.

He let out a grunt. “No matter.”

Without another word, he stood, bent, and scooped her up into his arms. She let out a soft, startled sound but didn’t protest as he shifted her weight and cradled her close, her scent—wildflowers, fear, and something unmistakably her—curling into his lungs.

He turned toward the woods, toward his cabin hidden deeper in the trees, and began to walk. Step after step, each one heavier than the last, a quiet question echoing in his mind.

Was he going to regret letting her into his space?

Into his world?

God help him—he already knew the answer.