The Blacksmith’s Heart (The Mountain Man’s Mail-Order Bride #5)
Chapter 1
Chapter One
C allie
The acrid smell of smoke still clings to my hair, my clothes, even my skin.
Two days. Two agonizing days since my yoga studio burned to the ground, yet the smell lingers like a cruel reminder. Every time I inhale, it’s there—ash and charred wood mingling with the faintest traces of lavender essential oil, a ghost of what used to be my dream.
This morning, I walked through the wreckage again, picking my way across the scorched floorboards of what used to be my sanctuary. My feet carried me past the skeletal remains of my front desk, the place where I greeted every smiling face that walked through the door. Now it’s all ash and twisted metal.
I crouched in the corner where the props were stored, brushing away soot with trembling hands. A piece of a yoga block, half-melted but still vaguely recognizable, lay there like a taunt. My throat tightened as I traced my fingers over the singed edge of a strap. Everything I’d poured my soul into was gone.
Upstairs wasn’t any better. My small apartment above the studio had been my safe haven, a cozy space filled with thrift-store treasures and the scent of fresh sage I burned every evening. Now, it’s uninhabitable, blackened walls crumbling to the touch.
I found my journal—miraculously spared—its leather cover singed but intact. The words inside felt like they belonged to someone else. Someone hopeful. Someone who believed in their ability to build something meaningful.
I’d sat on the charred remains of my couch, clutching that journal to my chest, as tears streamed down my face. That place was more than a business; it was my heart, my livelihood. Every penny I had—and some I didn’t—went into creating that studio. The mortgage was a weight I couldn’t shake, and now? Now there’s nothing.
A part of me considered calling my friend in the city, the one who’s always inviting me to teach at her upscale studio. She’d take me in, no questions asked, and I could start over. But as tempting as it sounded, Devil’s Peak was my home. I’ve traveled the world—yoga retreats in Bali, workshops in Costa Rica—but none of those places ever felt like this town. The mountains, the people, the way the sunlight dances on the Phantom River in the mornings… This is where I belong.
But belonging doesn’t rebuild a studio.
I shake my head, trying to push away the memory as I sit at the bar in The Devil’s Brew. My hands drag through my hair as I lean heavily on the sticky bar. The whiskey in front of me glows like molten amber, mocking me with its unearned warmth. I’m not even a whiskey person, but tonight, it seems fitting.
“You gonna stare at that all night, or are you gonna drink it?”
Wendy’s voice cuts through my haze. She leans across the bar, her sharp blue eyes glinting with amusement. There’s always a smirk ready to tug at her lips, but tonight, it’s tempered with something softer.
“Maybe I like the way it looks,” I quip, forcing a smile that feels as weak as the rest of me.
Wendy snorts, wiping down the counter with a rag that’s seen better days. “That’s the saddest thing I’ve heard all week.” Her gaze flicks to the charred edges of my jeans, her voice softening. “Well, second saddest.”
The tightness in my chest intensifies. I glance away, blinking hard. I won’t cry here—not in front of a bar full of ranchers and loggers whose laughter is already rough enough without my sobs joining in.
My eyes wander to the bulletin board near the door. Among the flyers for missing dogs and farm equipment is one that stands out:
“Seeking mail-order bride for companionship. Room and board provided. Serious inquiries only.”
I shouldn’t be tempted. I shouldn’t even consider it. But my heart beats faster as I read the words again.
“Thinking about answering that one?” Wendy’s voice is laced with curiosity, her eyes narrowing as she studies me. She slides a fresh coaster under my glass, her movements slow and deliberate. “It’s been up for a week. Whoever posted it must be getting desperate.”
I glance at her, expecting her to laugh, but she’s serious. The weight of her gaze makes my skin prickle.
“Desperate’s not the worst thing,” I mutter, swirling the whiskey in my glass. My voice is steadier than I feel.
“Go for it,” she says with a shrug. “Worst-case scenario, it’s a serial killer. Best case…” She leans in, her grin turning wicked. “You get laid.”
“Wendy!”
“What?” She throws her hands up, laughing. “You could use a distraction.”
Her laughter is raspy and infectious, but I glare at her anyway. My hand inches toward my phone despite my better judgment. The logical part of me knows this is a bad idea—what kind of sane person responds to something like that? But the part of me drowning in smoke and ash says, What do you have to lose?
Before I can talk myself out of it, I grab my phone and punch in the number scrawled on the flyer. My thumb hovers over the green call button, my heart hammering in my chest. One deep breath later, I hit send.
The line rings twice before a voice answers.
“Yeah?”
It’s low and gruff, like gravel over steel. My stomach flips.