The Carpenter’s Secret Baby (The Mountain Man’s Mail-Order Bride #7)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

H olly

The place smells like cedar, sawdust, and something else entirely masculine. Devil’s Peak rises behind the cabin like a protective sentinel, and the Phantom River murmurs just out of sight, winding through trees lit gold by the late afternoon sun.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other on the porch, trying not to let nerves show. My toddler’s sticky fingers wrap tight around mine as she bounces beside me, completely unaffected by the tension crackling down my spine. That makes one of us.

The front door creaks open.

And there he is.

Jack Rivers.

He fills the doorway like a brick wall. Bearded. Sun-kissed. Shirtless.

His jeans hang low on his hips, and his chest is dusted with dark hair that draws the eye south. His skin is tanned, inked, and glistening with sweat like he’s just finished splitting wood with his bare hands. Hell, maybe he has.

His eyes drag over me slowly, from my high ponytail to my too-neat travel outfit. I feel a prickle in my chest as he lingers just a second too long on my lips.

“You’re late,” he says, voice low and rough like gravel under boots.

“Your directions sucked,” I shoot back, chin tilting up.

He crosses his arms over his chest. “I said left at the busted fence. How hard was that?”

“I didn’t realize I was entering Narnia.”

One of his brows twitches. “This Narnia doesn’t got Wi-Fi–are you about to complain about that too?”

I smile sweetly. “As long as there’s running water, we’ll get along just fine.”

He stares at me for a beat too long.

And then, abruptly, he steps aside. “You want the job or not?”

I grip my daughter’s hand and walk inside without waiting for an invite. The place is rustic but clean—open beams, big windows, stone fireplace, and the faintest smell of pine and citrus cleaner. It feels… too perfect. Which is a problem. Because nothing in my life stays perfect.

“I’ll show you the room.” Jack’s already halfway down the hall.

“You always this welcoming, or just saving the charm for a second date?”

“Don’t do charm,” he mutters.

Yeah. I remember.

I pause in the hallway, heart slamming against my ribs as he gestures toward a cozy bedroom at the end. He doesn’t remember me. Not even a flicker of recognition. Sure, I look different now–shorter hair a few shades darker than when he saw me last–but still, I thought maybe, just maybe he’d remember that one night five years ago.

But it gave me everything.

Like the little girl now chasing dust motes on the hardwood floor.

“So, this is the guest room,” Jack says, dragging my attention back. “Bathroom’s through there. You’ll cook, clean, and help out when I’m working. It’s not complicated.”

“And in exchange, we get to live here?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “That was the ad.”

I think of the mail-order bride ad I answered in Mountain Living magazine. I cross my arms. “And what exactly do you do, Jack Rivers? Aside from glare and grunt and pretend like you're not in desperate need of adult supervision?”

His eyes narrow slightly. “I build custom furniture. Mostly commissions. People pay good money for tables that’ll outlive them.”

I glance at his hands—big, rough, callused—and heat coils in my gut like a slow burn. I remember those hands.

“Well, lucky for you I majored in babysitting emotionally unavailable men with tools.”

He cocks his head. “You always this mouthy?”

“Only when I’m trying to impress my new boss.”

Jack steps closer, slow and deliberate, and my pulse quickens.

“You got a kid.” His gaze flicks toward the hallway where my daughter’s babbling to herself.

I tense, just for a second. “That a problem?”

“No. Just didn’t realize there were two of you.” His eyes flick back to mine. “You didn’t mention it. But then again, you failed to mention the attitude too.”

I flash him a grin I don’t feel. “Guess we’re even.”

He doesn’t smile. Just looks at me like he’s trying to pin me down and figure out what the hell I’m doing here.

Fair question.

Because even I’m not totally sure.

He nods toward the front of the house. “I’m making dinner. You want to stay, you pull your weight. Start with peeling potatoes.”

“Yes, Chef.”

I follow him into the kitchen and watch as he starts pulling ingredients from the fridge. The muscles in his back flex under his skin, and I can’t stop staring. He moves like a man who’s spent his entire life in control. Of wood. Of tools. Of women.

But I remember what it was like to make him lose that control. Just once. When he kissed me like he was starved. When he said my name like it tasted better than anything he'd ever put in his mouth. He called me Kat then–he never knew my real name–Holly. I hated the name I was born with so only went by Kat for the first twenty years of my life. A pang of guilt flashes through me as I think about telling him who I really am–but I need him to think I’m a stranger if I’m going to get a real sense for who he is–if he’s someone I can trust to be in me and Josie’s life.

I grab a peeler and take my place at the counter beside him.

We work in silence for a while, tension pulsing under every breath.

Then he says, “You got a husband?”

“No.”

He grunts. “Boyfriend?”

“Nope.”

Another beat. “Kid’s father around?”

I grip the peeler tighter. “He doesn’t know.”

That makes him pause. Just briefly. “You plan to tell him?”

I keep my gaze on the potato in my hand. “Someday.”

He doesn’t push. Just reaches for the knife and starts chopping onions with methodical precision. My eyes burn from the scent—or maybe from everything else rising in my chest—but I don’t blink.

Because the truth is a ticking bomb, and Jack Rivers is sitting on it.

“Why me?” he asks finally.

“What do you mean?”

“Why apply to my ad? You could’ve taken a job anywhere.”

I risk a glance up. His eyes are dark, sharp, curious.

“I like the quiet,” I say. “And I wanted something different. For her.”

That part’s true, at least.

He stares at me a second longer. Then nods, like he’s accepting my half-truths for now. “What’s her name?”

“Josie,” I reply.

He grunts, then refocuses on the potatoes in front of him.

Dinner’s simple—steak, potatoes, and sautéed greens—but it tastes like heaven after the hellish drive from Boulder. Jack barely talks. Just eats like a man used to silence. I let him have it.

After Josie falls asleep, I sit on the porch swing, sipping tea and watching the stars blink to life over Devil’s Peak.

Jack joins me without a word, settling into the chair beside me, a beer in one hand.

We sit in a silence that isn’t uncomfortable. Just thick.

Heavy with everything unspoken.

“You’re not what I expected,” he says eventually.

“Likewise.”

He sips his beer, then glances over at me. “You don’t scare easy.”

“I can handle grumpy men with tragic backstories.”

His mouth twitches. “Who says it’s tragic?”

I raise an eyebrow. “You mean to tell me the bearded recluse in the woods doesn’t have a tortured past?”

He gives a low chuckle that feels like thunder rolling through my bones.

“Maybe I’m just a man who got tired of noise.”

I meet his gaze, heat flaring between us like dry kindling.

“Well,” I murmur, “buckle up. I brought noise.”

His eyes drop to my mouth. Then my neck. Then lower.

“You brought more than that,” he says, voice rough.

My breath stutters.

Because even if he doesn’t remember me…

His body might.