The Hunter’s Treasure (The Mountain Man’s Mail-Order Bride #6)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

H udson

I don’t want a wife. Never did.

But when Palmer Lane stumbles off that bus, looking like a goddamn runway model in the middle of Devil’s Peak, carrying enough luggage to pack a damn mansion, I realize I might’ve made a mistake.

She doesn’t belong here. Too polished. Too delicate. Too tempting. We only exchanged a few text messages over the last week; I had no idea she’d be so damn…sexy.

She steps down, her designer boots sinking into the dirt, and—like fate has a twisted sense of humor—her heel catches on the gravel.

She yelps. I step forward. And suddenly, I’ve got an armful of woman.

Soft. Warm. Curves that make my blood heat instantly. Her scent—vanilla and something feminine as hell—hits me hard. I grunt, catching her easily, her weight nothing in my arms.

“Jesus, woman,” I mutter. “You trying to throw yourself at me already?”

Her head jerks up. Big green eyes—sharp enough to gut a man, wide enough to make him weak.

Heat crawls up her throat, but she recovers fast. Too fast.

“That was me testing your reflexes,” she quips, pushing off me, chin lifted. “Gotta make sure my new husband is at least capable of catching a falling woman.”

I snort. So she’s got a mouth on her. Figures.

“Throwing that word around already, huh sweetheart?”

Her gaze flickers—just for a second. But it’s enough. She’s running from something. Or someone. That much is clear.

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” she fires back, smoothing her coat. “A wife?”

I glance at her impractical suitcases, the way her hands tremble slightly before she clenches them into fists.

No. This isn’t what I wanted. I wanted some boring girl, easy to ignore, a name on a paper to keep my land. Not a gorgeous, mouthy, flight-risk city girl with secrets in her eyes.

I exhale sharply, stepping back. “Get in the truck.”

She arches a brow. “No welcome speech? No ‘I’m so lucky to have found you’?”

“I don’t do speeches,” I mutter, grabbing one of her bags. It weighs about as much as a cinderblock.

“What the hell is in here? A body?”

“Maybe.” She smirks. “Better sleep with one eye open.”

“Great,” I laugh as we walk across the lot to my pickup.

“Let me guess.” She cocks a hip when we reach my truck, watching as I load her bags into the bed. “Strong, silent type. Grumpy mountain man. Thinks emotions are for weak men and puppies?”

I slam the tailgate shut. She’s got a smart mouth. I’ll give her that.

“Got it in one,” I say. “Now, get in.”

She holds her ground, lips twitching. “You’re really not going to say anything nice–maybe it’s a pleasure to meet you or…?”

I lean in, dropping my voice. Too close. Just close enough to watch her breath hitch.

“Sweetheart, I caught you before you ate dirt. That’s the nicest thing I’ll ever do for you.”

A challenge flashes in those green eyes. And god help me, I like it.

I open her door and she slides into the cab of my truck. I expected more arguing, more barbs thrown my way on the drive. But Palmer’s staring out the window, watching the mountain roll past like she’s committing every tree to memory with each passing mile.

It’s a long, winding drive up to my cabin. The road is rough, the air colder, and I know she’s feeling it. She pulls her coat tighter around her, biting her lip.

“Already regretting it?” I ask, surprising myself.

Her head jerks toward me. “What?”

“This.” I nod toward her. “Running off to marry a stranger in the middle of nowhere. You could’ve picked a tropical island, you know. Nice rich man in a penthouse.”

Her gaze sharpens. “Not really my style.”

I keep my eyes on the road, but I feel her watching me.

“So what is?” I ask.

Her lips press together. For the first time since she stepped off that bus, her confidence wavers.

I don’t push. Instead, I focus on the road.

Fifteen minutes later, my cabin comes into view—tucked between towering pines, smoke curling from the chimney.

Palmer exhales, her fingers pressed to the window. “Wow.”

I glance at her. She actually looks impressed.

It’s a solid log cabin, built by my grandfather’s hands. The land stretches for miles, untouched wilderness that’s been in my family for generations.

“You’re not scared?” I ask.

She smirks. “What, of the growly mountain man?”

I grunt, throwing the truck in park. She doesn’t know it yet, but she should be. I help her with her bags, carrying them up the porch steps and throwing the door open wide. She steps into my cabin, taking in the massive stone fireplace, the wooden beams, the stocked kitchen.

“Okay, I’ll admit it,” she says, spinning slowly. “I was expecting something… rougher.”

I close the door behind me. “Expecting a shack in the woods?”

“Maybe a cave.”

I snort, crossing my arms. She wanders over to the fireplace, running her fingers along the mantle. My gut clenches. Seeing her here, in my home, feels… different than I expected.

Too real.

Too tempting.

Her fingers stop on a framed photo—my uncle, standing beside me when I was younger.

“He left this place to you?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“And the catch was…”

“Find a wife. Carry on the Kane name. If not, it gets sold.”

She exhales, turning back to me. She wants to ask why I care so much. Why I won’t just sell.

Instead, she tilts her head. “So I guess that makes me your… what? Business partner? Convenient houseguest?”

I don’t answer. Because the words that come to mind aren’t things I can say out loud.

Mine. A mistake. Trouble wrapped in silk.

She smirks. “I don’t even get a wedding ring?”

“Actually,” I dig into my pocket and pull out a simple band, “figured we’d make things official.” I hold it out to her.

She arches an eyebrow but doesn’t take the ring.

“Palmer Lane–will you be my wife?”

Her brows rise when I slide the band on her ring finger. “Wow. So romantic.” She huffs. “Sure, I’ll marry you Hudson Caveman Kane.”

I grunt. She has no idea what kind of man she just tied herself to.

“You here for romance, sweetheart?” I murmur. “Or are you here to disappear?”

Her breath catches. I see it now—the hesitation, the flicker of something dark behind those green eyes. She’s not here for me. Not for the money. Not for the land.

She’s here because she’s running.

She squares her shoulders. “Maybe both.”

I let the silence stretch. Let her feel the weight of my stare.

She fidgets, then blurts, “So, uh… is there one bedroom or two in this place?”

I smirk. There it is.

“Just one.”

Her lips part. “Wait—really?”

I shrug.

She blinks. “You…you didn’t think to mention that before I got here?”

“Would it have changed your mind?”

She falters. I already know the answer. Her chin lifts. “I’ll take the couch.”

I step even closer, watching her fight the urge to retreat. “Nah,” I murmur. “I will.”

Her brows furrow. “Wait, you?—?”

I grin, slow and lazy. “What kind of husband would I be if I let my pretty new wife sleep on the couch?”

Her breath shudders. I see it now—the fight. The way she’s battling whatever this is between us.

She swallows. “You are…impossible.”

“Get used to it.”

She turns to stomp toward the bedroom, and I watch the sway of her hips, my hands clenching at my sides.

This was supposed to be simple. Now? Nothing about Palmer Lane is simple.

And god help me–I don’t think I’d want it any other way.