The Mountain Man’s Mail Order Muse (Mountain Man Sanctuary #12)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER

ONE

HUDSON

Fuck no.

The text hits my phone like a damn lightning bolt: “Your bride will be delivered by 3 PM.”

I blink at it, once, then again, like somehow my eyes are broken. The hell?

I’m sitting on the porch of my cabin, coffee in one hand, chainsaw oil in the other—getting ready to spend my day like I always do: fixing, cutting, building, surviving. Alone. Peacefully. No deliveries. Abso-fucking-lutely no brides.

The porch creaks gently beneath my boots as I anxiously rock in the old cedar rocking chair.

It's quiet out here— really quiet—the kind of stillness you can only find this deep in the mountains. The kind that wraps around you like a thick quilt and slows everything down. There’s a soft breeze brushing against my face, carrying the scent of pine, damp earth, and distant wildflowers just starting to bloom in the fields below.

But not even the mountains can distract me now.

I stare at the message, then laugh out loud. Some twisted joke, probably from Luke or Ben—those idiots would think this is hilarious.

Then the phone rings.

“Speak of the devil,” I mutter, answering with a grunt. “Luke. If this is your idea of a joke, it’s a dumb one.”

There’s silence for half a second on the other end. Then Luke clears his throat. “Okay, listen, Hud—don’t freak out.”

“Too late.”

“We meant to tell you earlier. We really did. It was gonna be this thing and?—”

“ What the hell did you do? ” I bark, standing so fast I knock over my mug. Hot coffee splashes across the porch. Don’t care. “That text I just got. You had something to do with that?”

Luke groans. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah. Remember a few months ago, when you said if one more person in town asked why you’re still single, you were gonna fake your own death and disappear?”

“That was not an invitation to order me a wife! How do you even get a bride delivered?!? ”

“We didn’t order anyone, per se…” he says quickly. “It’s a matchmaking agency. Mountain Mates. Totally legit. We just filled out a profile for you. Kind of as a joke. But then they matched you with a lovely woman looking to get married and, uh… moved fast. Real fast.”

“Great. Then you can unmove it.” I say.

“Well, the bridal contract doesn’t really?—”

I interrupt and grip the phone tighter, my jaw clenched so hard it aches. “You signed a contract with a real person, Luke.”

“We used your name but figured we’d tell you before it got this far!

We were going to warm you up to the idea.

It was supposed to take a few damn months.

But apparently, this woman—uh, Daisy—she liked your profile.

Said she’s ready for a new life in the mountains.

She’s been cleared. They booked her a damn shuttle. And she’ll be there today. Sorry, man.”

I can feel the vein in my temple start to throb.

“You call them. Right now . Cancel it. Send her back, give her flowers and an apology, I don’t care. I am not— not —letting some stranger show up thinking I’m her husband.”

“We can’t just cancel it. There’s, like, legal stuff. It’s not… simple.”

“I live in the middle of nowhere for a reason, Luke,” I growl, pacing now, staring at the tree line like maybe I can outrun this. “I don’t want a bride. I don’t want anyone showing up with a suitcase and some bull shit idea of happily ever after .”

“She’s already on her way, man. You can tell her to her face.”

My heart drops to the soles of my boots. “No, Luke, you can get your ass over here and explain the bullshit you’ve pulled and explain it to her yourself.”

“Hud,” he adds carefully, “you’ve been alone a long time. You might actually like her. And I’m out of town—I won’t be back until tomorrow.”

“I don’t care if she’s a goddess made in my image—I didn’t ask for this.”

I’m so furious I hang up and slam down the phone.

I don’t want anyone in my life. Not anymore. Not again.

People say that like it’s some kind of disease—like wanting to be left the hell alone means there’s something broken in me. But I’m not broken. I’m just… done.

I go inside and sit in front of the blank canvas in my studio, brush in hand, palette dry. It’s been like this for weeks. Months, if I’m honest. Maybe longer. The wood stove crackles behind me, warm and quiet, but the silence in my head is louder than fire ever could be.

I don’t want a wife. I don’t want conversation. I don’t want anyone touching my space, breathing my air, trying to fix me. I just want to paint again. To feel something enough to get it out.

My phone buzzes on the stool next to me. Luke again.

“Yeah?” I answer, not even trying to hide the irritation.

He sighs. “Look, I get it, okay? I do. I’m not trying to push you. But… maybe you need someone, Hud. It’s been over a year since you’ve finished anything. A year. You used to paint nonstop.”

“Because I had something worth painting.”

He’s quiet for a second, then says, “The hospital called me last month. They asked if you were okay. Said they haven’t heard from you in almost a year either.”

That hits harder than I want it to.

“They were worried,” he adds, his voice softer now. “They said one of the nurses asked if you’d gotten sick.”

I set the brush down gently on the edge of the table, my hand suddenly too heavy to lift. I stare at the canvas like it’s mocking me.

I’m not sick. I’m tired.

Tired of kids dying. Tired of being seen every time someone buys one of my paintings and writes an article about the reclusive mountain artist with “a soul soaked in grief.” I didn’t start painting for recognition. I started painting because I couldn’t breathe without it.

And when the paintings started selling for tens of thousands of dollars, I didn’t want the money. I gave it away. To the children’s hospital in town. Quietly. Because the idea of my work helping a sick kid live to see the spring felt like the only thing that still made sense in this world.

But lately? Even that doesn’t light anything in me. Not since the last canvas stayed blank. Not since I looked at the brush and felt nothing.

“I’ll try to cancel the contract,” Luke says after a long pause. “I’ll call the agency, see what they can do. I’ll call you back.”

“Good.” I grunt.

The line goes dead.

I lean back in the chair, hands gripping the armrests. Maybe Luke’s right. Maybe I haven’t painted in a year. Maybe I’ve lost my rhythm, lost the thread of who I was before the world gutted me.

But a fucking bride?

Some stranger showing up thinking I’m her new beginning?

No. That’s not the answer. That’s just a distraction. A storm rolling in where I’ve finally found peace and quiet.

I need the silence.

It’s the only thing that hasn’t let me down.

………………….

I pace the studio like a caged animal, the floorboards groaning beneath my boots. The call still hasn’t come. Luke said he’d try to cancel the contract and call me back, but that was forty-three minutes ago. Forty-three minutes of me trying not to imagine a suitcase rolling up my driveway.

I’ve already gone over it a dozen different ways in my head—how I’ll say it. How I’ll send her back. Firm but polite. “Sorry, there’s been a mistake.”

Or maybe blunt: “I didn’t ask for a wife, and I sure as hell don’t need one.”

Hell, maybe I’ll just pay her off. Give her enough cash to get her a plane ticket and a spa weekend for her trouble. She’ll probably be relieved.

I walk to the window and peek through the curtain. Nothing yet. Just pine trees and that gravel road winding down the mountain like it has nowhere to go. Maybe the agency figured it out. Maybe Luke told them I’m not interested. Maybe this whole thing gets called off before I even have to face it.

Then I hear a knock.

I freeze.

The sound echoes through the cabin like a thunderclap. It’s soft and polite, not some frantic pounding. But it might as well be a gunshot. My blood goes cold. My stomach knots. My hand clenches around the curtain before I even realize I’ve moved.

She’s here.

I don’t move. Don’t breathe. I consider just… not answering.

I could wait it out. Maybe she’ll think she has the wrong place. Maybe she’ll walk back down the path and someone else will take her in. Some other lonely idiot with an empty house and a desperate heart.

Not me .

I stare at the door like I’m expecting it to open on its own. It stays shut, but I swear I can hear someone breathing on the other side.

Do I really owe her an explanation? I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t sign anything. Hell, I didn’t even know her name until today. Daisy. That’s what Luke said.

Daisy .

I curse under my breath and rub the back of my neck. That name alone sounds like trouble.

She knocks again. Still soft. Still patient.

I close my eyes, jaw clenched tight enough to crack a molar.

Don’t answer it. Just walk away.

I stand there like a statue, every inch of me buzzing. Is it dread? Curiosity. Maybe both.

And even though I tell myself this isn’t my problem, that she’ll leave if I ignore her long enough… my hand is already reaching for the doorknob.