Wrecked By the Mountain Man (Whispered Echoes Season 2, #1)

Chapter 1

Edward

The familiar ache in my chest tightens with the approach of another goddamn storm.

Not that it matters.

One day blurs into the next in this mountain purgatory, each one a carbon copy of the last. Just me, the unforgiving silence, and the ghosts whispering their sweet nothings in my ear.

Today feels heavier, though. The air is thick and oppressive, smelling of pine and impending doom, a fitting backdrop for the slow, agonizing end I am so expertly orchestrating for myself.

I scrape the last remnants of oatmeal from the bottom of the pot, the mundane act a stark contrast to the swirling chaos inside my head.

PTSD.

That’s what they called it.

A pretty little acronym for the invisible shrapnel embedded in my soul, tearing me apart from the inside out.

My custom-built cabin, perched precariously on this desolate mountainside, is supposed to be my sanctuary. My eternal tomb, more like it. I’ve built it with my own hands, each timber a testament to a life I am trying to outrun, a life that refuses to let go.

The rough-hewn beams, the sturdy stone fireplace – they are supposed to be walls against the world, not reflections of the prison I’ve built around myself.

The truth is, I’m not living; I’m just existing, marking time until the mountain finally decides to swallow me whole.

It is a damn sight more appealing than the alternative: fighting battles no one else can see, replaying horrors no one else can understand.

The war might be over, but it rages on in here, a never-ending loop of screams and chaos. I’ve come to terms with it. Accepted it, even..

There is no going back from what I’ve seen or what I’ve done.

There’s no redemption. No peace.

Just… this.

A sudden, fierce gust of wind rattles the cabin, the glass in the window protesting with a groan. The sky outside turns an ominous, bruised purple, the kind that screams trouble.

Not just any trouble, but mountain trouble.

The kind that cuts you off, swallows you whole, and doesn’t spit you back out until it feels good and ready. Good. It suits my mood. Maybe it will finally be the one to rip these last few anchors from my grasp.

I fill my chipped ceramic mug with lukewarm tea, the bland taste a comfort in its very lack of sensation.

The storm intensifies, the wind a banshee wailing around the cabin, demanding entry.

Snow starts to fall, fat, heavy flakes coating the already rugged landscape in a rapidly thickening blanket of white. Soon, this mountain will be impassable, isolating me further from the small towns below.

Exactly as I prefer.

The silence, however, is about to be obliterated by the storm’s fury.

A rolling crack of thunder splits the air, the sound rare in a snowstorm like this, but I know better than anyone that these mountains breed their own kind of chaos around here.

A jagged bolt of lightning flares white behind the snowfall, followed by a thunderclap so unexpected in winter that it steals my breath.

“Christ,” I grunt, staring ahead as the cabin almost sways in around me.

Another crack of thunder echoes, so loud it vibrates through the very floorboards, echoes down the valley, and makes the entire fucking cabin shudder.

I take another sip of my tea, trying to drown out the growing roar of the storm and the rising tide of my own anxiety.

Then, a sharp, insistent knocking shatters the fragile peace. It doesn’t stop. A series of rapid-fire thumps bash against my heavy oak door, forcing me to sit upright in the chair.

"What the fuck?"

My blood runs cold. No one ever comes out here. No one.

This is my sanctuary, my self-imposed exile away from the world.

And because of that, every nerve ending is now screaming 'threat,' 'danger,' 'intrusion.'

My hand reaches for the old hunting rifle propped by the fireplace. My breath hitches, a familiar tightness seizing my chest, the shadows in the corners of my mind growing long and grotesque.

Visions flash before my eyes. A dusty alley, muzzle flashes, the scent of death and gunpowder.

Control it, Rogers. You're home. You're safe.

It's probably just a fucking bear.

But then the knocking comes again, louder this time, followed by a muffled, almost imperceptible cry as the door handle twists like someone is trying to open it.

The instincts of my military training, honed through years of combat, scream at me to assess, to protect, to respond. But the trauma, the beast that lives and breathes inside me every fucking day since I returned to this God forsaken mountain, snarls back, demanding retreat, demanding isolation.

I am a broken man.

I have nothing to give, nothing to protect.

Especially not some fool who dares interrupt my peace.

But the cry… it sounds distinctly human.

And female.

Shit.

I grudgingly stalk toward the door, rifle still clutched tight, my knuckles white against the dark wood of the handle.

Every step is a battle against the overwhelming urge to barricade myself deeper inside, to let the mountain devour whoever is out there and teach them a goddamn lesson.

Let them survive or die on their own terms. Just like I try to do each and every day.

But my damn conscience, that irritating vestige of the man I used to be, won’t allow it. A desperate human sound, out here, in this unforgiving wilderness, during a storm like this?

It doesn’t sit right.

I peer through the small, reinforced peephole, my vision obscured by the onslaught of snow and rain.

And then I see her.

A flash of blonde hair, plastered wetly to a face that is pale with cold, but still oddly determined.

Water streams down her cheeks, mingling with what looks suspiciously like tears, or maybe just the icy rain. Fuck, I hope it's rain. I can barely deal with my own tears, let alone a woman crying on my doorstep.

But fuck. She is shivering violently. She's clutching herself, and her stupidly vibrant, purple raincoat looks like a soggy, defeated flag.

"Edward? Are you there?" The girl calls out. "It's Penny Kaye."

My jaw clenches so hard I think my teeth might splinter. Penny.

The sunshine sprite from Scottsdale, now a drenched, shivering wreck on my doorstep, looking completely out of place against the backdrop of the mountains.

"Hello? I know you're in there... please, open up!"

Oh, for fuck's sake.

I grip the rifle tighter, the wood digging into my palm.

What in the actual hell is she doing here? She is the antithesis of everything I am, everything this cabin represents.

She’s shouldn’t be here.

I've seen her down in the town when I reluctantly have to leave my cabin on the rare occasion my pantry needs restocking.

Penny is life, vibrant and unapologetic, and I am… death, lingering.

My first instinct is to simply let her freeze. It might be cruel, maybe even inhuman on another level completely, but my internal logic is a twisted mess these days.

She’ll be better off. Away from you. Away from anything you could possibly taint.

But then her eyes, wide and luminous even through the downpour, meet mine through the foggy glass of the peephole. A flicker of genuine desperation, a childlike plea, slices through my hardened shell.

And just like that, the beast inside me quiets, replaced by an unfamiliar, unwelcome pang of something akin to…concern.

Right on cue, the wind rips through the valley again, a guttural groan from the forest. Penny stumbles, pressing herself closer to the door, a faint, frustrated whimper escaping her lips.

"Please! Come on! Open up!"

"Damn it. Damn it all to hell."

With a frustrated grunt, I unlatch the heavy bolts, the metal groaning in protest.

Instantly, the icy wind howls into the cabin, bringing with it a swirl of snow and the scent of wet wool and…something sweet. Strawberries, maybe?

Despite the ridiculousness of the situation, the scent causes a momentary, inexplicable flicker of something almost pleasant in my chest, quickly extinguished by that old permanent resentment I've carried around since the war.

"What in God's name are you doing out here, Penny?" My voice is a low growl, rough with days of disuse and years of annoyance.

I keep the rifle pointed at the floor, but its presence is a clear warning: Don't get too comfortable.

She peers up at me, her eyes widening even further at the sight of the rifle. A faint tremor runs through her, but she doesn’t flinch. Her chin juts out, a stubborn defiance that is as familiar as it is irritating.

"Edward," she gasps, her teeth chattering so hard I can barely make out the word. "The storm… it came out of nowhere. My car… it slid off the road... and... and... I don't know. I knew your cabin was up here… I walked… I think…"

She trails off, a fresh wave of shivers racking her curvy as fuck body.

Her hair is no longer blonde; it’s a dark, sodden mess, plastered to her forehead and cheeks. Her lips are blue, her fingers almost purple as she squeezes her arms around herself.

Even through the bulky, drenched raincoat, I can see the soft, appealing curve of her body, a shape that's so fucking sexy, the sight alone makes something stir deep within me.

This woman is a walking, breathing, vibrant spark of life. She's absolutely fucking gorgeous, but I'm not sure I'm even allowed to think that. She must be at least ten years younger than me, probably more.

"You thought what?" I demand, my voice still gruff, but a subtle shift has occurred without my conscious permission.

The threat assessment has moved from external danger to internal inconvenience. She is here. She is freezing.

And for some ungodly reason, I can’t just let her stand there.

"I thought you'd… help me," she whispers, her voice barely audible over the wind, a desperate plea that breaks through the last vestiges of my eternal cruelty.

Help her? I can barely help myself.

But her plea, so simple and direct, hits something primal, something buried deep under layers of scar tissue. There was a reason I joined the military all those years ago. I wanted to help people like her, but something in that war broke that part of me.

My gaze flickers around the swirling snow, the rapidly darkening sky.

No one is getting off this mountain anytime soon.

She's trapped. And, by extension, so am I.

Trapped with a walking, talking ray of sunshine who smells faintly of summer and, irritatingly, hope.

With another grunt, I step back, opening the door wider.

"Get in," I command, the words clipped and devoid of warmth, even as a tiny part of me acknowledges the sheer impossibility of the situation.

My isolation, my meticulous routine of misery and self-destruction, has just been spectacularly wrecked.

And it is all because of a blonde-haired, curvy artist and a damn freak storm.