Beastly Mountain Man (Cold Mountain Nights 2 #13)

Chapter One

By the time I reached the turnoff for Fire Mountain Resort, I had already decided exactly how I was going to spend the four days my boss had ordered me away from the set.

Working.

Glenn Sutter, the senior network executive supervising my current production, had called it a cooling-off period.

I still had my job and my paycheck. One of our stars had walked out during filming, two others had threatened to follow, and Glenn wanted me physically away from the set while everyone settled down.

I could do that. Nothing in his instructions said I couldn’t review schedules, answer questions, check approvals, or figure out where I should have handled things differently. And there were plenty of places to start.

The dashboard clock read 4:17 as I turned onto the resort road, and the Audi’s tires changed from the smooth hum of highway pavement to the softer crunch of sand scattered over cold asphalt.

Hard frost coated the grass along the shoulders and silvered fallen pine needles beneath the trees.

The sun had already dropped behind the ridge, leaving streaks of pale apricot over the mountains while the woods below settled into the deep blue-gray of an early November evening.

Outside, the temperature display read thirty-two degrees.

Inside, warm air blew across my black cashmere turtleneck, my camel wool coat was unbuttoned, and the heated steering wheel was making an extremely persuasive argument for modern civilization.

The reservation promised strong Wi-Fi. That was the important part.

A luxury cabin, three nights, room service, and an internet connection capable of handling large media files did not sound like exile. It sounded like a satellite office with better linens.

My navigation screen showed eleven minutes remaining. Good. Eleven minutes until I could get out of the car, open my laptop, and begin making four days away from the set considerably more productive than Glenn had probably intended.

A smile tugged at my mouth. He really should have been more specific.

The road climbed through dense stands of pine before opening onto a broad approach lined with low stone walls and warm path lights already glowing in the fading afternoon.

The main lodge appeared around the next curve, three stories of timber, glass, and dark stone tucked against the mountain rather than sitting on top of it.

Smoke lifted from a chimney into the still air, and a row of windows reflected the last copper streaks of sunset.

I knew the general area from the summer Get Fired Up!

shoot at Cinder Ridge Meadow, but the mountain looked completely different now.

In July it had been sunburned grass, dry pine, camera cables, and enough outdoor cooking equipment to make an insurance adjuster twitch.

November had stripped everything down to dark trees, frost, stone, and cold.

I parked beneath a covered section near the lodge entrance, shut off the Audi, and finally picked up my phone.

Nothing was on fire, metaphorically or otherwise, and I took that as progress.

Before going inside, I opened the secure production workspace and checked the things that actually required my attention.

A revised call sheet had already been posted.

Two approval items were waiting where they belonged.

A department head had answered a question I’d been planning to chase down myself.

I reviewed the relevant notes, cleared what needed my sign-off, and sent one concise response.

Done. There was no emergency, no frantic phone call, and no reason I should have spent the last forty minutes imagining seventeen different disasters occurring in my absence.

My shoulders loosened by approximately half an inch, which was excellent. At this rate, I’d be relaxed sometime next February.

The cold hit the instant I stepped out of the Audi.

I buttoned my coat and crossed beneath the covered entrance, my leather ankle boots clicking over stone that glittered faintly with frost along the edges. Inside, the lodge wrapped me in warmth and the smells of cedar, baked bread, and something savory drifting from the restaurant beyond the lobby.

The space was upscale without trying too hard to prove it.

Massive windows faced the descending slope.

Thick wool rugs softened the stone floor.

Leather chairs clustered around low tables near a broad fireplace, while discreet signs pointed toward the restaurant and bar, guest services, and a small provisions shop stocked with everything from wine and trail snacks to toothpaste and batteries.

A woman behind the reception desk looked up with an easy professional smile.

“Good afternoon. Welcome.”

“Hi. Caprice Calloway. I have a reservation for one of the upper cabins.”

She turned to her screen. “Of course. Let me pull that up.”

So far, so good. No recognition, no awkward haven’t I seen you somewhere? conversation, and no requirement that I explain why a television producer had been banished to the mountains by her own boss.

The woman glanced at the reservation details. “Three nights, checking out Monday. Upper Ridge.”

“That’s right.”

“I’m Deb Nolan, Guest Services Manager. You’re in one of our detached rentals, so you’ll have a little more privacy than the lodge rooms. It’s less than five minutes from here.”

“That sounds perfect.”

Deb reached beneath the counter and brought out a slim welcome folder. She opened it rather than simply handing me a stack of paper and hoping I enjoyed scavenger hunts.

“Your key is here. This is the resort map. Dining and room-service hours are on this page, and the provisions shop stays open until nine tonight. Guest Services is staffed around the clock. Property contacts are in the back.”

I glanced over the list as she turned the folder toward me.

One name caught my attention.

Lucius Ramsey — Property Manager.

Lucius.

That was a name with expectations attached to it.

A Lucius should have been at least seventy, possibly wearing suspenders, and deeply invested in the proper stacking of firewood. Alternatively, he could have been a blond wizard with an inheritance dispute and a suspiciously dramatic cape.

“Lucius Ramsey handles the detached rentals and the upper grounds,” Deb continued. “His direct number is there if you have a property issue. For anything general, you can always call us here at the lodge.”

“Good to know.”

“There’s no snow yet, but the temperature drops quickly once the sun is down. The upper roads are maintained, so you shouldn’t have any trouble tonight.”

I appreciated the phrasing. Information without treating me like I’d arrived in Montana fifteen minutes ago and planned to challenge winter personally.

“Thank you. And room service delivers to the upper cabins?”

“It does. The salmon is excellent.”

“Then you may have just saved me from pretending I intend to use the kitchen.”

Deb’s smile warmed. “The kitchens photograph beautifully. We don’t require guests to prove anything in them.”

I liked her immediately.

Armed with the folder, my key, and the knowledge that dinner could travel uphill without my participation, I returned to the Audi.

The drive to Upper Ridge took less than five minutes, winding away from the lodge through taller pines and pockets of frost that had survived all day in the shade. Lights set low along the road marked each curve without ruining the darkness gathering between the trees.

My rental sat at the end of a short private drive with another premium cabin barely visible through the woods farther down the ridge.

It was modern timber and stone, with a deep roofline, covered entry, and large panes of glass facing the mountains—the kind of place designed to convince wealthy people they had escaped civilization while providing heated floors.

I approved.

The cold followed me inside for about three seconds before the warmth took over.

I dropped my handbag on the kitchen island and walked through the main level, checking things almost without thinking: great room, large stone hearth, kitchen with enough polished equipment to support a cooking show I had no intention of producing, dining table positioned near an outlet, strong lighting, and wide windows overlooking a darkening stretch of forest and the distant ridgeline.

The bedroom was equally impressive: enormous bed, high-end linens, deep wool rug, private bath with stone tile, heated floor, and enough counter space to justify bringing every skin-care product I owned.

Most importantly, my phone showed full Wi-Fi. I ran a speed test anyway—there were standards—and got an excellent result.

I carried my suitcase into the bedroom, opened it across the luggage bench, hung my coat in the closet, then returned to the great room and built my temporary office at the dining table.

I arranged everything exactly where I wanted it: laptop centered, tablet to the right, charger secured, phone within reach, welcome folder beside it, headphones and notebook ready.

Within minutes I was inside the secure workspace, comparing the revised call sheet against the latest approvals and checking the media review queue.

The team had kept moving, which was good—obviously it was good.

I worked through one set of notes, sent two answers, then remembered the small zippered work bag still sitting on the passenger floor of the Audi.

The sky outside had gone from blue-gray to almost black, and the porch light reflected off the pale frost forming along the edge of the drive.

I slipped my coat back on but didn’t bother buttoning it for twenty feet of exposure. The front door stayed open behind me while I crossed to the car, retrieved the bag, and turned back toward the cabin.

A streak of gold shot past my knees.

I stopped so fast the bag swung into my leg.

Four enormous paws skidded across the entry floor, followed by a plume of golden fur and a wildly enthusiastic tail.

“What the—”

The dog disappeared deeper into the cabin.

A man came around the curve of the drive at a fast walk.

“I’m sorry.”