Claimed by the Ex-Military Mountain Man (Whitetail Falls: Mountain Men #1)

Chapter 1 – Ariel

The snow crunches beneath my boots with each step, the sound sharp and crystalline in the morning stillness.

I sink ankle-deep with every stride, my thighs burning as I push through the pristine drifts that blanket the forest floor.

My breath clouds in silver puffs, and the cold stings my cheeks despite the scarf wound tight around my neck.

God, this place is magnificent.

The trees tower above me, their branches heavy with snow that catches the early light like scattered diamonds.

Everything is hushed, muffled by winter's thick blanket, as if the world is holding its breath.

I pause to adjust my camera bag, the leather strap cutting into my shoulder through my thick coat, and listen to the silence.

The sound reaches me before I see it. A low, musical rushing that grows stronger as I navigate between the towering pines. Water. Moving water, even in this frozen wilderness. I follow the sound, my boots finding purchase on the uneven ground beneath the snow.

Then I see it, and my breath catches.

The waterfall tumbles down a wall of dark stone, portions of it frozen into sculptures of ice while other sections still flow freely, creating an otherworldly symphony.

The morning sun strikes the ice formations, painting them in shades of rose gold and amber that make my artist's heart sing.

Mist rises where the flowing water meets the frozen pools below, creating an ethereal fog that dances in the light.

I've never seen anything so beautiful in my life.

My hands shake as I pull out my camera, from cold or excitement, I'm not sure which.

I strip off my gloves, stuffing them into my pockets so I can adjust the settings with numb but precise fingers.

The metal is shocking against my skin, but I barely notice.

This is why I came here. This moment, this perfect convergence of light and water and ice that exists for maybe an hour before the sun climbs higher and changes everything.

I drop to one knee in the snow, feeling the cold seep through my jeans as I frame the shot. Through the viewfinder, the world narrows to exactly what I want to capture: the interplay of frozen and flowing, the way the light transforms ice into liquid gold.

The shutter sounds unnaturally loud in the quiet forest.

I shift my position, seeking a different angle, my heart racing with the thrill of creation.

The wind picks up slightly, stirring the mist from the waterfall and sending a few loose snowflakes dancing through the air.

I pause to pull my scarf tighter, noticing how the sky has shifted from brilliant blue to a more muted gray. Still beautiful, but moodier.

I'm so absorbed in the play of light and shadow that I almost miss the sound behind me. Almost.

The snap of a twig pierces the silence like a gunshot, and every instinct I possess screams danger. I freeze, camera halfway to my eye, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs. The forest has changed. The peaceful quiet now feels weighted, watchful.

Someone is here.

I turn slowly, my breath catching in my throat as a figure emerges from behind a massive pine tree not twenty feet away. He moves with almost absolute silence now, each step deliberate and controlled, as if the snapped branch was a momentary lapse in otherwise perfect stealth.

He's enormous.

Even beneath the heavy winter coat, I can see the breadth of his shoulders, the way the fabric strains across his chest. He's tall, maybe 15 years older than me, with dark hair visible beneath a wool cap, and eyes the color of winter steel that pin me in place like a butterfly on display.

When his gaze travels over my body, heat floods my cheeks despite the cold.

A gust of wind cuts through the trees, stronger now, sending snow spiraling down from the branches above us. Some of it catches in my hair, cold pinpricks against my scalp, while more settles on my shoulders. The temperature feels like it's dropped ten degrees in the past few minutes.

"You're on private land." His voice is low, rough, with an authority that makes my spine straighten involuntarily.

I scramble to my feet, nearly losing my balance in the snow, and clutch my camera against my chest like armor. "I—I'm sorry. I didn't see any signs, I just followed the sound of the water and—"

"There are signs." He takes a step closer, and I catch the faint scent of woodsmoke and something essentially masculine that makes my pulse skip. The movement brings him into my space, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "You ignored them."

"No, I really didn't see—" I stop, swallowing hard as his stare intensifies. There's something about the way he looks at me that makes me feel exposed, as if he can read every thought racing through my mind. "I'm a photographer. I was just trying to capture the waterfall. It's so beautiful."

He glances at my camera, then back to my face, his steel-gray eyes never leaving mine for long. "Photographer." He says it like it tastes bitter. "For who?"

"For myself. For my portfolio." The words tumble out in a rush. "I'm not with any company or anything. I just—I love photographing nature, and I heard there were incredible waterfalls in this area, so I hiked out to find them."

As I speak, he shifts his stance, positioning himself slightly between me and the deeper forest. It's subtle, but I notice the way his body language changes—protective or predatory.

The wind picks up again, and this time it doesn't die down. It whistles through the pines with a low, haunting sound that makes my skin prickle. Snow begins to fall in earnest now.

"Storm's coming in fast," he says, scanning the darkening sky above the tree canopy.

My stomach drops. "A storm? But the weather report said—"

"Weather reports don't mean much up here." His attention snaps back to me, those piercing eyes taking in my inadequate winter gear, my exposed position, the way I'm already starting to shiver as the temperature plummets. "Conditions can change in minutes."

A particularly strong gust nearly knocks me off balance, and without thinking, I take a step closer to him. The moment I do, something shifts in his expression. His jaw tightens, and I catch the way his hands flex at his sides.

"How far did you come?" he asks, his voice dropping to a rumble that I feel in my chest.

I bite my lip, suddenly aware of how far I've wandered from my car.

I'd been following game trails and my own instincts, chasing the perfect shot without paying attention to direction or distance.

The forest stretches endlessly in every direction I look, a maze of snow-covered pines that all seem identical now.

"Maybe three miles?" I venture, though even as I say it, I know it's probably more.

"Try six." The wind gusts again, stronger this time, and several branches creak ominously overhead. A shower of snow and ice crystals rains down on us, stinging my face. "In good weather, that's a hard hike. In a whiteout, it's suicide."

Fear spikes through me, cold and sharp. I look around at the towering trees, trying to orient myself, but everything looks the same. Snow-covered pines stretching in every direction, broken only by the rushing waterfall that now seems more ominous than beautiful.

The temperature has dropped so dramatically that my fingers are going numb despite being tucked against my camera.

"I can make it," I say, though my voice wavers with uncertainty. "I'm stronger than I look."

His eyes drop to my curves, lingering on the way my winter coat hugs my hips. The assessment is thorough, almost clinical, but there's heat underneath it that makes my breath catch. When his gaze returns to my face, something predatory flickers in those steel-gray depths.

"Strength won't help you if you can't see two feet in front of you."

As if to punctuate his words, another powerful gust tears through the trees, sending a cascade of snow and broken twigs raining down around us. The sound is like a warning, branches groaning under the weight of accumulating ice, the distant crack of wood giving way somewhere deeper in the forest.

I stumble as the wind hits me, and suddenly his hand is there, gripping my elbow through my coat.

He steadies me without effort, his body a solid wall of warmth and muscle that blocks the worst of the wind.

"Easy," he murmurs, and the low rumble of his voice does something to my insides.

For a moment we stand frozen like that—his hand on my arm, my body pressed close enough to his that I can feel the heat radiating from him through our layers of clothing. The scent of woodsmoke clings to his coat, mixed with something clean and masculine that makes my head spin.

Then the moment shatters as a nearby branch gives way with a sharp crack, crashing down into the snow less than ten feet from where we stand.

"Jesus," I breathe, jerking back, my heart hammering against my ribs.

His hand doesn't release my arm. If anything, his grip tightens slightly, anchoring me in place. "We need to move. Now."

The authority in his voice brooks no argument.

"There's a cabin," he says, his eyes scanning the treeline with precision. "Not far. You'll wait out the storm there."

It's not a suggestion. The way he says it makes it clear that arguing would be pointless—and potentially dangerous.

The wind is howling through the pines now, a continuous roar that drowns out the sound of the waterfall.

Snow swirls around us in blinding sheets, and I can already feel myself losing track of which direction we came from.

"I don't even know your name," I whisper, having to raise my voice over the growing storm.

"Joel." He shoulders a pack I hadn't noticed before, his movements economical and purposeful. Every gesture speaks of training, discipline, survival. "And you're coming with me."

My camera suddenly feels heavy in my hands.

I look back at the waterfall, at the perfect shot I'll never get to finish, then at Joel's implacable face.

The wind is getting stronger with each passing moment, and snow is beginning to fall so heavily that the far shore of the stream has already disappeared into a white haze.

Another branch crashes down behind us, closer this time.

"Okay," I breathe, surprising myself with how easily the word comes. "Okay, I'll come with you."

He turns without another word, expecting me to follow, and after one last glance at the frozen waterfall that's already being swallowed by the storm, I do.

My legs shake as I struggle through the deepening snow in his wake, but it's not entirely from exertion or cold.

The storm closes around us like a living thing.