Claimed By the Mountain Man Shifter (Curvy Wives of Blackwater Falls #7)

Chapter 1 - Autumn

The moss feels like velvet beneath my fingertips as I steady myself against the ancient oak.

My legs are burning, the good kind of burn, the kind that reminds me I'm alive and moving and exactly where I want to be. The air up here tastes different than it does in town, cleaner somehow, like it's been filtered through a thousand trees before reaching my lungs.

"Okay, guys," I say breathlessly to my camera, turning it to capture the view behind me. "So, I know I said the trail ended about half a mile back, but I found what looks like a deer path, and you know me, I can't resist a good mystery."

The screen shows exactly what I'm seeing: endless forest stretching in every direction, mountains rising like sleeping giants in the distance, and a carpet of fallen leaves in shades of amber and rust that crunch beneath my boots with every step.

The late afternoon sun filters through the canopy in golden shafts, making everything look like a fairy tale.

This is what I live for. This moment, this feeling of discovery, of being somewhere most people will never bother to explore.

"The thing about Blackwater Falls," I continue, adjusting my backpack and starting to walk again, camera held steady in front of me, "is that everyone thinks they know it. Small town, touristy waterfalls, cute main street with the antique shops and Murphy’s with the best burgers in the county.

But up here?" I pan the camera around slowly.

"This is the Blackwater Falls nobody talks about.

The wild part. The part that doesn't make it onto postcards. "

I've been hiking since dawn, and my fitness tracker cheerfully informed me an hour ago that I've covered twelve miles. My thighs are screaming, my sports bra is soaked with sweat, and I've never felt better.

"So fun fact," I say, hopping over a fallen log that's probably older than my grandmother.

"I've lived here my entire life. All twenty-six years, and I've never been this deep into the mountains.

My mom used to tell me stories about these woods when I was little.

Warnings, really. Don't go too far up the mountain.

There are things up there that don't like to be disturbed. "

I laugh, the sound echoing slightly in the stillness. "She was probably just trying to keep me from getting lost, but it worked. I always turned back before I got this far. Until now."

The deer path, if that's even what it is, winds deeper into the forest. The trees are packed tighter here, their trunks thick and gnarled with age. The underbrush is dense enough that I have to push through in places, branches catching on my jacket and snagging my braid.

This is the content my followers love. Not the polished, perfect travel photos with flattering angles and pristine outfits. They like the real stuff: the sweat, the struggle, the authentic experience of pushing into places that don't want to be explored.

"Getting a little thicker here," I narrate, turning the camera to show the wall of vegetation ahead of me. "Might need to—"

I push through a particularly stubborn tangle of brambles and suddenly the forest opens up.

"Oh my God," I whisper.

The clearing ahead is small, maybe thirty feet across, carpeted in moss so green it looks artificial. Wildflowers I can't identify dot the edges in clusters of purple and white. A stream I didn't even hear until now burbles along one side, the water so clear I can count the stones at the bottom.

But that's not what makes me stop dead in my tracks.

On the far side of the clearing, nestled against the tree line like it grew there naturally, is a cabin.

Not a cute, Instagram-worthy cabin with window boxes and a painted porch. This is rough-hewn logs chinked with what looks like mud and moss, a roof of weathered wooden shingles, and a stone chimney that's currently sending a thin trail of smoke into the darkening sky.

Someone lives here. Miles from the nearest road, in the middle of nowhere.

"Are you guys seeing this?" I breathe into the camera, my heart suddenly racing for reasons that have nothing to do with the hike. "There's a cabin. An actual, honest-to-God cabin in the middle of the wilderness."

This is incredible. This is the kind of discovery that makes my channel what it is. A hidden hermit in the mountains? The stories this person could tell—

The cabin door opens.

I freeze, camera still recording, as a man steps out onto the narrow porch.

No, not a man. A mountain.

He's enormous. That's the first word my brain supplies, followed quickly by terrifying.

He has to be at least six-five, maybe taller, with shoulders so broad he has to turn slightly to fit through the doorframe.

His arms are the size of my thighs. Bigger, actually, and his chest strains against a faded thermal shirt that's seen better days.

His hair is dark brown and cut military-short, but his beard is thick and unkempt, covering the lower half of his face. Even from this distance, I can see the intensity of his eyes, dark and sharp and locked directly on me.

He doesn't say anything. Just stands there, radiating menace like heat off pavement.

Every instinct I have screams at me to run.

But I've never been very good at listening to instinct.

"Hi!" I call out, lowering my camera but not turning it off. My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "I'm so sorry to intrude. I was following a trail, and I didn't realize anyone lived up here."

He still doesn't speak. His jaw works beneath the beard, like he's chewing on words he doesn't want to say.

I shift my weight from foot to foot, suddenly very aware of how alone I am. How far from help. How no one knows exactly where I am because I went off-trail like an idiot.

My mom's warnings echo in my head: *There are things up there that don't like to be disturbed.*

"I'm Autumn," I try again, taking a small step forward. "I do travel vlogs, like video blogs? About interesting places and—"

"Leave."

The word comes out like gravel scraping against stone. His voice is deep, rough from disuse, and absolutely final.

I blink. "I'm sorry?"

"Leave," he repeats, still not moving from the porch. "Now."

Okay, rude. But also fascinating.

"I'm not trying to cause trouble," I say, keeping my voice friendly despite the ice in my veins. "I was just surprised to find someone living all the way out here. It must be—"

"I don't care what you were doing." He takes a step forward, and I'm suddenly very aware of how much bigger he is than me. How much stronger. "This is private property. You're trespassing."

"There aren't any signs—"

"Shouldn't need signs this far from civilization." Another step. The porch boards creak under his weight. "Turn around. Walk back the way you came. Don't come back."

My journalistic curiosity wars with my survival instinct. This man clearly wants nothing to do with me, clearly wants to be left alone in his remote mountain fortress. The smart thing would be to apologize and leave.

But I can see it in his eyes, in the tension of his shoulders, in the way his massive hands are clenched into fists at his sides.

There's a story here.

A big one.

"Look," I say, raising my hands in a placating gesture.

The camera dangles from the strap around my wrist, still recording.

"I get it. You value your privacy. That's why you're all the way up here, right?

I respect that. But I've hiked twelve miles today and it's getting dark, and I'm honestly not sure I can make it back to town before nightfall. "

It's not entirely a lie. The sun is definitely sinking, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink through the trees. And while I have a headlamp in my pack, hiking these mountains in the dark would be stupid even for me.

"Not my problem," he says, but there's less conviction in his voice.

"I'm not asking to stay or anything," I continue quickly, sensing an opening. "I just… Could I maybe fill my water bottle from your stream? And rest for like twenty minutes? Then I'll be out of your hair, I promise."

He stares at me for a long moment. Up close, well, closer, I can see the scars. They're everywhere. A thick one bisecting his left eyebrow. Another along his jawline, disappearing into his beard. His hands, when he unclenches them, are a roadmap of old wounds.

This man has seen violence. Has lived it.

My heart pounds, but not entirely from fear. There's something else there. A pull, almost, like standing too close to a bonfire.

"Twenty minutes," he finally growls. "Then you leave and you don't come back. You don't tell anyone about this place. You delete whatever footage you just took."

"Deal," I say quickly, before he can change his mind.

He jerks his head toward the stream. "Water's there. Don't touch anything else."

Then he turns and stalks back into the cabin, slamming the door hard enough to rattle the frame.

I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

"Holy shit," I whisper to the camera, bringing it up to my face. My hands are shaking slightly. "Okay, so that just happened. Mountain man is real and he is terrifying and also kind of—"

I cut myself off. My followers don't need to know that I find him compelling. That despite the fear still making my pulse race, I'm also intensely curious. That his voice did something strange to my stomach.

That's probably just adrenaline. Has to be.

I make my way to the stream, kneeling on the moss-covered bank. The water is ice cold when I dip my bottle in, so clear and clean it doesn't even need filtering. I take a long drink, the cold shocking my system in the best way.

The clearing is beautiful in the fading light. Peaceful, despite the hostile occupant. I can see why someone would choose to live here, away from everything and everyone. There's a serenity to it, a simplicity.

But also a loneliness.

I glance at the cabin. There's one small window, and through it I can see movement. A shadow passing back and forth, agitated.

Twenty minutes, he said.