Getting Dirty with the Mountain Man (Mountain Man Summer 2026 #18)

Chapter One

The Larch Bend P-Patch looked much more forgiving on the city website.

Online, it had been all tidy raised beds, smiling volunteers, fat red tomatoes, and a banner about community pride. In person, at eight-thirty on a July morning, it smelled like wet soil, hot pine needles, hose water, and consequences.

I stood just inside the gate with my court paperwork in one hand and a pair of brand-new gardening gloves in the other, already aware that I’d made several bad choices before breakfast.

The gloves were too clean.

My pale pink ballet flats had tiny bows on the toes and absolutely no survival skills.

My white sleeveless blouse was a joke the universe had decided to tell at my expense.

A volunteer in a straw hat glanced over from a row of tomato cages.

A man with a gray beard down to the middle of his chest leaned on a rake and looked like he’d once scared a motorcycle into apologizing.

Beside him, a younger guy in basketball shorts stared at the compost bins with the expression of someone who’d just realized community service involved actual service.

Excellent, I had witnesses.

I smoothed the front of my blouse, which only reminded me that cotton wrinkled when exposed to shame.

A weathered wooden sign near the shed read LARCH BEND P-PATCH in blue paint, with City Community Garden Project underneath in smaller letters. Below that, someone had taped a laminated sheet that said COMMUNITY SERVICE CREW: CHECK IN WITH SITE SUPERVISOR.

My stomach tightened around the words.

The site supervisor was Zane McCrae, and his name sat at the top of Nadine Purcell’s instructions in crisp black ink, right under the number of hours I owed the court and the line reminding me that missed shifts would be reported.

A shadow crossed the paper.

“Daphne Willoughby?”

I looked up.

The man in front of me wore faded jeans, work boots, and a sleeveless black shirt that showed ink down both arms.

I sucked in a breath.

Oh, good, because my punishment not only had tattoos; it was also the hottest man I’d ever laid eyes on, in a bad-boy, absolutely-wrong-for-me kind of way.

His hair was light from sun or genetics, short enough that it didn’t soften him. Scruff shadowed his jaw. His arms were roped with muscle and covered in ink, and his shoulders filled the shirt like cotton had personally insulted him by trying to contain all that mountain-man bulk.

His eyes dropped to the paperwork in my hand instead of my blouse or my shoes.

That should’ve helped, but it didn’t.

“Yes,” I said, then cleared my throat because the word came out like I’d inhaled compost. “I’m Daphne.”

“Zane McCrae.” He held out one hand.

I looked at it for half a second too long.

Big hand, callused palm, strong fingers, dirt in the creases like the man belonged here in a way I absolutely didn’t.

I shifted the gloves under my arm and shook his hand.

His grip was firm, warm, brief, professional, and completely appropriate. It was also inconvenient enough to send a bright little warning flare through my bloodstream.

“Do you have Nadine’s packet?” he asked.

“Right here.” I held it out too fast, and the top page fluttered against his very solid chest.

He took the papers, and I folded my empty hand around the gloves before I did something unforgivable, like notice the veins in his forearm for more than a normal number of seconds.

Zane scanned the first page. “Twenty hours.”

“Yes.”

“Five four-hour shifts, unless we adjust.”

“That’s what Officer Purcell said.”

His gaze lifted. “Nadine is your probation officer. I’m the site supervisor. She tracks the court side. I track whether you show up, work, and keep the garden from declaring war on us.”

I nodded. “That sounds fair.”

“It’s simple. Be on time. Don’t leave without checking out. If you’re unsure whether something is a weed or someone’s beloved vegetable, ask before you pull.”

Behind him, the woman in the straw hat called, “That rule exists because of Tyler.”

The younger guy by the compost bins straightened. “One time, Birdie. It was one time.”

“It was six squash plants, baby.”

“They looked aggressive.”

The gray-bearded man snorted.

Zane didn’t smile, but one corner of his mouth moved like it had considered the option and decided not to reward anyone.

I wanted to smile. I bit the inside of my cheek instead.

Zane tucked the paperwork under one arm and looked me over, this time quick and practical, taking in the blouse, the gloves, and the pale pink ballet flats with their tiny stupid bows.

His eyebrows moved.

I lifted my chin. “I was told to dress comfortably.”

“You were told that by someone who hates shoes.”

My toes curled inside the flats. “They’re more durable than they look.”

“Are they?”

“No.”

This time, the almost-smile got closer.

Birdie made a soft humming sound from the tomatoes. The biker-beard man leaned harder on his rake like the morning had just become worth his time. Tyler watched Zane’s face, then mine, then Zane’s again, as if he was trying to figure out whether flirting violated his own court order.

I wished a tomato cage would open and swallow me.

Zane handed my packet back. “You can keep this in your bag. I’ve got the hours sheet in the shed.”

“Great.” I glanced around. “I’m excellent at paperwork. Plants and public shame are newer.”

Birdie laughed outright.

Zane’s gaze stayed on me, steady and unreadable, but the corner of his mouth finally gave in a little. It was enough to make the sun feel hotter on my shoulders.

“Then we’ll start with something hard to kill,” he said.

“That feels personal.”

“It’s a raised bed, Daphne.”

My name in his mouth wasn’t a fair thing to happen before nine in the morning.

He turned toward the shed, and I followed because my role now was simple: follow the tattooed mountain man, complete the hours, and avoid making things worse.

The shed sat at the far side of the garden beneath two tall pines. It was painted the same weathered blue as the sign, with hooks along one outside wall holding hoses, rakes, trowels, clippers, and tools whose names I didn’t know and feared I might be tested on.

Beyond the fence, Larch Bend rose in summer layers: the low roofline of Main Street, the dark green shoulder of the mountain behind it, the hard blue sky, and a flash of water somewhere past the trees.

I’d lived in this town long enough that the view should’ve been background.

Today it felt like every pretty thing in Montana had shown up to watch me pay for my worst twenty minutes.

Zane opened the shed door. “Bag?”

I held up my canvas tote.

“You can put it on the shelf. Phone stays in there unless there’s an emergency.”

“Define emergency.”

“Bleeding, fire, bear, probation officer calling.”

“What about emotional collapse?”

“Is it bleeding?”

“No.”

“Then hydrate and keep working.”

I stared at him.

He met my eyes, completely serious except for the faint crease at one corner.

A laugh slipped out of me before I could stop it. “You run a tight garden, Mr. McCrae.”

“Zane is fine.” He took a clipboard from the wall. “And yes.”

I stepped into the shed, which smelled like cedar dust, metal, old soil, and sun-baked plastic. I set my tote on the shelf between a bag of plant labels and a dented coffee can full of mismatched screws.

Zane wrote my name on the hours sheet. His handwriting was blocky and sharp, no wasted curves. Even the way he held a pen looked competent.

I hated that I noticed that.

No, I didn’t.

That was worse.

“So,” he said, “Nadine said you’d be with us for two weeks or less, depending on shift length.”

“Yes.”

“Any restrictions I need to know about? Medical, physical, schedule?”

“No.”

“Experience?”

“With gardening?”

“That’s usually what we do here.”

“I kept a basil plant alive for almost a month once.”

“Almost?”

“It died under mysterious circumstances.”

“Did you water it?”

“I don’t appreciate this line of questioning.”

Zane looked down at the clipboard, and this time he did smile. It wasn’t big or polished-friendly. It was quick, rough, and gone fast enough that I wanted to chase it, which was a terrible instinct to have about a man who controlled whether my hours counted.

He clicked the pen. “We’ll keep you away from the herbs.”

“That seems wise.”

He hung the clipboard back on its hook and reached past me for a pair of work gloves from a bin.

I could’ve stepped away. A normal person would have stepped away.

Instead, I stood there while his arm came close enough that I caught the smell of him under the shed’s dusty cedar: clean sweat, pine, soap, and sun-warmed cotton.

My breath snagged again, softer this time, and I stared very hard at a coil of orange twine like twine had become a matter of urgent civic interest.

Zane pulled back with the gloves and held them out. “Use these.”

I looked down at my pristine little gloves. “I brought some.”

“I know.”

“They’re floral.”

“I saw.”

“They have reinforced fingertips.”

“They have daisies on them.”

“Daisies can be fierce.”

“Not against thistles.”

I took the gloves from him. They were gray leather, soft from use, and slightly too big. When I slid my fingers inside, I felt ridiculous and steadier at the same time.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You’ll need water too. Did you bring any?”

I hesitated.

His eyes narrowed a fraction.

“I brought coffee,” I said.

“Coffee isn’t water.”

“It contains water.”

“So does mud.”

“That’s a hurtful comparison.”

“It’s a useful one.” Zane grabbed a cold bottle from a small cooler near the shed door and handed it to me. “Drink half before we start.”

“I’m being watered before the plants?”

“You’re dressed like you came to apologize to a brunch reservation. Yes.”

Birdie made another humming sound from outside the shed. “He’s not wrong, honey.”

“I’m starting to understand this is a very interactive punishment,” I called.

“It’s a community garden,” Birdie said. “Community is right in the name.”

I opened the bottle and took several obedient swallows. It was cold enough to make my teeth ache. Zane waited until I’d had enough, then nodded toward the beds.

“Come on. I’ll introduce you.”