Mountain Man in my Stockings (Log Cabin Christmas #10)

Chapter One

Eve

The windshield wipers fought a losing battle against the snow as I navigated the narrow mountain road leading to Promise Ridge. Each swipe cleared just enough for me to glimpse the towering pines and pristine white landscape before another flurry obscured my view.

"You're almost there," I told myself for the dozenth time, knuckles white on the steering wheel. "Few more miles to your escape plan."

I'd booked the cabin on impulse the night Hayden sat me down at our dining room table—the one we'd registered for together, with the matching place settings still in their boxes—and told me he couldn't go through with the wedding.

"I'm not in love with you anymore, Eve. Haven't been for a while. And I can't keep pretending."

His words still burned, partly because they marked the end of our five-year relationship, but mostly because deep down, I'd known.

No affair, no dramatic betrayal—just the slow death of feelings I'd been too busy to notice.

He'd ended things less than a month before Christmas—before our planned Christmas Day wedding.

For the past year, I'd crafted the perfect engagement on Instagram while our actual relationship withered behind the filters.

The irony wasn't lost on me—social media strategist extraordinaire, staging the perfect love story online while ignoring its collapse in real life.

The GPS chimed, snapping me from my thoughts. "You have arrived at your destination."

I slowed the car, squinting through the windshield at a small wooden sign half-buried in snow: Pinecrest Cabin. The narrow driveway curved through the trees, revealing a log cabin nestled against the backdrop of snow-dusted mountains.

It was smaller than the listing photos suggested, but charming in that deliberate mountain-getaway way vacation rentals cultivate. A covered porch wrapped around the front, and smoke spiraled from the stone chimney—a promising sight after the four-hour drive from Boulder.

I parked, grabbed my suitcase from the trunk, and trudged through ankle-deep snow to the porch. The lockbox code worked on the first try, and I pushed open the heavy wooden door, greeted by a rush of fireplace-scented air that chased the chill from my bones.

Inside, the cabin offered exactly what I needed—clean, cozy, and completely devoid of Christmas decorations.

No twinkling lights, no stockings hung with care, no relentless reminders of the season I was trying to escape.

Only neutral furnishings, a stone fireplace already stacked with logs, and large windows framing the snowy landscape outside.

I dropped my bags and explored. The living area flowed into an open kitchen with modern appliances.

A short hallway led to a bedroom with a queen-sized bed dressed in plaid flannel, and a bathroom featuring a claw-foot tub that made me sigh with longing.

Upstairs, a loft space housed a small desk and a reading nook.

Perfect hideaway until the holiday season passed.

I checked my phone—spotty reception, as expected.

The rental listing had advertised Wi-Fi, though, which would at least allow me to check in with work.

Not that I planned to do much; I'd banked enough vacation days for a small sabbatical, and my boss had practically shoved me out the door after hearing about Hayden.

My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn't eaten since a pitiful drive-thru breakfast hours ago. The kitchen beckoned, but my groceries sat untouched in bags. The thought of cooking a meal for one in a strange kitchen suddenly felt like climbing a mountain without gear.

The property manager had left a welcome folder on the counter.

I flipped through it, scanning local recommendations—hiking trails, scenic overlooks, and a short list of dining options.

One entry caught my eye: Promises, Promises Bar & Grill.

"We keep ours, you break yours." Best food in Promise Ridge. Try the green chile burger.

"Well, Eve," I said to the empty cabin, "looks like you're going out after all."

PROMISE RIDGE RESEMBLED a Christmas card come to life, especially dusted with fresh powder.

Main Street consisted of a handful of businesses with wooden facades and twinkling white lights tracing their rooflines.

Even with my anti-holiday mission, I couldn't deny the postcard charm as I parked and headed toward the weathered sign of Promises, Promises Bar & Grill.

The golden glow from inside beckoned, and when I pulled open the heavy door, a blast of toasty air hit me along with the scent of good food and the buzz of lively conversation.

The space felt lived-in but inviting—exposed beams, stone fireplace crackling at one end, and wooden tables filled with locals who, I couldn't help but notice, all paused mid-conversation to check out the newcomer.

Great. Public scrutiny on day one. Exactly what my bruised ego needed.

I squared my shoulders and made for the bar, choosing an empty stool at the far end.

Beside me, a group in matching ski instructor jackets swapped stories over craft beers.

At the other end, an elderly couple shared a plate of fries, comfortable in the wordless rhythm of people who've run out of new things to say decades ago.

Behind the bar stood a man who belonged on the cover of "Mountain Living" magazine.

Broad-shouldered with forearms that spoke of actual labor, dark hair curling against the collar of his flannel shirt, and a neatly trimmed beard framing a jaw that could cut glass.

When he turned my way, startling blue eyes met mine, crinkling slightly at the corners.

"Welcome to Promises," he said, voice low and resonant. "First time in Promise Ridge?"

I nodded. "Is it that obvious?"

The corner of his mouth lifted. "Small town. Fresh faces stand out." He placed a cocktail napkin in front of me. "What can I get you?"

"I heard the green chile burger is the thing to order."

"Good intel. Drink?"

"Whatever local beer pairs best."

He moved away to place my order, giving me time to scan the place more carefully. A bulletin board dominated the wall behind the bar, covered in what looked like miniature Christmas stockings in every color imaginable.

The bartender returned with a frosted glass of amber beer. "Pine Peak Amber. Brewed twenty miles up the mountain."

"Thanks..." I paused, waiting.

"Deacon," he supplied. "Deacon Pike. I own the place."

"Eve Cameron." I took a sip—notes of caramel and hops with a clean finish. "This is excellent."

"We don’t mess around with beer." He nodded toward the bulletin board. "Eyeing our local tradition?"

"What's the deal with all those tiny stockings?"

Before he could answer, a cheer erupted from the other end of the bar. A young woman stood on a chair, her face flushed crimson, belting out what had to be the most gloriously awful rendition of "Jingle Bells" while the crowd hooted and applauded.

"That," Deacon said with a half-grin, "is the Stocking Pull tradition. Want to see how it works?"

My curiosity won out over my introvert instincts. I nodded, and he moved around the bar to stand beside me, close enough that I caught the scent of pine and woodsmoke with hints of cinnamon.

"Each stocking," he explained, gesturing toward the board, "contains a dare written by someone in town—locals, staff, travelers passing through. You pull a stocking, complete the dare, you get a free drink."

"And if you don't?"

His grin widened, revealing a slight dimple in his right cheek. "Then you buy a round for the house."

The karaoke queen finished to thunderous applause, took an exaggerated bow, and hopped down from her perch. Deacon handed her a whiskey, which she raised triumphantly before rejoining her friends.

"Not a bad system to keep winter nights lively," I admitted.

"Been a Promise Ridge tradition since before my time. My predecessor started it, and I kept it going when I took over a couple years back." He pointed toward the board again. "Added my own twist, though. As owner, when I complete a dare, I get to assign a stocking to anyone I choose."

The door suddenly burst open with a gust of frigid air, and a whirlwind of a woman who had to be in her seventies blew in, shaking snow from hair dyed the exact electric blue of a summer sky.

Her puffy coat, decorated with hand-sewn patches of snowmen, seemed to enter the room three seconds before the rest of her, and her voice boomed like a loudspeaker.

"It's colder than a well digger's ass out there! My pipes are threatening to freeze solid. Harvey's out there now with a hairdryer, poor fool." She stomped snow from her boots and barreled toward the bar, stopping short when she spotted me.

"Well now! A new face!" She claimed the stool next to mine without invitation. "Mabel Kovacs, honey. Run the general store up the street, which means I know every bit of gossip in this town, including when fresh blood arrives."

"Eve Cameron," I said, offering my hand, which she ignored in favor of a bone-crushing hug.

"Hot toddy, Mabel?" Deacon asked, already reaching for a mug.

"You read my mind," she replied, then turned back to me. "Passing through or staying a while, dear?"

"Just arrived today," I said. "I’m only in town through the holidays."

Deacon set a steaming mug in front of her, and Mabel took a long sip. "What brings you to our mountain five days before Christmas? Most folks are heading home this time of year, not away—and I know you’re not from ‘round these parts, otherwise we’d already be acquainted."

I shrugged. "Taking a vacation. That's all."

"Some people prefer a quieter holiday," Deacon said, throwing me a look that definitely conveyed solidarity.