Rescued By the Mountain Grump (Mountain Man Rescue #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Jenny

The trailhead sign says RIDGETOP LOOP — EASY in friendly block letters, like it's trying to reassure me.

Thanks, Park Service.

I like knowing where I'm going, how long it will take, and exactly how to get back. It’s the same reason I keep a color-coded calendar—a habit I picked up in law school—and why I read contracts three times before signing.

This hike is supposed to be simple. Forty-five minutes out, forty-five back. Fresh air, a little sunshine, and then I can go home and pretend I'm not thinking about the stack of files waiting on my kitchen table.

"Work-life balance," I tell myself, stepping onto the path. "You moved to Mercury Ridge for this."

The woods behind my rental cabin connect to a network of maintained trails, which was a major selling point.

I’m not the most outdoorsy girl in the world.

You won’t find me climbing mountains or base jumping or anything at all dangerous.

But I do love to connect with nature on well-maintained, safe trails.

And it’s awesome being able to walk out my back door, follow the markers, and easily find my way straight back to my yard.

No driving, no planning, no risk of wandering somewhere I shouldn't.

No surprises.

I loathe surprises.

I take a breath and settle into an easy rhythm.

The path curves along the ridge, packed dirt under my boots, tree roots crossing here and there but nothing tricky.

It’s early spring, and wildflowers are starting to pop up from the damp earth.

The air is cool. The light falls soft through the branches, dappled and moving.

This is exactly what I needed after a long day of work. Out here, I can forget my deadlines and just disconnect. There’s no need to check emails or answer phone calls from clients calling to ask if I can just take a quick look at something that is actually never, ever quick.

I round a bend and pause at a small overlook. Through the trees I can see the river far below, a ribbon of silver cutting through the ravine. I know the ravine is even steeper than it looks from up here. It’s the kind of terrain you admire from a distance and leave the hell alone.

I take a sip of water and turn to keep going.

But then I hear something. Is that… barking?

The sound is sharp and echoing up from below.

I step closer to the edge of the trail and peer down through the trees. It takes a second to spot the dog. A medium-sized dog with thick dark and light fur blending with the rocks and brush near the river. The dog is pacing a narrow strip of ground, head tilted back, barking toward the ridge.

"Hey," I call, cupping a hand around my mouth. "Hey, puppy. You okay?”

The dog looks up at me and barks again.

My stomach tightens. She's alone. I don’t see a leash, but there’s a strip of pink around her neck. Her collar, I realize. Did someone abandon her?

I spin in a circle, peering through the trees for a human. “Hello? Is anyone here?”

There’s no one here.

The dog barks again, a sound that seems distressed and panicked to my ears. I look back down at her, at the ledge where she’s perched. It’s surrounded by rocks and dangerously close to the river.

Is she stuck?

I pat my knees and call out, “Come here, girl. Come on.”

She turns in a circle on her narrow ledge, barking again.

"Okay," I murmur. "You're stuck."

I scan the trail behind me again. Empty. No other hikers. No voices. Just wind moving through the trees and that steady, miserable barking.

I pull out my phone.

No signal.

Of course.

I glance back down at the dog. She paces, stops, barks again.

I exhale slowly.

"There are options here," I tell myself, like I'm laying out arguments in a brief.

"You can keep walking. You can call animal control when you get back. You can absolutely, under no circumstances, leave a marked trail to climb into a ravine you have no business being in to save a dog you don’t know. "

All excellent points.

I take a step back from the edge.

Then I look down again.

The dog stares up at me with big, puppy-dog eyes.

I close my eyes. I can’t just leave her there.

I open them again.

She's still there. Still pacing, gazing up at me as if asking for help.

"Okay," I say with a sigh. “Apparently, I’m doing this.”

For the first time in my life, I stop playing by the rules and step off the trail.

The first part isn't so bad. The slope is steep, but there are footholds, roots to brace against, rocks that seem stable enough if I test them first. I move slowly, choosing each step, keeping my weight low.

"Hi, sweet girl," I call as I go. "Just hang on. I'm coming."

The dog watches me now. The barking pauses, then starts again, almost like she's answering.

"Yeah, I hear you," I say. "I'm working on it."

About halfway down, the terrain changes.

The dirt gives way to loose gravel and angled stone. The kind that shifts under your foot if you don't place it exactly right. The kind that makes me very aware that I am not on a trail anymore.

I stop and brace one hand against a rock. I look down.

Closer now, I can see the dog clearly. She’s bigger than I originally thought, thick-coated, tail wagging, tongue lolling. She’s obviously a sweet, friendly dog. I can see now that her pink collar has a little bone-shaped charm hanging from it, but I’m not quite close enough to read it.

“I’m coming, Sweetie,” I say. She barks again in response.

By the time I reach the rock outcrop, my heart is beating faster than it should be for what was supposed to be an easy hike.

The ledge juts out over a drop that leads down to the river.

It's wide enough to stand on comfortably, but getting here required a bit of sideways maneuvering that’s going to be a bitch on the way back up.

Think about that later… focus on one problem at a time.

I straighten and look around.

The dog is just below me now, and I think I can coax her up to this spot. I reach into my belt bag for a package of peanut butter crackers. Opening it, I toss one down to the dog. Just as I’d hoped, she gobbles it up and then jumps up to join me on my rock.

"Good girl.” I kneel to pet her, and she licks my hand, slapping me with her wagging tail. Glancing at the tag on her collar, I see her name is Roxy. “So, Roxy, how about we get out of here? Here’s the plan,” I say, because I am still pretending I have one. "We’ll slowly work our way back up—”

With zero hesitation, Roxy turns and leaps onto a higher rock before scrambling up a slope that looks completely impassable to me. Her movements are effortless and smooth, like she's done it a hundred times. Which, I am beginning to suspect, she has.

I blink. "Wait," I call. "Wait, no… you can’t just leave me here!”

She's already halfway up.

I twist to follow her movement, heart dropping as she reaches the top of the ravine, steps onto the trail I just left, and looks down at me.

For a second, we just stare at each other. Then she barks once more, tail still wagging, and walks away, disappearing from view.

"You've got to be kidding me," I mutter. I straighten slowly, turning in a small, miserable circle as the reality of my situation settles over me like cold water.

I am on a rock outcrop. Above a river. With no clear way back up. Because I tried to rescue a dog.

A dog who did not need rescuing.

I press my lips together and look up at the slope I came down.

It looks different from this angle, steeper and a lot less like something I can casually climb back up.

"Okay," I say, hands on my hips. "All right. It’s fine. Just need to retrace my steps."

I take one step toward the path I used to get here, and the gravel shifts under my boot.

I freeze.

"Careful," I mutter. "Careful, careful."

I test the next step.

The rocks slide, and I fall to my knees and slide back down to the outcropping. I look up again. The distance doesn't seem that far. It's not that high. It's just wrong. The angles are wrong. The footing is wrong. One bad move and I’ll wind up in the river.

"Nope," I say quickly. "We're not doing that."

I blow out a breath and drag a hand over my face.

"This is why we stay on marked trails," I inform myself.

Silence answers back. The river rushes below, steady and indifferent. Though I know it’s useless, I check my phone again. No signal.

I glance in the direction the dog disappeared. "Hey," I call. "Roxy. This would be a really great time for you to go get your person."

Because she definitely has a person. She was too clean to have been wandering in the woods for long.

So, I’ll stay put. That’s the wisest thing to do, right?

“Well,” I say aloud, “What else can you do? Unlike the dog, you’re actually stuck.” I lower myself carefully to sit on the flattest part of the outcrop. How could I have been so stupid?