Rescued By the Mountain Man (Silver Ridge Mountain Men)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Zoe

I checked my GPS—2235 miles.

That was how far I’d run from a man who’d broken into my house and tried to kill me.

Years ago, I’d read about things like this, an angry boyfriend, a jealous ex-husband, even a bitter mistress who wanted to take your place. Back then, it was somebody-else’s-problem , not mine. Until it happened to me.

This time—I had no idea who had attacked me. I had no revengeful exes or some woman out there decided on getting me…but I knew why.

That why led to something that would lead to someone .

Being a whistleblower was more of a curse than a blessing.

Squinting, I looked at the faint sign for the inn at Silver Ridge, Montana, at the base of Mt. Ascension Park, where I was to stay for a few months while the police and FBI tried to find the man who’d almost choked me to death.

“Whispering Pines Inn,” I said while driving down the main street. “It should be somewhere around here.”

This really was a one-horse town; the main street didn’t even have a stoplight at the T-section. At the very end of the road, another sign indicated right to the inn. While driving through the outskirts, I’d seen the set-up of a…rodeo? I don’t know. They didn’t have rodeos in New York.

The road to the inn was dark, but at least it wasn’t riddled with potholes and ditches. About a mile in, I came up to a clearing with a brick cabin. It was dark, but one light was on because someone was expecting me. Parked, I looked at the folder on the passenger seat.

I plucked it up again and read over my new identity: Zara Harrington, twenty-seven years old, the newest secretary to Warrick Donovan. He owned the Flathead Ranch but was in town overseeing the rodeo and staying at this inn. The FBI handler had contacted him as a talent recruitment officer and told him his new hire was on the way.

I’d be meeting him for breakfast.

Shoving the file into my purse, I left the car, tugged the suitcase and duffel out, hauled it to the flat steps, and felt dew wet the feet of my jeans as I headed on.

“Jesus, this is heavy,” I grunted while dragging the suitcase up. I’d forgotten it only had one wheel.

Knocking on the door, I shivered with the cold wind coming off the mountain beyond us. I banged again. Jesus, it was cold up here. I knew New York was cold, but this was beyond cold. I’d need a sweater under a cardigan, under a woolly mammoth coat.

The door creaked open. A woman stood there, with shoulder-length, curly grey hair, clad in a simple button-down and a pair of khakis. “Miss Zara, I presume?”

“Yes,” I said, shivering. “May I come in, please? It's freezing out here.”

“Oh yes, yes, please,” she said, crow’s feet crinkling at the sides. “I’m Laura Bennet, the innkeeper. Please, come in.”

I yanked the suitcase in. “I am so sorry I kept you up so late.”

She waved. “Don’t worry about it. The night manager covered for me earlier, so I am taking over for him now. It might not look like it, but we get a lot of late-night drop-ins, even in this rural neck of the woods.”

I rubbed my cold hands. “If you don’t mind me asking, how are you not an icicle?”

She laughed, blue eyes merry. “I was born here, Miss Zara; I don’t feel it, but I suppose outsiders would. So, I have you checked into Cabin 22, and while we don’t have dinner, we offer a happy hour with appetizers and lay out a full breakfast in the morning. We’ve stocked the cabins with tea bags, sugar, liquid milk, and sachets of powder creamer.

“I don’t mind,” I replied, as she spun a book toward me.

“Drop your John Hancock here and add your cell,” she said.

“Erm,” I grimaced. “I lost my phone two days ago and didn’t get a chance to get a new one.”

“No problem,” Laura said cheerily. “We have an all-good store around here where you can literally buy anything from a pin to an anchor. Hank Garrison will have what you need, I can assure you.”

Smiling, I dropped my new signature on the paper and sighed, “I need some shut-eye.”

“I’ll show you to your cabin,” Laura said, grabbing a set of keys. “C’mon.”

I followed her down a paved corridor that led to a row of cabins. In this part of the compound, the cabins were laid out across the road from each other, but across the way, I could see more secluded ones far off, probably for those people who needed extra privacy. When we got to the fourth cabin, it looked like a duplex in Queens but had more shrubbery around it.

She slid the key card in and then handed it to me. “Good night, and I will see you tomorrow.”

Grateful, I thanked her and entered the cabin. It was dark, but I dragged my suitcase beyond the living room and to the bedroom past a bathroom.

Dropping the case at the foot of the bed, I sank to it and, after a moment, flopped back. I was beyond tired. My back was stiff, and my neck ached, not only from driving but also from looking behind me at every moment.

I heaved myself up and began to undress. I put on my short PJs, checked the windows and doors, and frowned as I double-checked the lock on the door.

“Why is there a set of men’s boots here?” I asked myself. “Did the person who stayed here forget his boots?”

I’ll let Ms. Laura know tomorrow.

Even as tired as I was, I set the kettle on, knowing I needed something hot if I had any chance of getting any sleep tonight. I glanced around to find all available exits. I’d learned early on to have an escape plan in case things went south, and my grab bag had all my essentials: money, pepper spray, a shank, and a taser.

Leaning on the table with my backside to the door, I heard the crunch of a truck’s tires but didn’t make much of it—until I heard the door click behind me.

I spun on my feet to see the hulk of a man there, his head covered with a large hat. He sighed and then dropped a ring of keys on the table near the door. “Listen, girl. I know Frank sent you, but I don’t need female companionship tonight. I’ll drive you to where you want to go, but you can’t stay here.”

What the hell did he mean by that ?

Did he…did he think I was a prostitute?

I had never been so insulted in my life.

“What?” I gaped. “Who the hell are you and why are you in my cabin?”

His head jerked back before he plucked the hat off his head and slapped the main light on. This man was tall, broad- shouldered, and wearing an open button-down shirt. The tight T-shirt under it showed bulging muscles of his chest and arms, a narrow waist, and firm thighs covered in faded blue jeans. But it was his piercing blue eyes that nailed me to the floor.

“Excuse me? Your cabin? I was here before you,” he said stiffly, the thick blond-brown beard on his chin moving with his words. “And I don’t appreciate these games.”

“Games? What games?” I shot back.

“Pretending to not know who I am or where you are,” he said haughtily, the drawl almost condescending. “It’s unbecoming.”

Unbecoming . Who the hell did this prick think he was? His tone sounded like he was some bigwig with a hundred lackeys slaving for him. I hated him already.

“I don’t know who the hell you think you are, telling me I am unbecoming,” I bristled. “Miss Bennet assigned me this cabin. From my point of view, you’re the one who is unbecoming. How the hell did you get in here anyway?”

He held up a keycard and twiddled it between two fingers. “There must be some mistake. A double booking or something, but I was in here first.”

Biting back a cutting remark, I turned to the whistling kettle and moved away to make my tea. “That wasn’t my fault.”

“I didn’t say it was,” he replied calmly. “If you’re not some escort Frank sent, who are you?”

Dipping the teabags into the scalding water, I asked, “Isn’t it common courtesy to introduce yourself first before you ask someone else?”

I could feel his hot gaze boring into the back of my neck. “My name is Warrick Donovan.”

Jerking, the tea sloshed over my hand, and I hissed. Yanking my hand away, I spun the faucet on and dunked my hand under the cold spray. “What?”

“I said my name is?—”

“I know what you said,” I breathed out while keeping my scalded hand under the spray. “I heard you. I’m Zara Harrington. Looks like I am your new?—”

“PA,” Warrick said gruffly while raking a hand through his clipped dark blond hair. “Needless to say, this is not how I had imagined us meeting.”

“No, it’s not,” I replied, my gut spinning cartwheels. “I?—”

“Did you hurt yourself?” he asked, coming to my side and plucking my hand from the water. My skin was red, but his callused thumb pressing into my skin didn’t make it any better. Even worse, I was acutely aware of my low-cut top and tiny shorts. No wonder he thought I was a hooker.

“No,” I yanked my hand away. “It was an accident.”

“You might need some burn cream anyway,” he said, stubble on his very firm jaw.

The way his dirty blond hair contrasted with his tan square face and eyes made my stomach lurch. He took tall, dark, and handsome to a new level—too bad he was an asshole.

“I’ll go find some in the EMT emergency medical kit I brought with me,” I drawled sarcastically. “I’ll be fine.”

Irritation seeped out of him like a slow, controlled leak. His temper was in check, but I studied him with caution. This was hardly the best way to engage with my boss, but…I wasn’t to be blamed for this.

“We’ll sort this out in the morning,” I said while heading to the bedroom.

“Excuse me?” he said, “Where are you going?”

“To sleep,” I replied slowly, as if I was speaking to a stubborn puppy. “You know, that is what a bedroom is for.”

“That is my bed,” he said. “I’m sorry, but you will have to sleep somewhere else.”

I ground my teeth. I wanted to snap at him that I’d been on the road for two days straight and that I was on edge more than a fucking whore in the middle of Easter service. “Aren’t you a gentleman? Wouldn’t a gentleman let the lady have the bed? Especially one who has been on the road for almost three days?” I sent him a simpering smile. “Please?”

His jaw tensed, but his nod was quick. “This night only. Tomorrow, I will speak with Laura and get this mess sorted out.”

“Thank you,” I said, partly genuinely and partly sarcastically.

Leaving for the room beyond, I closed the door behind me, sat on the edge of the bed, and rested the cup on the bedside table. “Well, fuck me. What did I just walk myself into?”

Warrick Donovan was the perfect cowboy: rugged, wealthy, and objectively handsome as sin. He’d be perfect for me…if he wasn’t my boss and an entitled asshole. Besides, I was not looking for any attachment now; all I needed to do was keep my head down and keep out of the spotlight. I didn’t need a boyfriend, I did not need a lover, and I certainly did not need attention.

Sighing, I sipped my tea and finished, covered the cup with a piece of paper, laid against the pillows and headboard, and looked at my hand. It was not burning anymore from the tea—but damned if I didn’t feel his scorching touch…and hate myself for liking it.