Rescued By the Outlaw (Mountain Man Rescue #6)
Chapter 1
ONE
LONDON
Ethel and Bernice aren’t being as quiet as they think they are.
“You know what I heard from James? Apparently that boy did three years in Sheridan for smuggling…” Ethel lifts her index finger and thumb to her lips and mimics taking a puff. “You know.”
Bernice gasps, but quickly recovers and shakes her head. “That’s not what I heard from Billy. He said it was three years in Tacoma for manslaughter.”
She hisses the last word. There’s more jaw-dropping and pearl-clutching as they both murmur their shock.
I fight the urge to grin—or laugh—biting down on my lip instead. Unfortunately, I’m not quick enough. I snort. Only, it’s comes out sounding less of a snort and more like a baby seal honking for its mom.
The women turn toward me, abandoning the books I just put out on the “new arrivals” shelf yesterday.
“What was that?” Ethel asks.
“Did you say something Miss Kathryn?”
“Sorry.” I shake my head, cheeks flushing. “It’s just… my allergies.”
Their eyes narrow in unison.
“Is that so?” Bernice asks. “Because from the look and sound of it…”
“You know something,” Ethel says.
“Of course she knows something. She’s the town librarian.”
“And the postmaster.”
“Not to mention, this is the town’s visitor. There’s not a person—neighbor or guest—who doesn’t walk through these doors at least once a week.”
What they’re saying without saying is… I hear things. In the year since I moved to Swift Mountain to run the library/post office/visitor center, I’ve heard a lot of things.
Like, I was the first person to hear when a curvy model from New York got amnesia and ended up falling for the firefighter who rescued her.
I heard when Cliff and Sophie had a one-night stand after his sister’s wedding and ended up making a baby.
I was even one of the first to know when Remington and Jade started knocking boots in secret so her brother wouldn’t find out.
But no one fosters more gossip and intrigue than Troy Taylor. Also known as the owner of PO Box 309, the voracious reader of science fiction, and pretty much the only person in town who didn’t sign up for our annual Secret Santa exchange.
I’ve heard the rumors the elderly Mary-Kate and Ashley here are swapping, and at least a couple dozen more.
He was involved in an international coal smuggling ring.
Some say he even spent three years in prison overseas.
And, my personal favorite: He betrayed a crime syndicate and had to disappear during the trial when he turned state’s witness.
Each theory is more fantastic than the last. But there’s one common thread to all of the gossip: Terrible Troy Taylor is bad news.
The funny thing is, for all the stories floating around Swift Mountain, hardly anyone actually knows him.
No one sees him around town unless he absolutely has to be there. He keeps to himself up on the mountain in that old cabin near the peak, only coming down every couple of weeks for supplies and whatever stack of books he requested through interlibrary loan.
He mostly gets science fiction or the occasional western.
Once, surprisingly, he picked up a copy of Persuasion.
Obviously, I didn’t bat an eye. Not to his face, at least.
“You mark my words,” Ethel says, leaning across the circulation desk like she’s preparing to share state secrets. “A man that handsome and mysterious? There’s always a body count involved.”
Bernice nods solemnly. “At minimum.”
I cough into my hand to hide another laugh.
The bell over the front door jingles before I can respond, saving me from having to explain why I’m clearly entertained by their dramatics.
A blast of icy wind swirls into the library.
“Storm’s rolling in early,” Mr. Hargrove mutters as he stomps snow from his boots. “Roads are already getting slick.”
I glance toward the windows. He’s right. Thick gray clouds have swallowed most of the mountain range already.
Great.
Exactly what I need when I still have to drive clear out to Miller Ranch to drop off donated large-print books before heading home.
An hour later, I’m seriously reconsidering all my life choices.
The storm came in fast.
One minute, it was flurries. The next, snow lashes across my windshield so hard the wipers can barely keep up. The road curves sharply along the mountainside, visibility dropping lower by the second.
“Come on,” I mutter, gripping the steering wheel tighter. “Come on, London. You can do this.”
I hate driving in snow.
Which is deeply unfortunate considering I voluntarily moved to a mountain town where winter lasts approximately eleven months of the year.
My phone buzzes through the Bluetooth speakers.
CALEB.
I immediately tense.
For one stupid, panicked second, I almost think it’s my ex.
But, it’s Caleb from the hardware store returning my voicemail about the flickering light in the employee bathroom.
I exhale shakily and decline the call, trying to focus on the road.
The sound of my tire blowing cracks through the storm.
“Oh my God!”
The steering wheel jerks violently. My little SUV fishtails toward the shoulder, snow spraying everywhere before the vehicle finally lurches to a stop at an angle dangerously close to the ditch.
For a moment, all I can hear is my own breathing.
Then the wind slams against the car hard enough to rock it.
“Nope. Nope, nope, nope.”
My fingers shake as I grab my phone.
No signal. Of course there isn’t one.
I stare out at the wall of snow surrounding me.
No passing cars. No lights. No anything.
Panic claws higher into my throat. Okay. It’s fine. People get stranded all the time in the mountain and live to tell the tale, right?
A sharp knock suddenly sounds against the driver’s side window. I shriek loud enough to embarrass myself spiritually.
A tall shadow stands outside the SUV, broad shoulders barely visible through the storm beneath the brim of a dark hat.
My pulse pounds as the figure reaches for the door handle. Then the light flickers on the second the door swings open.
And my stomach pitches.
Nearly black eyes. Rugged jaw. Beads of water dripping from his dark hair and whiskers.
My heart hitches. It’s Terrible Troy Taylor.
The question is whether he’s here to help or put me in greater danger than ever.