Rough Marshal Daddy (Steel Mountain Daddies #1)
1. Riley
Riley
I can’t believe I’m not dead. Seriously. After what I saw… I should be dead.
I witnessed a man get murdered. Point blank. Blood everywhere. And the killers saw my face.
A big black truck rumbles up the snowy path and stops. The door swings open and a man steps out.
He’s massive. Battle-hardened. Shoulders so broad they seem to block the falling snow as he walks toward the porch.
Dark hair dusted with white flakes, a jagged scar slicing through one eyebrow, and eyes like cold steel that scan every person before locking onto me.
His black tactical jacket stretches tight across a powerful chest, and the way he moves radiates pure danger and control.
Heavy boots crunch through the snow with every step.
My mouth goes dry. Holy growly mountain daddy in tactical gear. My brain supplies the thought in full sparkling romcom mode even though my actual life has turned into a dark thriller. This is not the time for spicy daydreams, Riley. You watched someone die. Focus.
But I can’t help it. He looks like the kind of man who could throw me over his shoulder and carry me to safety while growling filthy promises in my ear.
“Riley Thompson,” he says, his voice low and rough like gravel dragged over mountain stone. He doesn’t ask. He states it like an unchangeable fact. Those razor-sharp eyes pin me in place and refuse to let go. “I’m U.S. Marshal Mason Cole.”
“Hi,” I squeak, offering a tiny wave that feels completely ridiculous. “I’m the girl who accidentally witnessed a mob hit and now has very bad men wanting her dead. Nice to meet you. I bake really good cinnamon rolls. Or I used to. Before my life became significantly more dangerous.”
One dark eyebrow twitches. Not quite a smile.
More like he’s deciding whether I’m worth the massive headache I’m about to become.
He climbs the porch steps in two powerful strides, his boots thudding heavily against the wood.
Up close he smells like pine, gun oil, cold mountain air, and something darker.
Something undeniably male that makes my stomach flutter.
He looks at Harlan. “Appreciate the pickup point. The storm over the Steel Mountains is getting worse fast. I’m taking her to my cabin tonight.”
Harlan nods, his arm staying protectively around Sunny. “You look after her, Cole.”
Mason’s teeth grind together for a second before he forces his expression back under control. “That’s my job.”
Then those intense eyes return to me. “You got anything besides the clothes on your back?”
I shake my head and clutch my small bag tighter against my chest. “Just me and a whole lot of panic.”
His large hand settles on my lower back, firm and commanding even through my jacket. The heat of his palm burns straight through the fabric as he guides me down the steps toward his truck. “Then we move. The blizzard isn’t waiting for anyone.”
The drive up into the Steel Mountains grows more intense with every mile.
Snow falls heavier the higher we climb, thick white flakes swirling wildly in the truck’s headlights like a chaotic winter dance.
The wind howls and slams against the sides of the vehicle, rocking us slightly.
Mason drives in focused silence, one big hand gripping the wheel, the other resting near the gun on his hip.
The heater blasts warm air that smells like worn leather and him.
I keep stealing glances at his strong profile, at the way his jaw tightens when the wind hits us particularly hard.
This is fine. Completely normal. Just riding through a ferocious blizzard with a battle-hardened US Marshal who looks like he wrestles bears for breakfast. Nothing suspicious about the way my body keeps noticing how huge his hands are.
We finally reach a remote one-room cabin tucked deep among the trees. The wind screams through the branches as Mason cuts the engine. Snow already piles high against the tires and the cabin walls, glowing white in the headlights.
“Inside,” he orders. He helps me down from the truck, his hand firm on my lower back again as he guides me through the deep snow.
My boots sink in with every step, cold wetness seeping through.
The moment we push through the door and he slams it shut behind us, the storm sounds dull to a distant roar.
“This is my hunting cabin. Off the grid.”
The cabin is rustic and simple. One large main room. A big bed in the corner piled high with heavy quilts. A wood stove ready for a fire. A small kitchen area sits to one side. One couch. The single bed dominates everything like a bold declaration.
I stand dripping melted snow onto the wooden floor, hugging my arms around myself as the full reality sinks in. My heart races.
“One bed,” I whisper, my voice coming out softer and breathier than I intend.
Mason drops his duffel bag with a heavy thud and turns to face me.
Snow melts in his dark hair, sliding down the side of his neck.
His merciless eyes drag slowly over my body from head to toe and back up again, darker this time.
The air between us suddenly feels thick, electric, and dangerously warm.
“Yeah,” he says, his voice a rough rumble. “One bed. And a hell of a storm outside. Looks like you’re stuck with me for the foreseeable future.”
He takes a slow step closer, towering over me, and my pulse thunders in my ears. The smell of him grows stronger. Pine and man and raw power. My romcom brain spins wildly even as fear and attraction war inside my chest.
Oh boy, I think, cheeks flushing hot. This grumpy mountain marshal is either going to keep me alive... or completely ruin me in the very best and filthiest ways possible.
The wind howls louder outside, rattling the windows like it wants inside. Mason stares down at me with those intense granite-gray eyes, and I know this is only the beginning of something I’m not sure I’m ready for.
But as the blizzard seals us in together, I can’t deny the spark of heat low in my belly or the way my body leans toward him like it already knows exactly who it wants to belong to.