Stranded With The Protective Mountain Man (Mountain Man Summer 2026 #12)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

SILAS

The tomato plants need tying up, and that's the most complicated thing on my schedule for the next three days. Maybe the next three months.

Ash watches from the porch while I work the garden rows, his big German Shepherd head resting on his paws like he's supervising. He's not. He's half asleep. But if I stop moving too long, one ear swivels my direction, checking.

Good dog. Better company than most people.

The air has that heavy, electric feel that means weather's coming.

I straighten up from the tomato cages and scan the ridge to the west. Clouds are building fast over the peaks, bruise-dark and stacking.

Not the soft afternoon thunderstorm kind.

The kind that dumps three inches in two hours and turns my access road into a river.

"Storm's coming," I tell Ash. He thumps his tail once. Noted.

My hands are black with garden soil, and the sun's already dropping behind the cloud bank.

Three years on this mountain, and the rhythm of the place has seeped into my bones.

Wake before dawn. Coffee on the porch. Feed Ash, check the solar panels, work the garden, split wood if the pile's getting low. Eat something. Read something. Sleep.

No sirens. No dispatch radio crackling at 2 a.m. No waking up already running toward fire.

Quiet. Controlled. Mine.

The first rumble of thunder rolls across the valley, and Ash lifts his head.

He's not afraid of storms, but he respects them.

Smart dog. I learned the same lesson the hard way.

Twelve years on hotshot crews taught me exactly what happens when weather turns.

Fire taught me that lesson first. Then a burnover in Idaho taught me the permanent version.

My right shoulder aches when the pressure drops.

The scar tissue pulls tight from shoulder blade to ribs, a topographic map of the worst night of my life.

Bobby Callahan didn't walk out of that burnover.

Neither did Martinez or the rookie whose name I still say in my sleep sometimes.

I walked out. Dragged Kendricks out from under deadfall while fire crowned overhead. Got the scar for it.

Got the nightmares for free.

I wash my hands at the outdoor pump and stack my tools in the shed. The wind picks up fast, snapping through the pines, carrying the smell of ozone and wet earth. Big storm. The kind that washes out roads.

Which means nothing to me. Nobody comes up here except Ridge once a month for beer and silence, and he's not due for two weeks.

I'm on the porch lashing down the chair cushions when the first fat drops hit. Ash scoots back against the cabin wall. Lightning cracks close enough that the thunder follows in under a second, and the sky opens.

Inside, the cabin goes dark except for the solar battery lights. Rain hammers the metal roof so loud it drowns out thought. Good. Most nights I'd sit by the window with a book and let the storm run its course.

But Ash is at the door. Not scared pacing. Alert pacing. Ears forward, nose working.

"What."

He whines. Low, purposeful.

Ash doesn't whine for weather. He whines for things that don't belong.

I pull on my rain jacket and grab the heavy flashlight from the hook by the door. The access road is a mile and a half of packed dirt that turns to pure mud in a hard rain. Nobody drives it unless they know where they're going, and nobody who knows where they're going would be out in this.

The beam of the flashlight cuts through sheets of rain as I jog down the road with Ash at my heel.

He's locked on something, pulling ahead with that focused energy that says he's tracking.

Quarter mile down, the road curves around a stand of ponderosa pines, and the flashlight catches the rear bumper of a car.

A rental sedan. White. Economy class. Sitting at an angle with one tire completely flat, the other three sunk to the rims in mud. It's going nowhere. It was going nowhere two hours ago.

The driver's door is open. The interior light is dead. Rain is pooling on the seat.

No one inside.

"Ash. Find."

He takes off ahead, and I follow the beam of the flashlight past the car. Twenty yards up the road, Ash stops. Sits. Stares at the ground next to a pine tree where a woman is crouched with her arms wrapped around her knees, soaked completely through, trying to make herself small against the trunk.

She's wearing a sundress. A sundress. In a mountain thunderstorm. The fabric is plastered to her body, and her hair is a wet curtain of something between blonde and red. She's got a camera bag clutched against her chest like it's the only thing worth saving.

Lightning flashes, and she looks up at me.

Gray-blue eyes. Freckles across her nose. Full mouth set in a line that's half terrified and half furious with herself.

"Are you hurt?" My voice is louder than I mean it to be. The storm makes everything a shout.

She blinks rain out of her eyes. "I have a flat tire."

"I can see that. Are you hurt."

"No. Just extremely stupid." She pushes wet hair off her face. Dimples flash even though she's not smiling. "My GPS said this was a shortcut."

"Your GPS is wrong. This is a private access road to my property."

"Great. Love that for me."

Ash pushes his nose into her hand, and she flinches, then relaxes when he sits next to her like he's decided she's his problem now. Traitor.

"Can you stand?"

She stands. She's short, maybe five-five, and she's shivering hard enough that I can see it from three feet away.

The sundress is pale yellow, completely transparent where it's wet, and she's all soft curves and goosebumps.

Full hips. Round everywhere. The camera bag strap cuts between her breasts and she doesn't seem to notice or care.

My eyes go back to her face. That's where they're staying.

"Your car's not moving tonight," I tell her. "Road's already washed out behind you."

"What does that mean?"

"Means you're stuck. No cell service up here either. Nearest anything is my cabin, half mile back."

Another crack of thunder, close and vicious. She flinches hard, shoulders pulling up, eyes squeezing shut. When she opens them, she's looking at me like she's weighing her options and realizing she doesn't have any.

"I'm Silas Reeves. I live here. I'm not going to hurt you."

"Wren Halloway." Her teeth are chattering.

"I'm a wedding photographer. I took a wrong turn looking for a venue and my tire blew and my phone has zero bars and I've been sitting under this tree for forty-five minutes telling myself someone would drive by.

" She laughs, short and shaky. "On your private road. Where no one drives."

"No one drives it."

"Right. Great."

Ash leans against her leg, and she drops her hand to his head automatically. Scratches behind his ear. He leans harder.

"Come on." I take off my rain jacket and hold it out. She stares at it, then at me. My t-shirt is already soaked through in three seconds flat, but she's been out here for almost an hour. "Put it on."

She takes the jacket. Her fingers brush mine, and they're ice cold. She's been out here long enough for her lips to go pale, and that camera bag is heavy, pulling her sideways.

"I'll get your bag."

"I've got it."

Of course she does.

We walk the half mile back to the cabin in the rain, Ash between us like an escort. She doesn't complain. Doesn't talk at all, actually, which surprises me. Most people would fill this silence with nervous chatter.

The porch light catches her face when we reach the cabin. Wet red-gold hair. Those freckles. Eyes the color of a storm sky, wide open and taking in everything. My porch. My firewood stack. My garden cages. My life, laid out bare and simple.

She looks at all of it. Then she looks at me, standing there soaked to the skin, and something in her expression goes soft.

"Thank you," she says quietly.

"Don't thank me yet. You might be here a while."

Her dimples appear again. A real smile this time, tired and grateful and so warm it catches me off guard.

I open the door and let her walk in first, and Ash follows her like he's known her his whole life.

That makes two of us who are in trouble.