Sunshine for the Mountain Man (Mountain Man Mail Order Bride #5)

Chapter 1

Chapter

One

REED

The mountain is quiet before dawn. Not peaceful. Quiet.

Snow presses against the cabin windows, dulling the world to a pale gray hush. I’ve been awake for an hour. I always am.

My shoulder aches faintly in the cold. Nothing sharp, just the familiar stiffness that settles in when the temperature drops. That tugs me out of bed before first light. I roll it once and ignore it.

Coffee slides down my throat, strong enough to punish, as I stand at the window watching the ridge line gather light.

Then I sit at the piano. The keys are cold because I never light the fire first.

An old metronome rests on the edge of the instrument, wound but unused. Discipline without motion.

My hands hover. One note slips out. Then another. Finally, a chord that vibrates through my fingers.

The opening phrase rises slowly—controlled, restrained. Four measures. The ascent.

A melody I once heard in another room, another life.

The suspended breath before resolution…

I stop.

My palm flattens against the keys, cutting the sound before it finishes what it began.

The violin concerto does not exist.

I burned it. Every page. Every measure. Control restored through destruction.

Destruction.

My hands slam down on the keys. One stroke of impetuous, percussive dissonance. The piano complains, a hum rising like an accusation in the cabin’s calm.

Why music still holds me in its grip, I don’t know. She’s a worse mistress than my cheating ex-wife ever was. Though both took everything.

Maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be.

The piano bench scrapes against the floorboards as I rise, pacing. They squeak beneath my feet, the air cold enough to see my breath.

I should light a fire. But why? For whom?

A knock sounds at the door. I freeze.

No one climbs this ridge without a reason.

The knock comes again. Firm. Uncertain, but not timid.

I cross the room and open the door.

Cold air moves between us.

She stands on the porch with snow caught in her hair—dark blonde twisted loosely at her neck, strands pulled free by the wind.

She’s smaller than I’m used to, curvy in all the right places. Strong, too, by the look of her raised chin and penetrating gaze. There’s steadiness in the way she meets me. Like she demands respect.

Heart-shaped face. Clear, expectant eyes that give away too much. Faint calluses along the fingertips of her left hand and the pointer finger of her right, where she grips a bow.

She shifts the violin case on her shoulder with the unconscious care of someone who’s carried one for years.

Bright without being loud. Warmth that unsettles the cold.

I clear my throat, trying not to stare. But she passes through me like something I’ve missed. Maybe something I’ve never even had.

“I’m here about the listing,” she says. Her voice carries warmth despite the cold.

The listing? I hesitate, trying to make sense of her words.

After an awkward moment, I frown. “That listing… expired.”

Her forehead knits. “It’s still pinned in town.”

Of course, it is.

My eyes narrow. “And you thought driving up a mountain in February, mid-blizzard, was appropriate?”

“Yes.”

No apology. Oddly refreshing.

“What’s your name?”

“Ivy Callahan.”

The name strikes a different kind of chord.

“Still pinned? I see.” I cross my arms over my chest. “You understand this isn’t a seasonal job,” I say. “This is isolation.”

“So, not expired then?”

“Perhaps not,” I grumble. “Now do you understand?”

“I understand.”

I clear my throat, heat rising along my neck. “And you’d be living here.”

“Yes.”

“With me.”

“Yes.” The certainty doesn’t waver.

“What do you think the position entails?” I ask.

“Property management. Correspondence. Supply runs when weather permits. Administrative filtering.”

“Filtering what?”

“Festival invitations. Interviews. Requests for appearances.”

My jaw tightens slightly. There it is. “You’re assuming I receive those.”

“You do.”

I stare at her longer than I intend.

“Based on what?”

“Small towns talk.”

That, at least, is true.

“And you’re comfortable being the wall between me and the rest of the world?”

“Yes.”

The wind shifts, pushing snow across the porch in a low sweep.

“You drove up here alone?” I ask, eyeing her car suspiciously.

“Yes.”

“In this weather?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t mind snow.”

“I don’t like driving in it,” she replies. “Unless it’s a… job requirement.”

An exasperated chuckle escapes my lips. Our eyes meet, but she doesn’t look perturbed.

Her statement doesn’t match the journey she just made. We both know this. And yet, my gut knots when I think about what I should say next. That I should tell her to leave.

I don’t.

The storm thickens visibly now, the snowfall turning from steady to dense.

“You’re aware storms like this can last for days?”

“I am.”

“And that you may be stuck here?”

She glances once over her shoulder at the narrowing whiteout. “I suspected as much.”

“You should have turned around.”

She shrugs. “I didn’t.”

Silence stretches deliberately between us. Most people rush to fill it. They soften it. But she doesn’t.

“You know what they’re calling this in town?” I say.

Her eyes round, puzzled.

“A mail-order bride arrangement.”

The listing had been a joke. A way to keep people away. A caretaker role that read suspiciously like a domestic arrangement.

Her mouth curves faintly, but she doesn’t laugh.

“And are you?” I ask.

“No.”

“Good.”

The word leaves me gruffer than intended.

Her nose scrunches. “You mean like that Mountain Mates site?”

“Would that be better than my post?”

“No.”

The word comes too fast.

For a second something sharp flashes across her face.

Jealousy.

Which makes absolutely no sense.

She’s a stranger who ventured up my mountain with a violin case and a stubborn streak she can’t hide.

Still…

I make a quiet mental note of it, ruffling my hair with my hand. “And what do you think of their talk? The gossip about me… marrying a stranger?”

She shrugs. “Let them talk.”

I stand back on my heels. Plainspoken. Direct.

I like her.

Snow sweeps across the ridge in a heavy wave, visibility evaporating.

“Why this position?” I ask. “You’re young. Capable. You could work anywhere.”

“I prefer structure,” she says. “And quiet.”

“You think this is quiet?”

“I think it can be.”

My shoulder pulses once beneath the flannel. I ignore that, too. “You’re aware I declined the festival this year,” I say.

“Yes.”

“And that decision isn’t negotiable.”

“I’m not here to negotiate it.”

“Then what are you here for?”

“To work.”

The answer is simple. Unadorned.

“You’d handle the physical aspects of the property as well?” I grumble. “Snow? Wood? Repairs when needed?”

The words are more bluster than anything else. A test of her determination.

“Yes.”

“You don’t look particularly suited to hauling timber.”

Her gaze doesn’t drop, though her bottom lip quivers slightly. “I’ll manage.”

The confidence is measured, not reckless. The wind presses harder against the cabin walls.

“I would never ask that of you anyway,” I say too quickly.

“I know,” she says.

I swallow hard, looking past her at the swirling white. “You won’t make it back down today.”

She looks with me now at the whiteout building beyond the porch. “No.”

“You understand that staying here requires discretion?”

“Yes.”

“You won’t discuss my shoulder?”

“No.”

“You won’t discuss why I don’t conduct?”

Her eyes hold mine steadily. “No.”

The storm closes in around us, sealing the ridge in white. That’s when I notice the slight shiver coming from her core, her breath a lacy puff of ice.

“Three days,” I mutter. “Possibly more.”

“That’s fine.” I hear the tremor in her voice now, too. The cold threading it.

Some moments feel like they change everything. This is one of them.

I study her one last time. Not romantic. Not intimidated. Not curious in the way most people are when they climb this mountain.

Deliberate. Capable.

The wind howls along the ridge, rattling the porch rail. Snow swallows the road entirely.

I should tell her to leave.

Instead, I step aside. “Come in.”

Her fingers tighten briefly around the violin case strap. Then, she crosses the threshold without hesitation, and the door shuts behind her.

“Let me make a fire,” I murmur, heading for the hearth.

“I can do that,” she catches herself when I wheel around too abruptly. “If it’s part of the job?”

“No.”

The least I can do is keep her warm.

Outside, the mountain buries the path. Inside, the silence shifts.

Not broken. Shared.

And I realize, with a clarity I don’t welcome, that inviting a stranger into this house may unsettle more than the storm ever could.