The Mountain Man’s Christmas Elf (Courage County Holidays #3)

Chapter 1

Hunter

“I’m not sure that stopping to fuck while running from–what was it again?” Ford, my brother, pauses to ask. I can hear him panting in the background. He’s working out, doing his endless crunches because the man doesn’t have an appreciation for carbs the way I do.

“Ninja assassins,” I answer as I wait for my aging coffee pot to brew. I stifle a yawn. It’s three in the morning.

When I realized how bad his insomnia was from the combat missions, I suddenly developed plot problems for my books in the wee hours. He doesn’t know that I set an alarm clock in the middle of the night so I can call. If it keeps the nightmares and flashbacks at bay for him, I’ll do it.

“Yeah, I just don’t see the hero stopping to fuck her if they’re on the run from ninja assassins,” he finishes completely serious. He knows I’m a best-selling author of dozens of romantic suspense books.

Most readers don’t know that Eva Nightshade, who writes scorching hot romance books, also happens to be a man.

“Not even if she’s super hot and looks kind of like that cute little assistant of yours? What’s her name again?” I shouldn’t needle the bastard.

He growls and lets loose with a string of profanities. “Joy is not your damn concern. You keep your eyes to your fuckin’ self.”

I chuckle, and he swears again. I’ve been after him for months now to talk to his assistant and tell her how he feels. But Mr. Stoic Military Man can’t admit he wants her.

“I thought you needed my help with a question about his Glock,” he grits out, and I hear him adjusting his landline. He won’t even get a cellphone because he hates people that much. “Otherwise, I have things to do.”

“Are you coming to help me board up Mom’s place?” I ask, taking the hint that he needs the subject changed.

“The snowstorm isn’t supposed to hit for a few more days,” he answers. He doesn’t follow the news, so I’m not surprised he doesn’t know about the changed forecast.

“It’s coming faster than they think. Maybe you should see if you can get Joy to visit today. Might do you good to spend Christmas with someone else,” I tell him because I know there’s no way he’s coming to celebrate Christmas with the rest of the family.

Ford isn’t the same guy who left for the military years ago. He was always quiet and withdrawn, but the things he saw changed him. I miss him, the person he used to be.

“I’m going to get Mom squared away,” I say. I sent her a text message last night to let her know I’d be there around midday to help her close her grocery store. I don’t need help from Ford, but I let the invitation hang, unspoken.

“Sounds good. Now about that Glock…” he says before launching into a long discussion about the hero’s weapon of choice. He doesn’t know I already know what he’s telling me. I have countless research and reference books related to military history, weapons, tactical gear, fight moves, and more.

Still, I listen for a solid hour like this is new information. Occasionally, I pause to ask a question but mainly, I listen. Because getting Ford to talk about anything is nearly impossible. By the time we end the call, I have a page of new notes and ideas for how to write the fight scene.

“They’re still going to have sex first,” I tell Ford.

He chuckles, a rusty noise that sounds unfamiliar. “You need to stop writing about other people getting laid and meet a woman of your own.”

“Can’t. Too many deadlines,” I answer rather than tell him I’ve tried online dating a couple of times. Turns out, I’m much better behind a screen than I am in person. No surprise there.

“I’ve got a call waiting. Gotta go,” Ford says. Besides me, there’s no one he talks to other than his assistant. Maybe one of these days, he’ll grab his balls and go for it with her. Fuck, I hope so. He deserves a little bit of happiness.

I end the call just as the first ribbons of daylight are starting to show outside. I finish my third cup of coffee and shuffle into the sunroom where my boys are. These mangy guys are my people. Unlike humans, they don’t judge me for being awkward as hell sometimes.

“Who needs a girl? I got y’all,” I mutter to myself as Leonardo, my German shepherd, nudges my hand with what I imagine to be affection.

I give him some cuddles before reaching for Donatello’s wheelchair. He’s a red Dachshund with a braying bark and endless enthusiasm for exploring.

I didn’t know they made mobility aids for dogs until I met Donny. His previous family didn’t want him when the disc disease caused his paralysis and incontinence. They surrendered him like he was disposable. Just thinking about it has me fuming again.

I get him strapped into the chair, pausing to change his diaper and make sure the harness isn’t chafing him. When I open the door, Raphael, my black Labrador retriever, is the first outside. He scampers after a squirrel with Michelangelo, my beagle, close on his heels.

I watch the four of them roughhouse together for a few minutes before I get them breakfast and check my blood sugar using the app on my phone. I have a continuous monitor on my stomach that’s constantly reading my blood sugar. It’s a lot easier than pricking my fingers multiple times a day.

When I see my sugar level in range, I grab breakfast and pack a bag of snacks. I’ll be on my feet, which can make it hard to guess how much insulin I’ll need. Type 1 diabetes is a bitch to manage on the best of days.

My phone dings with a text from Emma May as I’m heading out the door.

It’s a reminder to bring snacks with me.

She’s my mom. Well, the closest thing I’ve ever had to one.

She took Ford in when he was a teenager then she started searching for me.

Eventually, she found Nate, too. She jokes that she loved Ford so much that she wanted the complete set of triplet brothers.

I send her a quick text message in return, letting her know that I’m on my way.

Donatello nudges my leg as if asking if he can go along.

“Not today, boys,” I tell my crew. “But we’ll do something fun together later.”

I need to burn off their energy, since the coming snowstorm will strand us inside for a few days. But first, the important thing is getting Emma May’s store boarded up.

The engine on my truck sputters when I start it, and I make a mental note to call Nate when he’s back. He’s great at fixing machinery.

But right now, he’s at the airport in Asheville. He’s picking up a stranded single mom and delivering her to her new job in Montana. He sounded different on the phone, like maybe he won’t be back for a while.

It doesn’t matter if he’s gone through Christmas. His farmhands at the ranch will keep his animals fed and well taken care of. Plus, they’ll stay on top of the farm chores. It’s a good thing as I suspect I’m likely to get snowed in by the end of the night.

I drive down the winding mountain roads of Courage County, my heart filling with gratitude at the beauty around me.

I love these proud pine trees that offer shade in the summer and shed their needles to carpet the lush forest floor in the autumn.

I love the squirrels that scamper along the woods, planting seeds that once forgotten will become new trees that take root.

The electric car that passes my aging truck on the mountain has me shaking my head. The vehicle lacks snow tires, and it’s definitely not the type that you see driven around here. Probably some lost tourist.

I catch a glimpse of blonde hair out my window, but I can’t see more than that. Whoever it is, I hope they brought enough supplies to hunker down in a cabin for a little while. Now that they’re here, they aren’t going to be leaving for a few days.

The drive to Emma May’s shop takes me over an hour, but I don’t mind the peaceful drive. Inside, her place is cozy and warm though most of the shelves are bare.

She finishes ringing up her last customer. When she catches my eye, she gives me a big grin and waves me over.

“How’s the book going?” she asks me. It’s always the first question out of her mouth.

She knows I write books, but I’ve never told her my pen name. It’s not that I think Emma May would be ashamed of what I write. No, this sixty-year-old woman would be my biggest champion.

It would only be a matter of hours until the entire town knew who I am. Once word gets out, I won’t be able to put the genie back in that bottle.

“It’s going pretty good,” I answer and to distract her, I say, “I visited Nate last night. He’s good. He’s actually out of town now.”

At Emma’s request, I stopped in and visited Nate. She hadn’t heard from him for a few days, and she was getting worried. We all worry about him around Christmas, ever since what happened three years ago.

She nods, her bifocals sliding down her nose. “He sent me a text message. I hope he can get out in this weather.”

“They haven’t started grounding flights yet. But we do need to get a move on. I brought plenty of plywood to get these windows boarded up.”

“And the big drill?” she asks, excitement gleaming on her face.

“The big drill is for me,” I say firmly.

The last time I let her get up on a ladder, she fell off and nearly gave both of us a heart attack. She laughed off the bruises, but I worried that she had broken a hip or knee.

“You fall off one ladder, one time,” she mutters under her breath as she flicks off the light to the register. It’s just a formality. Her last customer is gone.

“It was a twelve-foot ladder,” I remind her. “Now, why don’t you get the refrigeration systems shut down while I start boarding up?”

She makes a noise of annoyance but goes to do as I suggested.

I don’t even have to look at the coolers to know that she’s already out of milk, butter, eggs, and other staples that require refrigeration. She always sells at a deep discount to the families that struggle financially. She’s never met a hurting soul that she wasn’t bound and determined to help.

Three hours later, I’ve gotten everything boarded up and secured for the snowstorm. Harsh weather is a fact of life here in Courage County. But the beautiful views and kind hearts more than make up for that.

“Don’t forget,” Emma May tells me, “We’re doing the celebration a couple of days after Christmas.”

I nod. She’s fostered countless children in addition to raising some of her own. She often celebrates Christmas with her boys at different times throughout December.

“What do you want this year? I know you’ve been the best boy.” The way she beams at me makes my throat feel tight.

I’m almost tempted to tell her that what I want from Saint Nick this year is a wife and kids. But that’s a surefire way to have her parading every possible woman in front of me.

Call it a side effect of what I do, but I want to meet a woman and get married and have babies. Maybe add some rooms to my cabin, build out a nice kennel for my dogs.

Instead, I find myself saying, “Some new boots would be nice.”

“Excellent.” She claps her hands together. “I got you something before you go.”

She leads me to the back of the store and pulls out a huge cardboard box from inventory. It’s almost bigger than she is.

“Well, that’s a lot of boots.”

She waves her hand. “Don’t open it until you get home. Promise me.”

“Promise, Ma,” I say and press a kiss to her weathered cheek. Couldn’t have asked for a better foster mom.

“You get home before that storm rolls in.” She waves me away, already cutting off the last of the lights.

I carry the box to my truck, setting it in the back carefully. The brutally cold wind blows, ruffling the edges of my flannel shirt. Winter is sending her last warning message, and the wise should heed it.

Still, I hang around the parking lot for a few minutes. I wait until I see Emma May climb into her vehicle and reverse. Content that she’s headed toward safety, I finally start back up the mountain, already dreading my lonely holiday.

My radio starts blaring cheerful music, something about a girl who only wants me for Christmas. With a soft sigh, I tell myself, “Maybe next year you won’t be so lonely.”