Wanted By the Mountain Man Detective (Mountain Man Cops #3)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Rhea

The road narrows as I climb into the mountains. Pavement gives way to gravel, and the trees press closer on both sides. I have been driving for an hour, watching the landscape shift from highway to backroad to something that barely qualifies as either.

My hands ache from gripping the wheel. The rental car was not built for this kind of terrain, and every pothole reminds me that I am far from the city now. Far from the clean lines of office buildings and the predictable rhythm of conference calls.

Pine Hollow appears around a bend like an afterthought.

One main street. A handful of buildings clustered together as if they decided safety lay in numbers.

I slow as I pass the welcome sign and count what passes for commerce here.

A diner with faded paint. A hardware store.

A post office that looks like it might close for lunch and forget to reopen.

And there, wedged between the post office and a building that might be a barbershop, I spot a narrow office with a window decal:

Gideon Hale

Private Investigator

I park across the street and sit with my hands on the steering wheel. The engine ticks as it cools while I try to work up the nerve to confront the detective.

I need him to hear me out… to believe me.

I understand how things look on paper, and I know that once a story starts circulating, it gains momentum whether or not it contains any truth.

This whole mess started when I discovered what looked like a simple accounting error.

But then I spotted another… and then another.

The missing money wasn’t dramatic. No massive withdrawal.

No single red flag that would trigger an immediate audit.

Just small amounts gone over time, careful enough to blend into the noise of routine transactions.

But it’s been going on long enough to become noticeable, and I’m the easiest person to blame.

The newest accountant. The one who reported the problem. The one whose login credentials appear in all the right places at all the wrong times.

I reported the discrepancy because it was my job.

Because ignoring irregularities seemed worse than flagging them.

I did not expect the response to be silence followed by scrutiny.

Questions about my processes. Requests for documentation I had already provided.

The slow, careful construction of a narrative that did not include me as the person who found the problem, but as the person who might have caused it.

And then the clincher: the firm hired a private detective to investigate, and they didn’t invite me to talk to him.

Someone’s up to no good, but it’s not me.

I’m innocent, and I refuse to be the scapegoat. So, the detective will hear my side of the story… whether he wants to or not.

I take a deep breath and step out of the car. The air is cooler up here, cleaner. My boots crunch over gravel as I cross the street. I do not allow myself to hesitate before pushing the door open.

Inside, the space is spare. A desk. Two chairs facing it. A coat rack in the corner. A filing cabinet. No receptionist. No clutter. The heater hums quietly in the background, and I get the distinct impression that I am not alone even though I cannot see anyone.

"I'm looking for Gideon Hale," I say to the empty room.

There’s movement near the back wall. A man straightens from a chair positioned behind the filing cabinet, where he has been partially hidden from view. He is tall, broad across the shoulders, his posture relaxed but alert in a way that makes it clear he noticed me before I noticed him.

When his gaze meets mine, it is direct and assessing. As if he has already started cataloging information.

"You found him," he says.

"I'm Rhea Martinson," I say. "And I’m here to talk about RidgeLine Development."

Something shifts in his expression. His attention sharpens, tracking my face, my stance, the fact that I do not look away.

"Have a seat," he says, gesturing to one of the chairs.

I sit. He moves around the desk but remains standing, one hand resting on the back of his chair.

"What exactly do you want to talk about?" he says.

I raise my chin, leveling my gaze on him. “I know you were hired to look into possible embezzlement, and I could tell by the look on your face that you recognized my name. But if you’re thinking I’m the guilty party, you’re wrong.”

His jaw tightens. Just slightly. Enough that I notice.

"As an accountant, it’s my job to look at the numbers, and I could tell they weren’t adding up.

Small amounts of money have been going missing, a little bit at a time, for over a year," I continue.

"I reported the matter internally. And now I'm concerned the company is looking for a convenient explanation. "

"You think someone is setting you up," he says.

"I think I have access, visibility, and a paper trail that points in my direction," I reply. "I’m the easiest target, but only if everyone’s too lazy to look for the real culprit. Are you lazy, Mr. Hale?”

He smirks. “Do I look lazy?”

No… no, he does not. It definitely took time, effort, and energy to craft a physique as perfect as his. Heat creeps into my cheeks as I try to avoid running my eyes down his body.

I clear my throat. “The sort of laziness I’m referring to can’t be discerned by looking at a person. Will you hear what I have to say and look at all the information to find the guilty party?”

He chuckles. “That’s my job. You were on my list of people to question already. You really didn’t have to drive all the way out here.”

"I prefer to stay ahead of problems," I say. "Especially ones that could cost me my career."

A subtle change passes through his expression. Something intent. Decisive.

“My gut’s telling me you didn’t do it, but I’ll be investigating everyone. You included. I will find out who’s stealing from the company.”

The words settle between us. Not as reassurance, exactly. More like acknowledgment. A line drawn. He’s not on my side, but that’s okay. Because he’s promised to find the truth. And how’s the saying go? The truth will set me free.

A small smile curves my mouth before I can stop it. “Tell me how I can help you clear my name. Then let’s work together to bring down the asshole who’s doing this.”

His lips remain neutral, but something in his eyes sharpens. There’s a hint of something there. Interest?

I push the thought aside. I’m not here to make eyes at the sexy mountain man detective. I’m here to clear my name.

But it doesn’t hurt to admire the view at the same time, does it?