Page 45 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

“Do you have nightmares a lot?” I asked gently, my back turned to her, knowing she still felt ashamed about her scream.

I kept my back to her, giving her a modicum of privacy while I seasoned the New York Strip steaks with salt, ground pepper, and a sprinkling of red pepper for a little kick. With the cast iron pan searing hot, I seared them off.

“No, I usually don’t,” she said. I barely heard her over the sizzle of the meat.

“Any reason why they would start now?” I asked, and this time, I looked over at her.

Her face was turned to the window, her expression void. “I don’t know.”

That was the first time I had ever heard her lie to me, but I didn’t call her out on it. I stacked that tidbit away for later as I basted the meat with thyme, rosemary, garlic, and butter. I kept an eye on the boiling potatoes and the diced mushrooms ready to be sautéed.

“Maybe it’s stress,” I told her. “When I was recuperating from the accident, the stress made me have nightmares night after night. Hell, even when I napped during the day, I had nightmares. I relived the accident over and over again until I saw myself dead in twenty variations. I still have PTSD from it.”

Zara’s face dropped. “You still relive that night?”

“Sometimes.”

“And I went and showed it to you. Oh god, Warrick, I am so, so sorry.” She sounded so sorrowful and regretful. I pivoted to see her slipping off the couch. She then wrapped her arms around my waist from behind.

Feeling her press so close to me and hearing her express herself so freely made me want to tell her it was all right, but for now, I settled on circling one arm around her briefly and kissing her temple. She felt so small and vulnerable. All I wanted to do was protect her, even from herself.

“I hope you take your steaks medium rare,” I said, pulling the meat out and resting them while I poured heavy cream into the potatoes and added a dash of salt and pepper and some garlic.

She peered into the pot. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”

“During recovery, I distracted myself with videos and ended up falling down the rabbit hole of cooking videos. They taught me more than when my mother tried,” I said. “And believe me, she tried.”

“Can I help you with anything?” she asked.

At that very moment, Goose came and nudged my knee, telling me he needed to go out. I asked Zara to take him. She nodded, “Let me put on some pants.”

Since we had not taken our bags out, I watched as she crouched. The edge of her boy shorts cupping her round bottom sparked the lingering lust I still held from earlier. I wanted to be inside her badly, but that was going to be later on.

She left, and I fixed the rest of dinner, getting a little concerned about how long she was taking to get back in. So, with the food covered and in the oven, I got my boots on and headed out to find Zara and Goose at the north of the cabin, where there was a break in the trees.

It was a place where you could see all the miles and miles of pasturelands below; beyond those, she could see my hometown.

“I know you explained why you left this place, but did you find it any easier being away?” she asked.

“The first place I ended up in after leaving here was Lincoln, Nebraska, with a small training camp… I trained every day and worked every night,” I replied. “When I ended up in Queens for half a year, I’d gotten spoiled by how close things were: banks, supermarkets, ATMs, the ER, and believe me, I used a lot of that.”

“Most people thought I’d left because small-town life wasn’t enough for me, but that wasn’t exactly it. I liked the quiet and being so close to nature up here, but I’d felt stifled. After I left Dallas, I knew my life would circle back here one day… I just didn’t know when or why. I was young and knew I would have to be a bit older to take on as much responsibility for the ranch.”

She turned, her hand dropping idly onto Goose’s head. He rubbed his head into her palm. “Let’s get back inside.”

We reentered the cabin, and while she curled up on the couch, still rubbing Goose’s ears, I plated up. She took a quick trip to wash her hands before returning and tucked into her meat—her groan was orgasmic.

“God, this is good.” She groaned. “You can cook for me anytime.”

“Marie is jealous of her kitchen,” I said. “She would scold me if I got anywhere near her territory. Do you cook?”

Zara snickered. “Hell no, I can’t even boil water without burning it. And I know that is physically impossible, but I have done it.”

I found myself increasingly curious about Zara’s life. “What sort of things do you do well?”

“I—” she paused. “—I guess I could say the one thing I do well is my job as a PA. I didn’t really excel at sports or arts. I never really found my groove until I was dropped into the office.”

She sounded…evasive. And I didn’t like that. Why was she so cagey with her past?

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