Page 3 of Scolded By the Mountain Man

“Home sweet home,” he replies.

“I didn’t know anyone lived in Adirondack Park. I thought it was all nationally owned.”

Tyson nods. “A lot of people think that. But there are privately owned parts within the park. Come on in. Let’s get you inside and dry.”

I follow him to the base of the stairs. He leans down and scoops up an armful of firewood and nods to the stack. “Grab some. We’ll need to take as much as we can to get us through this storm.”

The chopped wood sits under an overhang, covered by a blue tarp strung over it to keep it dry. I quickly bend down and fill upmy arms with as large of a load as I can carry, then head up the stairs and follow Tyson inside.

The cottage is nice and cozy, and it feels good to be out of the rain. You can definitely tell a man lives here, but it looks like it’s been decorated with a delicate touch. Exposed timbers, homemade table and chairs, the back wall of the living room made from some kind of gray rock, a little bit of art hanging, some books, candles, but nothing modern. I don’t even see a television.

“Shut that door behind you,” he growls. I don’t know why, but I immediately obey him, as though he was my master. I kick the door shut behind me and scurry up to his side by the large open hearth.

I set my wood down on the bricks beside his just as he strikes a match to light an oil lamp on the mantle. And for the first time since we met outside on the mountain, I get a good look at his face.

His features are strong. His cheekbones are high and his eyes penetrating, a striking green that seems to see right through me. As he pulls back his hood and I see the shaggy mane of hair running down his neck and shoulders, I get the distinct feeling that I’m staring at a wolf.

“Get the fire started,” he says, as though it’s expected of me. “And get out of those soaked clothes, city girl. Before you catch a cold.”

My heart skips a beat as he turns away from me. I feel as though I’ve taken an order from my boss, Jerry, only this order I don’t know how to fulfill. I glance down at the stack of firewood, a pile of newspapers, and the open hearth.

“I, um…” I mutter. “I don’t know how to start a fire.”

I feel so terribly embarrassed admitting that to this man, who clearly lives up here all on his own. I’m even wondering if he built this place himself.

He turns and laughs. “Don’t know how to make a fire? Never did Girl Scouts, city girl?”

“My name is Penny,” I tell him.

“Sure it is.” He nods, chuckling. He hangs his jacket on a peg by the hearth, and it’s then I see just how enormous he really is. A worn off-white T-shirt is stretched over his gigantic frame. Despite being out here on his own, he looks like he hits the gym every single day. He probably chopped down every log for this house with a single swing from an axe.

He kneels down at the hearth and begins to crumple up newspaper. Then he turns and looks at me. “What are you still doing with those clothes on? Didn’t I tell you to take them off?”

“Huh?” I stammer. “Oh, I uh…”

“They’re soaking wet,” he continues. “And it’s September. Which means they’re going to cling to you like ice bandages. Do you want hypothermia?”

“N-no–”

He strikes a second match and lights the newspapers, which flare up instantly. “Then take your clothes off. Now.”

There’s no arguing with this man. This is a man who you obey. Who is used to being obeyed. He is competent. So why would I argue with him? What do I have to add to this situation anyway?

“Uh, okay,” I stammer as I unzip my jacket and hang it up beside his. I watch as he adds small pieces of wood to the blaze he’s started with the newspaper. “Kindling, right? That’s called kindling?”

He glances up at me and smirks as though he finds my tiny bit of knowledge adorable, then nods. “That’s right, city girl. Kindling is how you start a fire.”

The kindling crackles and begins to burn, emitting a sweet scent of pine into the living room of the cabin. Tyson addslarger pieces of wood to the burning fire, causing it to grow as I continue to strip out of my clothes.

I don’t know how I’m doing this. I slide out of my shirt and hang it beside my jacket, then kick off my boots and slip out of my jeans. The fire has grown, and flames are flickering throughout the room by the time I’m standing there in nothing but my panties. Tyson looks up from his work and sees me as I stand there covering my breasts with my arms. His eyes move down to my underwear, and he nods.

“Your panties too.”

“What?!” I exclaim. Oh God, this is a nightmare. A shiver runs through me, and it has nothing to do with the cold.

“They’re soaked through too,” he says. “You’ll freeze if you keep them on as well. Oh, wait, you can change into some spare clothes if you have those somewhere.”

“No, I don’t–”

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