Page 1 of How to Wed a Mountain Man

1

HAWK

I’ve never been a man who paces. Give me a rifle, and my hands stay dead steady. Hand me a carving knife, same story. Nothing throws me off my game. Nothing shakes me.

Except here I am, my boots scraping a rough path in the hardwood floor. Back and forth I go. Window to door to window again. Each turn cranks the tension in my chest tighter. What kind of man orders a bride off the internet? What kind of woman agrees to marry a stranger on a mountain?

The messages I exchanged with my bride-to-be flash through my mind—her direct questions, how she pushed past my walls like they weren’t even there, the way she drew me out word by word. A month of messages shouldn’t be enough to build a life on, but my gut says she’s right for me, and my gut’s never been wrong.

Until now, maybe. My restless circuit brings me face to face with my living room, and for the first time I see it through a stranger’s eyes. Through Paige’s eyes. A week’s worth of coffee cups are crowded on the table. Dirty work shirts are draped over every free surface. My cabin walls are bare except for my rifle rack.I rake my fingers through my hair, wondering how the hell I thought I could bring a woman into this den.

Flowers. Women like flowers, right?

I grab a jar from my kitchen, blast the dust out with hot water. The spring wildflowers are blooming outside. I can at least give her that much of a welcome.

I only make it a few steps out of my cabin when an engine purrs low between the trees. A compact off-roader rounds the bend in my driveway, paint faded to a sun-bleached yellow, rattling over the uneven ground. Through the dusty windshield I catch glimpses—auburn hair, white-knuckled grip on the wheel.

My heart pounds hard enough to hurt.

The vehicle lurches to a stop alongside my truck. The engine coughs before going silent. For a moment, nothing moves except the dust settling around her tires. Then her door opens with a screech. She—Paige—steps out in jeans and a soft blue sweater, a short white veil pinned in her auburn hair.

Christ. Her profile pictures didn’t tell half the story. The sight of her curves stops my breath in my throat. She’s built for a man’s hands, for holding close through mountain winters. When she meets my eyes, her smile hits me deep in the chest.

“Hawk?” Her voice carries across the yard, and every feral thing inside me stands at attention.

The mason jar is still in my grip. Empty. Useless. Like my damn tongue, which can’t seem to remember how words work.

I force my feet to move. Each step brings her scent closer, a sweet, inviting scent that I can’t put words to. I have to swallow hard before I can speak.

“Let me get your things,” I finally manage to say, the words struggling out of my throat.

She pops the trunk, revealing a single large suitcase. She’s packed her whole life into one bag and traveled across the country to marry a stranger. The trust in that action sits heavy in my chest as I reach for her luggage.

That’s when I remember I’m still holding the empty mason jar. “Uh…shit. Hold on a sec.”

My big hands feel clumsy as I gather a fistful of purple and white blooms. When I straighten, Paige is watching me with a softness in her expression that fills my head with filthy thoughts I have no right to be having. Not yet. Not when we’re still strangers.

Inside the house, I find a spot for the flowers while Paige takes in my living room. Her hips sway as she moves, drawing my attention even as I try to focus elsewhere. She trails her fingers along my couch, and I imagine those same fingers moving over my skin. Suddenly the room feels too small, too warm.

“So this is home, huh?” she says with a brightness that feels forced. A thin silver ring adorns her right hand, the metal duller than it probably once was. My stomach drops as I realize I don’t even have a ring to give her. Some husband I’m turning out to be.

She’s already kicked off her shoes, padding around my living room in her socks, touching everything like she’s cataloging what needs to change. “I know you said you were tucked away on the mountain, but I didn’t realize you werethissecluded,” she says with a gentle laugh. “I got lost trying to find you. Thank goodness for your neighbors. The woman who lives down the road from you pointed me in the right direction.”

My jaw locks. Jordana and Griffin knowing about my arrangement with Paige sets my teeth on edge. The last thing I need is other people getting in my business. There’s a reason I live as far up on the mountain as I do.

“Are you friends with them?” Paige asks, looking at me hopefully. Sunlight catches in her auburn hair, bringing out red-gold strands that I want to trace with my fingertips.

“No.” The word comes out sharp. I force my voice softer. “I keep to myself.”

Paige’s shoulders tense, then deliberately relax. “The woman looked like she must be due soon. It will be wonderful to have a baby so close by.” She breaks into a grin. “Maybe our kids can grow up together.”

The wordkidsfreezes the blood in my veins. Children. Tiny humans depending on me, needing things, changing everything about this life I’ve built. My carefully constructed solitude crumbling under the weight of family, community, responsibility. The walls press in.

“You should get settled.” I gesture to her suitcase, already backing away. “Bedroom’s down the hall, first door on the right. I’ve got work to do in my shop.” My voice sounds like it’s being spoken by someone else. “I’ll check on you later.”

Hurt flashes across Paige’s face, but I can’t stay. Can’t face how quickly this is unraveling.

My workshop stands separate from the cabin, a sanctuary of wood shavings and silence. Inside, I run my palm over the half-finished piece consuming my workbench—a great horned owl emerging from cherry wood. Weeks of careful cuts have defined each feather and captured the intensity of its gaze.

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