Page 2 of How to Wed a Mountain Man

I settle onto my stool and select my finest chisel, trying to lose myself in the familiar rhythm of work. But tension thrums through my arms. Almost as soon as I begin, the blade slips, cutting a brutal groove across one wing.

“Fuck.” The curse that escapes my lips fills the empty space around me. I set the chisel down before I can do more damage, but it’s too late. Countless hours of work ruined by one careless moment.

Just like I might have just ruined my own life with one reckless decision.

2

PAIGE

When I was little, I used to dream about the perfect family. You know the kind—where parents come to your school plays and stick your artwork on the fridge, where everyone sits down for dinner together and actually talks about their day. Not the kind where you’re squeezed in at an overcrowded table, picking at your food while your older siblings argue over who gets the car this weekend. Not the kind where your mom gets that pinched look on her face every time she has to buy you new shoes because you outgrew the old ones again.

Okay, so becoming a mail-order bride wasn’t exactly part of those childhood fantasies either. But neither was working at my hometown’s grocery store, watching my high school classmates move on to college or cool jobs in the city while I restocked produce and prayed the register wouldn’t jam again. And then the store closed, and suddenly even that boring stability vanished. Try finding a job in a town where the biggest employer just went under.

Every single one of my job applications went unanswered. My savings dwindled. My oldest sister Jane kept sending me links to job listings in cities hours away, like I could just magically afford to move. Mom and Dad didn’t offer to help—they never did. Pretty sure they’d used up all their parental energy on my siblings before I came along as their surprise “blessing” twenty-three years ago.

That’s how I ended up on the mail-order bride website one night, curled up in my childhood bedroom with its faded butterfly wallpaper, scrolling through profiles of men looking for wives. Most of them made my stomach turn. I received creepy messages about wanting “submissive” women, or straight-up asking for my measurements. But then Hawk messaged me.

Your profile caught my attention. Tell me about yourself.

That’s all he wrote at first. No gross comments about my photos, no trying to impress me with how much money he made. Just genuine interest. When I asked questions, he actually answered them. Told me about his life on the mountain, about spending months perfecting a single wood carving until every detail was just right. I kept waiting for him to turn weird like the others, but he never did. His messages were reserved, almost shy, but there was something solid about them. Real.

When he asked me to be his wife, my hands shook so bad I could barely type. It felt crazy—who agrees to marry someone after a month of messages exchanged online? But that was the whole point of being on the website. And in a bizarre, inexplicable way, it felt right. Like maybe this was my chance to finally build something of my own, something that couldn’t be overshadowed by my siblings or dismissed by my parents.

Now that I’m here, though…I’m not so sure. The bedroom window I’m peering out of shows nothing but dense forest and Hawk’s workshop, where he practically fled after our awkward first meeting. My throat gets tight when I think about how he could barely even look at me.

What if he’s disappointed? What if I’m just as unwanted here as I was at home?

I push away from the window and yank the veil from my hair, letting it fall to the floor. Standing here feeling sorry for myself won’t help anything. Determined to do something productive, I walk into the living room. It’s a mess of coffee cups and dirty clothing, looking more like a bachelor cave than a home.

Well, I can fix that at least. Maybe if I show Hawk I can make this place better, he’ll start seeing me as someone who belongs here.

And so I get to work. Over the next few hours, I transform the cabin. Every surface gets dusted, every cup finds its way to the kitchen sink, every shirt gets folded into neat piles. I even discover an actual coffee table under all the clutter. The whole time I work, I imagine Hawk coming back inside, seeing how much nicer everything looks. In my head, he smiles. Tells me I did good. Maybe even…

The front door creaks open. My heart jumps into my throat.

Hawk fills the doorway, somehow looking even bigger than he did a few hours ago. His eyes scan the room, and the color that floods his face isn’t the good kind. Not even close.

“What did you do?” His voice comes out strained, like he’s choking on the words.

“I…cleaned?” The proud feeling I had just seconds ago shrivels under his stare. “I thought it would be nice to?—”

“Please don’t move my things.” He cuts me off, each word precise and cold.

Oh.Oh.The sting of those words hits harder than any of my parents’ subtle digs ever did.

I wrap my arms around my middle, trying to hold myself together. “Right. Sorry. I won’t do it again.”

He shifts his weight, still not really looking at me. “You hungry?”

The abrupt subject change gives me whiplash. I watch him stride into the kitchen, his movements stiff and awkward as he pulls a pot from the fridge. The smell that fills the air as he heats it makes my nose wrinkle—some kind of meat soup that doesn’t smell like anything I’ve ever had before.

“Sit.” He points to a chair like I’m a dog he’s training.

I sink into the seat, feeling smaller by the second. The soup he sets in front of me looks like something that would grow in a swamp. Mystery meat chunks float in murky broth, accompanied by a ripped wedge of stale bread. But he’s watching me, so I force a spoonful into my mouth.

It takes everything I have not to spit it back out.

I force down a few more spoonfuls while Hawk methodically clears his bowl. He makes no effort to engage in conversation. What happened to the guy who sent me that long message about spending three days getting a bird’s wing just right? Who told me how sometimes the wood rebels against him, but that’s how he knows the piece is going to be special?

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