Page 3 of How to Wed a Mountain Man

“Are you still working on the owl you told me about?” I finally ask, desperate to fill this awful silence with something, anything.

“Yep.” The word falls between us like a stone.

“I’d love to see it, if you’d like to show it to me.”

“It’s not done.”

Jesus. This man sitting across the table from me is nothing but walls and sharp edges.

The room starts to swim. Maybe it’s the soup—though I’m not even sure ‘soup’ is the right word for whatever this is. Or maybe it’s the crushing weight of realizing I’ve made a horrible, horrible mistake. But what options do I have? My whole life fits in that one suitcase. I can’t go home.

“I need to lie down.” My chair scrapes against the floor. I stand up only to discover that my legs feel like they’re made of jelly.

Hawk is beside me in an instant, his hands catching my arms. But his touch feels impersonal, like a doctor steadying a patient. Nothing like how a man should touch his bride.

“What’s wrong? Are you ill?” There’s worry in his voice, but it almost feels like he’s accusing me of something.

“I just need to lie down,” I say again, barely getting the words out.

The walk to the bedroom feels endless. Each step reminds me how far I am from everything I know, how completely I’ve gambled my future on a man who apparently can’t stand having me touch his stuff, let alone touch him. Hawk’s hands stay steady on my arms, but his grip is tense.

He helps me onto the bed, mumbles “Get some rest,” and disappears. When the door closes behind him, I curl under the covers and let the tears come.

So much for my dreams of finally finding somewhere I belong.

3

HAWK

It’s official. I’m an idiot.

Hours of staring at my cabin’s ceiling from this lumpy couch haven’t changed that conclusion. Sleep has been impossible with all of my mistakes playing on repeat in my head.

Yesterday was a disaster from the moment Paige arrived. Years of steady hands and careful control abandoned me the second she mentioned wanting kids. I foolishly retreated to my workshop, running from the reality of what I’d done—brought a woman to this mountain, promising her a life I’m not even sure I know how to give.

I was already in a foul mood from ruining weeks of work with one careless cut of my chisel. But walking back into a house I barely recognized broke something in me. Every surface was cleaned and organized, showing me exactly what a disgrace I’d become.

And instead of gratitude, I gave her anger.

My teeth ache from grinding them all night. That soup—what kind of jackass serves a bride three-day-old game stew? Icouldn’t even look at her across the table, couldn’t manage basic conversation. No wonder she got sick.

I know I should have taken more time getting to know her before asking her to be my bride. But something in her messages worked its way under my skin. And in all of her profile photos, her smile shone right through the screen. Guess I was worried if I waited too long, someone else would see what I saw.

I check my watch. 7:15. Haven’t heard a sound from the bedroom yet. The memory of how pale Paige looked last night, and how unsteady she was on her feet, twists in my chest.

Maybe there’s one useful thing I can manage.

I pull myself up from the couch, muscles stiff from the long sleepless night. Dew wets my boots as I step outside and gather what I need: nettle leaves, yarrow, and wormwood, all hardy and flourishing.

Back in the kitchen, I add some black walnut bark from my stash, and brew it strong. I wait until the tea has steeped dark before carrying it down the hall.

I knock gently against the bedroom door. After a pause, I hear rustling from within, then her groggy voice softly calls out.

“Come in.”

I push the door open. She’s sitting up in my bed, her auburn hair mussed from sleep. Dark circles shadow her eyes, telling me she slept as poorly as I did. Even exhausted, she’s beautiful.

“Made you something.” I hold out the mug. “For your stomach.”

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