Page 11 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

I took a cautious bite. The combination of crisp toast, sweet preserves, and strong coffee created a simple harmony of flavors I rarely bothered to appreciate when eating alone.

"Good," I acknowledged, surprising myself with the admission.

Her smile returned, quieter this time but no less genuine. "See? I'm not completely useless."

Later that morning, after the rain temporarily eased, I showed her the greenhouse and cold storage shed. Her interest seemed authentic, fingers trailing over seedlings with gentle curiosity, exclaiming over the practical organization of the space. In the storage shed, she selected vegetables with careful deliberation, explaining her choices as if I might actually care about the differences between varieties of onions.

The oddest part was, I found myself listening.

By afternoon, the cabin filled with unfamiliar aromas as Brynn commandeered my kitchen, transforming basicingredients into something that smelled increasingly complex. I busied myself with indoor projects—minor repairs I'd been postponing, cleaning Scout's bedding, sharpening tools—all while maintaining a careful distance that nevertheless allowed me to observe her work.

She moved with unexpected confidence, stirring the pot of rice with one hand while adding liquid with the other, tasting and adjusting with concentrated precision. So different from the disoriented woman I'd pulled from the wreckage the night before. This version of Brynn seemed grounded, capable, at home in her body and its movements. I was having an increasingly difficult time taking my eyes off her.

When she finally placed a bowl before me at dinner, the transformation of humble ingredients was nothing short of remarkable. Creamy rice studded with mushrooms and vegetables, seasoned with herbs from my greenhouse. Simple, yet somehow elegant.

"It's not traditional," she explained, watching nervously as I took my first bite. "Real risotto needs white wine and parmesan, but I had to improvise."

The flavors melded on my tongue—savory, earthy, with unexpected depth. I couldn't remember the last time I'd eaten something prepared with such care.

"It's good," I said, the understatement of the year. "Really good."

Relief washed across her features, followed by a pleased smile. "I'm glad you like it. Least I could do, considering the circumstances."

We ate in companionable silence, the usual tension between us temporarily suspended by the simple act of sharing a meal. Scout lay between us, having decided that Brynn's cookingmerited his full approval and therefore her presence might be tolerable after all.

As darkness fell, the rain returned with renewed determination, drumming against the roof in a persistent rhythm. I built up the fire while Brynn washed dishes, refusing my awkward offer to help. The domesticity of the scene struck me as surreal—this cabin, my fortress of solitude, temporarily transformed by a stranger's presence into something almost resembling a home.

Dangerous thinking. This arrangement was temporary, a necessity forced by weather and circumstance. Nothing more.

After dinner, Brynn settled on the couch with a book selected from my shelves—Steinbeck's "East of Eden," her choice surprising me again and making me curious about whatever writing project had brought her to Montana. I attempted to focus on repairing a broken radio I'd been meaning to fix, but found my attention repeatedly drawn to her.

Eventually she set the book aside, retrieving her notebook from her bag. The leather-bound journal opened with ease as she uncapped a pen. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she began to write, her pen moving in swift, fluid strokes across the page.

What was she writing? Journal entries? Notes for work? Or something else entirely?

I recalled how she'd been standing near my shadow box that morning, studying my medals with undisguised curiosity. How her eyes sometimes lingered on my scars when she thought I wasn't looking.

The pieces began arranging themselves in my mind, forming a pattern I didn't like. The stranded writer. The probing questions. The careful observations.

Her pen paused. She looked up, catching me watching her. Our eyes locked for a heartbeat too long before I turned away. I would need to be more careful around her. Much more careful indeed.

Chapter Five

Brynn

By the third full day of my unplanned captivity, the cabin walls had begun to shrink. Not physically, of course, but that peculiar psychological phenomenon where familiarity breeds either comfort or claustrophobia—in my case, a disorienting mixture of both. Mother Nature continued her relentless assault on the mountains, and rain drummed against the roof in an irregular cadence that somehow heightened rather than dulled my awareness of Mack's presence.

He moved through the cabin with purpose, a man accustomed to solitude and its rhythms. Each morning, he rose before dawn, disappearing outside despite the downpour to tend to whatever chores demanded attention. Each evening, he returned mud-splattered but accomplished, radiating that peculiar satisfaction unique to those who measure their worth through hard labor.

Between these bookends of his day, we navigated an awkward dance of shared space and guarded privacy. Carefully timed bathroom usage. Polite negotiation of kitchen access. Brief, stilted conversations that revealed nothing while somehow acknowledging everything—namely, that we were strangers forced into uncomfortably intimate quarters.

Yet beneath this choreographed distance, questions multiplied in my mind. The medals. The scars. The nightly pacing I pretended not to hear through the thin cabin walls.

So when he returned that afternoon, shaking water from his jacket like some great wolf, I decided to risk a more direct approach.

"You were in the Marines," I said, not a question but a statement of observed fact as I stirred a pot of pasta, testing the tenderness of the noodles. Not quite ready.

Mack paused in the act of removing his boots, his shoulders stiffening beneath his sodden flannel. "Yes."

---