Page 12 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

One syllable, delivered with all the warmth of a stone dropped in snow. Most people would recognize the conversational dead end and retreat. But I'd spent years creating characters who pushed through barriers and took risks in hopes of creating connection. Perhaps it was time I followed their example.

"How long did you serve?" I ventured, keeping my tone light, conversational.

"Eight years." His boots now removed, he straightened, regarding me with wary eyes. "Three tours."

Progress, however minimal. I nodded, acknowledging this crumb of personal history without demanding more. "My cousin joined the Army after high school. Said it changed him. Gave him purpose."

Something flickered across Mack's face. "It does that."

"What do you do now?" The question slipped out before I could consider its potential invasiveness. "I mean, professionally."

His expression shuttered immediately. "Odd jobs. Whatever's needed around Ashwood."

The clipped response suggested I'd overstepped, yet curiosity propelled me forward. My gaze drifted, seemingly involuntarily, to the scarring visible at his neck. "The fire... was it during your service?"

Silence stretched between us, brittle and sharp-edged. Just when I'd convinced myself he wouldn't answer, he gave a curt nod. "IED. Last tour."

An improvised explosive device. Three letters that explained so much—the physical scars, certainly, but perhaps also the invisible ones I glimpsed in his wariness and his restless nights. Did he have nightmares? Was that why he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—sleep?

"I'm sorry," I offered, the words inadequate but sincere.

"Don't be." His voice remained neutral, neither accepting nor rejecting my sympathy. "It was a long time ago."

Three years, according to the medals I'd examined. Not so very long at all in my opinion.

He moved to the kitchen window, gazing out at the drenched landscape, effectively ending that avenue of conversation. But he hadn't withdrawn completely, hadn't gone off to another room or shut down behind a wall of silence. Perhaps that constituted its own form of progress.

"You're not married," I continued, changing tactics. It wasn't really a question—the cabin's stark bachelor simplicity had already provided the answer.

Mack turned, one eyebrow raised in what might have been amusement. "What do you think?"

"Well, no women's clothes in the closet. No photographs. No second toothbrush." I shrugged, stirring the spaghetti noodles again to give my hands something to do. "Unless you're extremely tidy after a breakup."

The ghost of a smile touched the corner of his mouth, so quickly I might have imagined it. "No wife. No girlfriend. No prospects."

"Children?" I asked, curiosity getting the better of me.

He shook his head once, definitively.

"What about you?" The question caught me off guard, though I should have anticipated it. Conversation, after all, was meant to be reciprocal. "Husband and rugrats waiting back home in Manhattan?"

I laughed, the sound erupting with unexpected force. "God, no. Not even close."

"Boyfriend?"

"Nope." Turning off the stove, I grabbed a couple of rags to use as potholders and lifted the pot from the burner to the strainer I’d strategically placed in the sink. I tipped the boiling pasta into it carefully and watched the liquid drain, avoiding his gaze. "My romantic life could charitably be described as 'non-existent.' At the rate I'm going, I'll be lucky to have kids before I qualify for the senior discount at movie theaters."

"Chosen solitude or circumstance?" His question surprised me with its perception.

I considered deflecting with humor, my usual defense, but something about the moment—perhaps his earlier candor, however minimal—encouraged honesty.

"Both, I guess." I lifted the strainer to dump the steaming pasta back into the pot, buying time to organize my thoughts. "My career keeps me busy. But also, I'm not exactly adept at dating, and the Manhattan scene just seems so intimidating. Hence, I end up avoiding it."

The admission hovered between us, more revealing than I'd intended. I darted a glance at Mack, expecting judgment or perhaps uncomfortable dismissal. Instead, I found him nodding, a look of understanding in his stormy eyes.

"I can relate to being a loner," he said, passing me the jar of marinara with a casualness that belied the significance of our exchange. "Though unlike you, I prefer it that way. No need for complications."

"By complications, you mean love?" The word emerged before I could stop myself.

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