Page 16 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

"That's not true." She moved closer, close enough that I could see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes, smell the faint scent of her shampoo. "I see you, Mack. Not just the marks on your skin or what you keep in your cupboards. I see how gently you treat Scout, how you’ve taken care of me, how you check the perimeter each night to make sure we're safe."

The truth of her words caught me off guard and I sucked in a breath.

"I’m not a hero," I said, the fight beginning to drain from me, leaving a painful ache in its wake. "I'm not the man you've written about in there."

"I know." Her voice softened. "You're more complicated than any character I could create. You're real."

"I'm a mess," I corrected harshly. "A broken ex-Marine living off his brother's charity because he can't function in normal society. Not exactly romance novel material."

"You're not broken," she insisted. "Wounded and hurting, maybe. But not broken."

"You don't know what I've done. What I've seen." The memories threatened to surface—the explosion, the screams, theknowledge that I'd survived when others hadn't. I passed hand over my face, trying to force back my emotions.

"I never said you were perfect. Heroes are never perfect anyway—they're human." She reached out, fingers stopping just short of touching my arm. "I'm sorry for not being honest about who I am, about my writing. But my feelings aren't fiction, Mack."

For a moment, I almost believed her. Something in her eyes spoke to a loneliness that mirrored my own.

But it was too much all at once. Trust, once shattered, couldn't be repaired with pretty words—and words were her stock in trade.

"I think we're done here." I stepped back, breaking the tentative connection between us. "The creek's receding. Road should be passable tomorrow or the next day at latest. I'll drive you to town then."

"Mack, please—"

"I need some air." I turned away, unable to look at the hurt in her eyes a moment longer. "Scout needs a walk anyway."

Without waiting for her response, I stalked through the cabin, whistling for Scout. The dog bounded from his spot by the fireplace, eager for exercise despite the muddy conditions outside.

I grabbed my jacket and headed out the door, not bothering with my usual careful inventory of supplies. I just needed distance, needed the mountains and trees and absence of human complication.

"Come on, boy," I muttered to Scout as we headed up the trail behind the cabin. "Let's go somewhere quiet."

As if anything could quiet the storm of emotions raging inside me—anger at the invasion of privacy, bitterness at beingreduced to character notes, and beneath it all, the troubling realization that part of my fury stemmed from disappointment. For a brief moment, in our conversations by the fire and shared meals at my table, I'd allowed myself to believe that Brynn saw me—really saw me—not as a project or a problem or a charity case, but as a man.

I'd been a fool. Again.

Chapter Seven

Brynn

The shower did nothing to wash away my guilt. Water pounded against my skin, almost scalding, yet the shame clung stubbornly to every inch of me. I stood beneath the spray until my fingertips wrinkled and the hot water began to fade, then reluctantly stepped out, wrapping myself in a towel and wishing I could go back to bed and start the day over as if the morning never happened.

Mack’s discovery of my notebook—my private thoughts about him, my observations, my fantasies—had shattered whatever fragile connection we'd begun to form. The raw hurt in his eyes haunted me, an expression I'd never forget.

After dressing in the cleanest clothes I had left, I ventured into the kitchen, every corner of the space reminding me of his absence along with Scout’s, who had become just as intrinsic a part of my life in the few short days since the crash. The coffee pot sat unused, the living area untouched, as if they’d simplyvanished into the mountain air. Only the lingering echo of the slammed door testified to Mack’s furious departure.

I spooned oatmeal into a bowl, adding the last drizzle of honey and a handful of dried cranberries from his pantry. The familiar motions felt hollow and mechanical. When I finally sat at the table, spoon in hand, my stomach rebelled at the very thought of eating. Three forced bites later, I surrendered, scraping the remainder into the trash.

Had he eaten before leaving? The question nagged at me as rain continued to pelt the roof, a constant reminder of the harsh conditions he faced on the mountainside. A man his size needed sustenance, especially trekking through mud and undergrowth in such weather. The image of him hungry and cold, driven from his own home by my betrayal, twisted my insides into painful knots.

My laptop waited on the table, its blank screen seeming accusatory. I opened it, determined to salvage something productive from this disaster. The manuscript that had brought me to Montana stared back. The cursor blinked with maddening regularity as I placed my fingers on the keyboard, willing the words to come.

Nothing.

How could I possibly write about genuine intimacy when I'd just destroyed the most honest connection I'd experienced in years? Each sentence I attempted withered before I’d reached the end of it. No matter what I wrote, it all sounded contrived, a total mess. After thirty frustrating minutes, I slammed the computer shut, pushing away from the table with enough force to make the chair legs scrape against the wooden floor.

Where was he? The question circled relentlessly as I paced the cabin, pausing at each window to scan the tree line for any sign of movement. Would he return at all? Perhaps he'd hikedto a place with cell reception, called his brother Ian to arrange alternative transport for me. The thought of being removed from Mack's life without a chance to explain, to apologize properly, tightened my chest to the point of physical pain.

By mid-afternoon, anxiety had evolved from a nagging concern to consuming preoccupation. I filled the kettle for tea, a pointless ritual to occupy my hands while my mind raced through increasingly troubling scenarios. As water heated on the stove and I stood gazing absently through the kitchen window, my attention was caught by a flash of movement near the forest's edge.

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