Page 2 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

"Hold still," he commanded, reaching across me to the jammed seatbelt. His proximity sent an unexpected flutter through my stomach—not fear, exactly, but awareness. His hands worked the buckle with decisive movements, giving it a sharp twist-and-pull that finally released the mechanism.

I gasped as the pressure across my chest eased. "Thank you, I—"

"Can you get out?" He withdrew, clearly expecting me to follow without assistance.

I gathered my scattered belongings, shoving my phone and wallet into my purse before attempting to maneuver through the narrow window opening. Pain shot through my shoulder as I twisted awkwardly, and my sweater snagged on a jagged piece of metal, jerking me backward.

A sound of impatience escaped him. Before I could react, strong hands gripped my waist, and I was being lifted through the window with effortless strength. For a disorienting moment, I felt weightless, suspended between the wreckage and salvation.

He set me on unsteady feet beside the ruined car, his hands lingering until he was certain I wouldn't collapse. Rain instantly saturated my thin sweater, plastering it to my skin and sending violent shivers through my body.

"You're bleeding," he observed, voice neutral as he assessed the damage.

I touched my forehead again, wincing. "It's nothing."

Up close, I could see more of him. Tall—towering over my five-foot-two frame—with the kind of lean, functional muscle that came from genuine labor rather than carefully programmed gym sessions. His dark hair was plastered to his head by the rain, further emphasizing the stark contrast of his scars against pale skin. But it was his eyes that captured me—fathomless pools, seeing everything and revealing nothing.

He glanced toward his truck, then back at me, jaw working as if chewing through a difficult decision. Finally, he exhaled sharply.

"My place is closer than town," he said, the words sparse and grudging. "You need that cut tended."

He turned and strode toward his vehicle without waiting for my response.

Common sense screamed caution. Every self-defense workshop and true crime show warned against exactly this scenario—getting into a vehicle with a strange man in the middle of nowhere. But the alternatives seemed far worse: remaining with my rapidly flooding car in a worsening storm, bleeding and shivering from fear, shock, or hypothermia—likely a combination of all three.

I followed him to the truck, an older model with rust creeping along the wheel wells like a slow disease. He opened the passenger door and waited, impatience radiating from his rigid posture.

The interior smelled of pine, wood smoke, and dog—an unexpectedly comforting combination. A worn blanket coveredthe bench seat, and the dashboard housed an assortment of coffee receipts and what appeared to be fishing lures.

Once I'd settled inside, he closed the door firmly and circled to the driver's side. The truck roared to life, heat immediately blasting from the vents. He reached behind the seat and produced another blanket, thicker and softer than the one beneath me, and thrust it into my trembling hands without comment.

"Thank you," I managed through chattering teeth, cocooning myself in the unexpected warmth. "I'm Brynn. Brynn Ashcroft."

He glanced at me, a quick assessment before returning his attention to the treacherous road ahead. "Mack," he offered finally, the single syllable dropped between us like a stone.

Just Mack. No elaboration. No pleasantries.

The truck lurched forward, headlights carving a narrow path through the darkness as we began to climb. My inner compass faltered—we were moving deeper into the mountains, in the opposite direction from town, away from anything like civilization.

A wave of dizziness washed over me, the delayed shock of the accident finally catching up. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision. The last thing I registered was the rhythmic sweep of the windshield wipers and the silhouette of Mack's profile, severe and unreachable in the dashboard glow.

Then darkness claimed me completely, pulling me under like the tide.

Chapter Two

Mack

I hadn't planned on bringing anyone to my cabin—Ever. The whole damn point of living up here was solitude—me, Scout, and the mountains. No expectations. No pity. No reminders of what I'd lost.

But there she was, unconscious in my passenger seat, blood trickling from the cut on her forehead, lips faintly blue from the cold. The storm pummeled the truck, raindrops exploding against the windshield faster than the wipers could clear them. Scout whined from the backseat, his wet nose nudging my shoulder as if to ask what the hell I thought I was doing.

"Not now," I muttered, gripping the steering wheel hard enough to whiten my knuckles.

My head throbbed. The thunder had started before I'd even spotted her wrecked car, triggering the familiar tightness in my chest, the cold sweat down my spine. Each crashreverberated through my skull, hauling me back to a place I'd spent three years trying to forget. I'd been driving back from Ashwood, desperate to get home before the storm grew worse—before I lost my grip on reality completely.

That's when I saw the sedan, crushed against the guardrail and tilted precariously down the embankment. My training had kicked in before conscious thought could intervene. Marine Corps instinct, impossible to extinguish—assess, respond, rescue. It was the one part of me that still functioned reliably.

The woman—Brynn, she said her name was—hadn't moved since passing out ten minutes ago. Her breathing remained steady, though, her chest rising and falling beneath that ridiculous cashmere sweater that probably cost more than my monthly check from Ian. The designer purse clutched in her lap even in unconsciousness, the delicate gold watch on her slender wrist, the manicured nails—everything about her screamed money and privilege. Everything about her screamed that she didn't belong anywhere near my world.

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