Page 29 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

The day Brynn was scheduled to return dawned clear and warm, Montana's early summer painting the landscape in vibrant greens and golds. I'd taken the afternoon off, planning to meet her at the small regional airport, but a last-minute call about a malfunctioning irrigation pump pulled me back to the orchard.

"I'll catch a taxi," she assured me when I called to explain. "Don't worry about it. Greg messaged that my car's ready anyway, so I can pick it up directly."

"I'm sorry," I began, frustrated by the timing.

"Don't be," she interrupted. "I'll see you soon enough. I know exactly where to find you."

I spent the morning replacing the damaged pump housing, periodically checking my phone despite knowing her flight wouldn't land until early afternoon. By noon, I'd moved on to supervising the installation of new security lighting near the equipment barn, my attention divided between the electrical work and the gravel driveway leading to the main office.

A rental car appeared just after two, dust rising behind it as it navigated the unpaved road. My heart rate accelerated embarrassingly as it came to a stop, the driver's door opened, and Brynn emerged squinting against the bright sunlight.

She looked different somehow—more polished in tailored slacks and a silk blouse, her dark hair styled in ways that spoke of professional attention rather than cabin practicality. For one terrifying moment, I wondered if she'd return to Montana only to discover she'd outgrown what we'd found here.

Then she spotted me, and her entire demeanor transformed. The professional veneer fell away as she broke into a run, crossing the distance between us with single-minded determination that left no doubt about her feelings.

I caught her as she launched herself into my arms, her momentum nearly unbalancing us both. Her mouth found mine with an urgency that matched the ache that had built during our separation, a kiss that contained both homecoming and promise.

"Hi," she whispered when we finally separated, foreheads pressed together, her arms locked around my neck.

"Hi yourself," I managed, still holding her against me, unwilling to surrender even an inch of contact. "Missed you."

"Missed you more." She kissed me again, softer this time but no less affecting. "You look good…Really good."

I realized she was assessing me much as I'd assessed her—noting changes, seeking reassurance that what we'd found remained intact despite time and distance.

"So do you," I said, meaning it despite my momentary uncertainty. She looked beautiful, confident, radiant with the satisfaction of professional accomplishment.

"Liar." She laughed, gesturing at her travel-rumpled appearance. "I've been on planes or in airports for the past fourteen hours. I'm a disaster."

"Most beautiful disaster I've ever seen." The words emerged without conscious thought, earning me another kiss that suggested I'd said exactly the right thing.

We stood wrapped in each other for long moments, reestablishing connection that electronic communication couldn't fully maintain. Eventually, the awareness of our public location penetrated my Brynn-induced haze, and I reluctantly loosened my hold.

"You're working," she said, noticing the crew pretending not to watch us. "I'm interrupting."

"They'll survive." I kept one arm around her waist, unwilling to relinquish physical contact entirely. "Come see the office? It's not much, but Harriet gave me a decent space."

Pride colored my voice, surprising me. A short time ago, I'd been a recluse existing on my brother's charity. Now I was showing off my workplace to a woman who mattered, a woman who'd returned to me despite logical reasons to stay in her glamorous New York life.

The small office reflected my developing role—maps of the orchard property covered one wall, maintenance schedulesanother, a desk supporting a computer that had finally dragged me into the technological present. Brynn examined everything with genuine interest, asking questions that reflected her desire to understand this part of my life.

"I have something for you," she said once the tour concluded, reaching into her oversized handbag to extract a hardcover book. "Advance copy. It won't be in stores for another two weeks."

The cover featured dramatic mountain scenery, the title—Shelter from the Storm—emblazoned across a stormy sky in elegant typography. Beneath it, Brynn's name: not a pseudonym, she'd explained during one of our calls, but her real identity as an author.

"It's beautiful," I said, turning the book over to examine the back cover blurb describing a stranded writer and a reclusive mountain man finding unexpected connection during a Montana winter.

"Open it," she urged, an uncharacteristic nervousness coloring her voice. "The dedication."

I complied, carefully opening to the first pages, finding the dedication centered on its own page:

For Mack,

Who taught me that real heroes are human

And that some stories can only be lived.

Something tightened in my chest, a complex emotion I couldn't immediately name. Pride, certainly. Gratitude. But something deeper as well—the profound recognition of being truly seen by another person.

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