Page 7 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

He seemed to accept this, not pressing further. I noticed he didn't share information about himself either. We were both guarding our privacy, it seemed.

"The weather looks a bit better today," I ventured, changing the subject. "Do you think I could use your phone to call about my car? Maybe get a tow service out here?"

Mack glanced toward the window where rain continued to fall, gentler now but steady. "Roads will still be bad. Creek usually rises after storms like this, sometimes floods the lower access road."

My heart sank. "So I'm still stuck here?"

"For now." He rose, carrying his empty mug to the sink. "I'll check the creek level after breakfast. If it's passable, I'll take you down to where you can get cell signal, call for a tow."

"Thank you. I really appreciate everything you've done."

He shrugged again, that same dismissive gesture. "Anyone would've helped."

But we both knew that wasn't true. Not everyone would stop on a storm-lashed road to help a stranger. Not everyone would bring that stranger home, give up their bed, feed them the best they could manage.

"Well, I'm grateful it was you who found me," I said softly.

He turned away, clearly uncomfortable with my gratitude. "I've got chores to finish. Make yourself comfortable."

And with that, he was gone, the back door closing firmly behind him. Scout hesitated, looking between me and the door before eventually following his master.

Alone, I exhaled slowly, tension I hadn't realized I was carrying releasing from my shoulders. Mack's presence filled the cabin even in his absence—a prickly energy that kept meconstantly aware, constantly on edge. Not from fear, exactly, but from something else that made my pulse quicken.

I carried my coffee to the window, watching as Mack crossed the muddy yard to a sturdy outbuilding, Scout trotting at his heels. Rain plastered his dark hair to his head, but he seemed oblivious to the discomfort, moving with the purposeful stride of a man accustomed to physical hardship.

My fingers itched for my notebook. This was why I'd come to Montana, wasn't it? To find authenticity. To experience something—someone—real. And Mack, with his scars and silences, his grudging kindness and obvious demons, was more real than anyone I'd encountered in years.

I retrieved my journal from my bag, settled onto the worn leather couch, and began to write:

Observations: The scarred man moves with military precision, each action economical yet fluid. Nothing wasted. Nothing for show. His eyes hold a well of conflict—duty warring with despair, connection battling isolation. He wears his pain like armor, keeping others at a distance. But kindness leaks through the cracks despite his best efforts.

I paused, pen hovering over the page. This felt invasive somehow, reducing him to character notes when he was clearly struggling with genuine trauma. And yet, wasn't this exactly what I'd come for? Authentic emotion? Real passion buried beneath real pain?

Guilt prickled at my conscience, but I continued writing:

His hands—broad, calloused, capable—betray a gentleness at odds with his rough-hewn exterior. The contrast between strength and restraint creates an almost unbearable tension.What would those hands feel like against bare skin? How would that carefully maintained control finally breaking feel?

I slammed the notebook shut, cheeks burning. This was getting out of hand. I barely knew the man. He'd rescued me, nothing more. Any attraction I felt was likely just gratitude mixed with proximity and the heightened emotions of my accident.

To distract myself, I rose and wandered the main room, taking in details I'd missed last night. Bullet casings on a shelf, sorted by size. A folded Marine Corps jacket hanging by the door. A package of military MREs tucked beside canned goods in the pantry. And most tellingly, a shadow box mounted on the wall containing medals and citations—confirmation of my suspicions about his military service.

I leaned closer, reading the name on one citation:Mackenzie J. Thornton, Staff Sergeant, United States Marine Corps.Awarded for ‘exceptional valor in the face of enemy fire.’ The date was three years ago.

The back door opened, and I jumped away from the shadow box like a guilty child caught snooping.

Mack stood in the doorway, rain dripping from his hair and shoulders, eyes immediately finding me near his medals. His expression darkened.

"Creek's running high," he said, voice tight. "Road's flooded."

I swallowed hard. "So I won’t be able to get a tow?"

"For a couple days, at least." He stripped off his wet jacket, hanging it with precise movements. "Once it stops raining, the creek will recede."

My heart raced with a complex mixture of emotions—disappointment at being stranded, anxiety about imposing further, and beneath it all, an unexpected flutter of anticipation at the prospect of more time in this cabin, with this man.

"I'm sorry to be such a burden," I said.

"You're not." The words sounded forced. "Just bad timing with the storm."

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