Page 8 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

He disappeared down the hallway, presumably to change out of wet clothes. I sank back onto the couch, mind whirling. Days, not hours, in this isolated cabin with a man who clearly preferred solitude to company. Days to observe, to absorb, to understand the complexity behind those guarded eyes.

Days that could provide exactly the material I needed to save my writing career.

The thought brought another wave of guilt. Using Mack's pain, his obvious trauma, as fodder for my romance novels felt exploitative, manipulative. He deserved better than to be reduced to literary inspiration.

And yet.

I glanced at my notebook, then back to the hallway where he'd disappeared. I couldn't deny the pull I felt toward him—not just as a writer seeking material, but as a woman responding to something raw and magnetic in his presence. I shivered with the realization.

That night, long after we'd navigated an awkward dinner of more canned food—soup again, but a different variety this time, with crackers instead of bread—I lay awake in his bed, listening to the creaking floorboards in the living room. Back and forth, back and forth. Restless pacing, the rhythm of insomnia familiar to my own sleepless nights in Manhattan.

Was it the storm that kept him awake? The lingering thunder? Or something deeper, darker?

I pressed my face into the pillow that smelled faintly of him—pine, smoke, something indefinably male—and made a decision. I would learn more about Mackenzie Thornton, not just for my book, but for myself. I would sneak through the cracks in his walls and slowly make my way to the innermost sanctum of his fortress until I discovered the creature who lived within.

But I would never, ever let him know that I was a romance author in search of authentic inspiration. Some truths were better left unspoken, especially when trapped together in a remote cabin with nowhere to escape.

Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance, and I fell into a restless sleep.

Chapter Four

Mack

The creek wouldn't recede for days. Not with rain still falling like this, saturating ground already unable to absorb more moisture.

I stood at the kitchen window, staring at the gathering pools in the yard while coffee brewed behind me. Scout pressed against my leg, sensing my unease. Dawn had barely broken, gray light seeping reluctantly through persistent clouds. In the bedroom, Brynn still slept, unaware of my growing agitation.

Three years I'd crafted this isolation, carved out this existence where I answered to no one, where the only expectations were those I set for myself. Three years of carefully maintained distance from a world that had no place for the man I'd become. And now, my sanctuary had been breached. As usual, I had no one to blame but myself.

The coffee maker sputtered its final protests. I poured a mug and carried it to the desk in the corner where the radioequipment sat, its dials and meters like old friends. I checked the clock—5:47 AM. Ian would be awake, preparing for his shift at the police station. Our scheduled check-in wasn't until tomorrow, but the flood situation warranted earlier contact.

I put on the headset and adjusted frequencies, muscle memory guiding my fingers across familiar knobs and switches.

"Thornton Base to Ashwood Station, over." The formal call sign was unnecessary—no one monitored these channels except Ian and me—but habits from military communications died hard.

Static crackled, then cleared. "This is Ashwood Station. Morning, Mack. Wasn't expecting you today." Ian's voice came through, alert despite the early hour. "Everything okay up on Fire Mountain?"

"Creek's flooded the access road. Checking conditions in town."

A pause. "Most roads are still passable. Some minor flooding in the lower valley. Helen's Orchard got hit pretty bad—barn's underwater. We've got sandbag crews working there now."

I absorbed this information, mentally mapping the affected areas. "What's the forecast?"

"Rain through tomorrow, clearing Thursday. Waters should recede by Friday if that holds." Another pause. "You got enough supplies to last?"

"I'm fine." The answer came automatically, my standard response to any inquiry about my welfare.

"You sure? I can have Vic from the general store put together a package, bring it up on the utility ATV once the rain lets up. I know tomorrow was your usual—"

"I said I'm fine." My grip tightened on the mug. Here it came—the inevitable offer of help, the assumption that I couldn't manage on my own.

"Alright, just offering." My brother’s voice remained level, practiced at handling my moods. "Anything else I should know about?"

I hesitated, debating whether to mention Brynn. If Ian knew I had a stranded woman staying with me, he'd be up here with his ATV and badge, playing the protective big brother role he'd perfected since our mother died.

"Mack? You still there?"

"Yeah." I exhaled slowly. "Listen, I've got a... situation here. Woman crashed her car on the mountain road last night during the storm. I pulled her out before things got worse."

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