Page 9 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

"Jesus, Mack. Is she okay? Did you bring her to the cabin?"

"Minor cuts, possible concussion. Nothing serious. And yes, she's here. Nowhere else to take her."

"Who is she?"

"Name's Brynn Ashcroft. From New York. Writer of some kind."

"And she just happened to be driving up our mountain during the worst storm of the year?" Suspicion colored Ian's voice. My brother the cop, always looking for angles.

"Says she rented a cabin for some project. Car's probably totaled. She'll need a tow once the roads clear."

"I'll call Greg at the garage, let him know." A significant pause. "You doing okay with a guest? I know you don't—"

"I'm handling it," I interrupted, bristling at the implied concern. "It's temporary."

"I could try to get up there, bring her back to town if you—"

"No." The refusal came quicker than intended. I moderated my tone. "We'll manage until the creek drops."

"If you're sure." Doubt lingered in his voice. "Listen, I was going to tell you tomorrow, but since you're on now—I set up the usual deposit. Should hit your account today."

My jaw tightened. The monthly stipend—Ian's way of supporting me without calling it charity. Money from our parents' life insurance that he insisted on sharing, despite having a family of his own to support. A debt I never asked for and couldn't seem to escape.

"I don't need it this month," I lied. The truth was, I'd been stretching the last payment thin, holding off on repairs the cabin desperately needed.

"Mack, don't start this again. It's your money too."

"You have kids, Ian. A mortgage. Save it for them."

"I also have a job and a decent income. Besides, Mom and Dad left it for both of us."

"They left it for you to manage because they didn't trust me with it," I snapped, old bitterness surfacing. "We both know that."

"That's not true and you know it." Ian's voice hardened. "They set it up before your second deployment, when no one had any idea what would happen. If they were here now—"

"But they're not." I cut him off. "And I don't need your handouts."

"It's not a handout, for God's sake! It's your inheritance!" Ian rarely raised his voice, but frustration edged his words now. "Just take the money, Mack. Use it for the cabin repairs you keep putting off. Hell, use it for whatever you want."

A floorboard creaked behind me. I turned to find Brynn hovering in the hallway, clearly uncertain whether to retreat orannounce herself. Our eyes met, and I knew she'd heard at least part of the conversation. Irritation flared—at her, at Ian, but mostly at myself for this breach of privacy.

"I've got to go," I said into the microphone. "Check in tomorrow, usual time."

"Mack, wait—"

I switched off the radio before Ian could finish. Silence filled the cabin, heavy with unspoken questions.

"Sorry," Brynn said softly. "I didn't mean to interrupt."

"You didn't." I removed the headset, setting it aside with deliberate care. "Coffee's ready if you want some."

She nodded, moving toward the kitchen with cautious steps. I watched her pour a mug, noting the sleep-rumpled hair and oversized flannel shirt she'd borrowed again from my dresser. She looked smaller this morning, more vulnerable without yesterday's careful composure.

"Was that your brother?" she asked, blowing ripples across the surface of her coffee.

I considered deflection, then discarded it. She'd heard enough to piece things together anyway. "Ian. He's Ashwood's police chief."

"You were talking about me."

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