Page 3 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

What the hell was a city girl like her doing alone on a mountain road during the worst spring storm in years?

None of my business. I'd patch her up, let her use the radio to call for help, and send her on her way. The less interaction, the better for both of us.

Another crack of thunder shook the truck. I flinched, almost swerving off the narrow dirt road leading to my property. Scout pressed closer, sensing my distress, his warm weight a solid reminder of the present.

"Nearly home, boy," I promised, both to him and to myself.

The cabin finally appeared through the sheets of rain, a dark silhouette against the tree line. Nothing fancy—just atwo-bedroom structure with a wraparound porch that needed replacing in sections. But it was mine. Or as much mine as anything could be when you were living on your brother's charity.

I pulled up close to the steps, killed the engine, and sat for a moment in the sudden silence. Rain drummed steadily on the roof. Thunder rolled in the distance. The familiar weight of memories pressed down, threatening to crush me beneath their mass.

"Breathe," I commanded myself, using the techniques the VA therapist had taught me before I'd stopped going. Four counts in. Seven counts hold. Eight counts out. Repeat until the past retreats.

It didn't work, not entirely, but it pulled me back enough to function. I turned to my unconscious passenger, noting the pallor of her skin against the darkness of her hair. The cut on her forehead wasn't deep, but the bruising suggested a concussion. The way she'd crumpled in the seat wasn't normal exhaustion—it was shock, maybe mild hypothermia from exposure.

"Dammit," I muttered. I couldn't just drop her off somewhere—not in this condition, not in this weather. I was stuck with her, at least for tonight.

I got out, circled to her side, and opened the door carefully, making sure she wouldn't fall out. Scout jumped down from the back, shaking water from his coat before trotting up the porch steps, clearly done with the rain and the unexpected complication to our evening.

"Brynn," I said, the unfamiliar name feeling strange on my tongue. "Hey. Can you hear me?"

Nothing. Dead to the world. Fine. I'd done this before, carrying wounded soldiers to safety under far worse conditions.

I unbuckled her seatbelt and slid one arm beneath her knees, the other behind her back. She was light—alarmingly so, like she existed mainly on caffeine and city stress. Her head lolled against my chest as I lifted her, and something tightened in my gut. Something I didn't want to acknowledge.

Scout waited impatiently by the door, giving me a look that clearly communicated his disapproval of the situation. I managed the door without putting her down, years of carrying wounded comrades making the maneuver second nature. Inside, the dog immediately claimed his usual spot by the fireplace, watching with suspicious eyes as I carried the woman to the couch.

I laid her down carefully, then stepped back, suddenly aware of how my living space might appear to an outsider. It wasn't filthy, but it wasn't exactly welcoming either. Empty coffee mug on the side table. Dog toys scattered across the rug. A half-empty bottle of whiskey that I should have hidden. Books stacked haphazardly on every surface—the only luxury I allowed myself these days.

She'd judge me for it when she woke. They all did, the few people who'd seen the inside of this place since I'd returned from my final deployment. The pity in their eyes was always worse than the judgment, though. Poor Mack, living like a hermit. Poor Mack, so damaged he can't function in society. Poor Mack, existing on his brother's handouts because he can't hold down a normal job.

I shook off the thought and went to the kitchen for the first aid kit. By the time I returned, she was stirring, eyelids fluttering open to reveal hazel eyes clouded with confusion.

"Don't move too fast," I warned, keeping my distance to avoid looming over her. "You hit your head."

She blinked several times, disorientation quickly giving way to alarm as she took in the unfamiliar surroundings. She sat up too quickly, wincing as her hand went to her forehead.

"Where..." Her voice trailed off as her gaze found me. Recognition dawned slowly, followed by wariness. "You...Mack. You pulled me from the car."

I nodded once, keeping my stance non-threatening. The last thing I needed was for her to panic. "You're at my cabin. The roads are bad. You passed out."

She glanced down at the dried blood on her fingertips. "I'm bleeding."

"It's not deep, but it needs cleaning." I set the first aid kit on the coffee table, just within her reach. "Bathroom's down the hall if you want to do it yourself."

Her eyebrows lifted slightly at my brusqueness. "Oh. Thank you. I'm sorry to impose like this."

The polite formality in her voice grated on me. As if this were some social call, some pleasant visit instead of an emergency forced by a dangerous storm.

"It's fine," I said flatly. "I need to let the dog out back and get the fire going. Make yourself comfortable, I guess."

I turned away before she could respond, whistling for Scout. The dog followed me through the kitchen to the back door, but hesitated on the threshold, looking back toward the living room.

"I know," I muttered. "But she can't stay out in the rain."

I left the door cracked for Scout and moved to the woodstove, needing something to do with my hands. My heart still hammered against my ribs, adrenaline from the rescue mixed with the lingering effects of the thunder. My shirt clung to my back, damp with cold sweat. I focused on the familiar routineof adding logs and kindling to the stove, trying to anchor myself in the present.

The cabin was the one place I could breathe without feeling the weight of others' expectations and disappointment. Now it felt smaller, the walls pressing in with the presence of a stranger. A beautiful stranger at that, which only complicated things further.

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