Page 4 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

She was too pretty, too young, too damn delicate to be in a place like this with a man like me. I was toxic. Damaged goods. A collection of jagged edges and raw wounds that had never properly healed. The physical scars were the least of it.

By the time I had a fire going, I could hear movement from the living room followed by water running in the bathroom and then the soft padding of bare feet on hardwood. I straightened, rolling my shoulder against the familiar pull of scar tissue, and steeled myself to face my unwanted guest.

She'd removed her wet sweater, wearing just a thin camisole tucked into dark jeans. Her feet were bare, toenails painted a soft pink. The cut on her forehead was now clean, though the bruising around it had darkened. Her dark hair hung in damp waves around her shoulders, and she hugged her arms against her chest, looking small and lost in the middle of my living room.

She was beautiful in a way that made my chest ache—not the artificial, high-maintenance beauty that graced magazine covers, but something softer, more genuine. The kind of face that showed everything she felt.

Right now, what she felt was clearly uncertainty tinged with fear.

"Is there...do you have a phone I could use?" she asked, voice steady despite her obvious discomfort. "Or maybe you could drive me to town once the rain lets up?"

I moved to the kitchen, needing distance. "No cell service out here. Radio to call the road service, but with this weather, no one's coming tonight. There's a landline for emergencies, but it's spotty in storms."

I opened a cabinet, pulled down a mug, and poured coffee from the pot I'd made before heading into town hours earlier. I didn't offer her any. Hospitality wasn't my strong suit anymore.

"Oh." The single syllable carried a weight of disappointment. "So I'm stuck here tonight?"

I took a sip of coffee, grimacing at the bitter taste. "Looks that way."

"I see." She shifted her weight, glancing around my place with barely concealed curiosity. Her gaze lingered on the bookshelf, then drifted to the shadow box on the wall—the one with my medals and folded flag. Recognition flashed in her eyes, but she didn't comment.

Smart woman.

"You can take the bed," I said, the words coming out more like an order than an offer. "I'll sleep out here."

"I couldn't possibly…"

"It's not a debate." I cut her off, harsher than necessary. "You hit your head. You need real rest."

She flinched slightly at my tone, and something like guilt twisted in my gut. Not her fault she crashed. Not her fault I was a poor excuse for a host. Not her fault that the mere presence of another person in my space made my skin feel too tight, my breath too shallow.

"Thank you," she said after a moment, dignity gathering around her like armor. "That's very kind."

Kind. Right. I almost laughed. There wasn't much kindness left in me these days, just the hollow echo of the man I used to be. The man who died with his team in a sunbaked hellscape thousands of miles from here.

Another crack of thunder rattled the windows. I jerked involuntarily, coffee sloshing over the rim of my mug and onto my hand. The hot liquid barely registered—I was already halfway across the desert, dust in my mouth, the smell of burning fuel and flesh flooding my nostrils.

"Are you okay?"

Her voice yanked me back to the present. She'd moved closer, concern evident in her expression. Too close. I could smell the faint scent of her perfume beneath the more immediate odors of rain and antiseptic from the first aid kit.

"Fine," I snapped, setting the mug down with enough force to chip the ceramic. "Just tired."

She retreated a step, clearly recognizing the lie but unwilling to call me on it. Her eyes assessed me with unexpected perception. "The storm...it bothers you."

Not a question…An observation.

I turned away, unable to face the understanding dawning in her gaze. The last thing I needed was her pity. "I'll get you some dry clothes. You can't sleep in that."

Scout chose that moment to scratch at the back door. I let him in, grateful for the distraction. He shook himself, then padded cautiously toward our visitor, nose working overtime as he assessed her.

"That's Scout," I said unnecessarily. "My German Shepherd. He won't hurt you. Probably won't even warm up to you, so don't take it personally."

To my surprise, she crouched down, extending her hand palm up for the dog to sniff. "Hello, Scout," she said softly. "Thank you for sharing your home with me tonight."

The dog regarded her warily, nostrils flaring as he took in her scent. Then, the traitor, he stepped forward and allowed her to gently stroke his head.

"He likes you," I said, unable to keep the surprise from my voice.

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