Page 6 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

The bedroom was spartan but surprisingly clean—a dresser with nothing on top, a nightstand with a reading lamp and a dog-eared copy of Hemingway, a closet with the door firmly shut. No photographs. No personal touches. Nothing to indicate the personality of the man who normally slept here,except perhaps the books stacked neatly on the floor beside the bed—classics, military history, and unexpectedly, a collection of poetry by Mary Oliver.

I swung my feet to the floor, noting with embarrassment that I still wore my jeans, though someone—Mack—had draped a flannel shirt over me during the night. It smelled faintly of pine and wood smoke, which I found oddly comforting.

Rain continued to patter against the windows, though without yesterday's apocalyptic intensity. I padded to the window and peered out at a landscape shrouded in mist, mountains barely visible through the low-hanging clouds. The world beyond the cabin seemed soft-edged and dreamlike, as if reality stopped at the property line.

My small wheeled suitcase stood by the door—another courtesy from my reluctant host. I rummaged through it, grateful to find clean clothes. After a quick, self-conscious wash in the attached bathroom, I changed into fresh jeans and a sweater, running fingers through my tangled hair in lieu of a proper brush.

Presentable, if not exactly polished. It would have to do.

I hesitated at the bedroom door, nervous about facing Mack in the daylight. Last night he'd been all gruff efficiency, his discomfort with my presence obvious. I couldn't blame him. Who wants a stranger invading their sanctuary?

The scent of coffee finally lured me out. The main room looked different by day—larger, airier than it had seemed in last night's shadows. Windows lined the far wall, framing the misty forest like living artwork. The furniture was mismatched but solid—leather couch showing signs of Scout's claws, a recliner positioned to capture the mountain view, bookshelves bowing under their literary burden.

Mack stood at the counter, his back to me, shoulders tense beneath a faded flannel shirt. Scout lay nearby, ears perking up as I entered. The German Shepherd's tail thumped twice against the wooden floor—not quite a welcome, but at least acknowledgment.

"Morning," I ventured.

Mack turned, coffee mug in hand. Without the distortion of shock and pain, I could see him more clearly now. The scars were more extensive than I'd first realized, running from his jawline down his neck and disappearing beneath his collar. But they didn't detract from what was, objectively, a striking face—strong jaw, prominent cheekbones, eyes like dark coffee beneath straight brows. His hair, a shade between brown and black, curled slightly where it brushed his collar.

Not conventionally handsome, perhaps, but arresting. Interesting. The kind of face that told stories.

"How's the head?" he asked, eyes flicking to my forehead before returning to his coffee.

"Better, thank you." I hovered awkwardly at the threshold between hallway and living area. "And thank you for the bed. You didn't have to do that."

He shrugged, a dismissive lift of one shoulder. "You were injured."

"Still. It was kind."

His jaw tightened at the word "kind," as if it were an accusation rather than a compliment.

"Coffee's ready," he said, nodding toward a pot on the counter. "Cups in the cabinet above."

I helped myself, inhaling the rich aroma gratefully. "Black is perfect," I said when he glanced questioningly at the refrigerator. "I practically mainline it this way back home."

"Back home being?"

"Manhattan," I replied, taking a cautious sip. The coffee was surprisingly good, robust without being bitter. "Upper West Side."

He nodded as if this confirmed something, then gestured toward a box of cereal and a bowl he'd set out on the counter. "Not much for breakfast. There's milk if you want it."

The simple offering was thoughtful in its way—clearly the best he could manage with limited culinary skills, judging by last night's soup and stale bread.

"This is perfect, thanks," I said, helping myself to cereal.

I carried my bowl to the small kitchen table, Mack joining me after a moment's hesitation. He sat with his back to the wall, eyes on the door and windows—a military habit, I guessed, remembering the evidence of service I'd glimpsed last night.

"What brings you to Ashwood?" he asked, breaking the silence. "Not exactly a tourist hotspot this time of year."

The question was casual enough, but I sensed genuine curiosity beneath it. I'd prepared a generic explanation before leaving New York, knowing I couldn't reveal my true purpose.

"I rented a cabin for a few weeks," I explained. "Needed some space to work on a project. My apartment in New York feels suffocating sometimes."

"What kind of project?"

Here it was—the moment where I typically manufactured a vague profession to avoid revealing my true occupation. People acted strangely once they learned I wrote romance novels, either embarrassed or inappropriately curious about my personal life.

"Just some writing," I said, deliberately vague. "Nothing exciting."

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