Page 4 of Stranded with the Mountain Man

"Great," I mutter, returning to the door for one last attempt, hammering with the flat of myhand."Hello! Isanyone--"

The door flies open so suddenly I stumble backward, nearly falling off theporch.

A massive silhouette fills the doorway, backlit by what must be firelight frominside.Broad shoulders, imposing height, and the unmistakable barrel of a shotgun pointed directly at mychest.

"You have five seconds to explain why you're trying to break into my house before I make a decision I won't regret." The voice is deep, graveled with sleep or disuse, but I'd recognize itanywhere.

Rosco.

I raise my hands slowly, light-headed with relief andterror."It's me," I manage through tremblinglips."Deena Wilson. Millie'sniece from over on Lavender Hill.My house--her house--the ceiling collapsed,and--"

The shotgun lowers a fraction. "Deena?"

"Yes." I push wet hair from myface."I know this is awkward, but I needshelter.Just until the stormpasses."

He says nothing, though the gun lowerscompletely.I can feel him staring, assessing, though his face remains inshadow.

"Please," I add, hating the desperation in myvoice."I have nowhere else togo."

Another beat of silence stretches between us, filled only by the pounding rain and my hammeringheart.

Finally, he steps back, opening the doorwider."Get in before you catch your death," he says, voiceflat."And before I change mymind."

I step into the warmth of his cabin, the door closing behind me with a finality that sounds remarkably like fate laughing at myexpense.

Chapter

Two

ROSCO

I'm halfway through cleaning my hunting knife when the storm hits full force.Wind howls through the valley below, making the cabin windows rattle.I've weathered enough mountain tempests to know this one's just warming up.

Good. The worse the weather, the less likely people venture up here.That's exactly how I want it.

The fire crackles in the stone hearth, casting dancing shadows across the living room.I set the knife aside and reach for my whiskey, savoring the burn as it slides down my throat.Three years I've been back in Serenity Hollow, and most nights still feel like this, quiet, solitary, and exactly what I signed up for when I walked away from the Jagged Saints MC.

Some might call it exile. I call it peace.

Lightning flashes, illuminating the mounted deer head on my wall.Thunder follows immediately telling me the storm's right overhead now.I settle deeper into my leather armchair, the one luxury I allowed myself when furnishing this place.

My phone lights up on the side table.There's usually no reception during storms like this, but the screen shows threemissed texts from Tank.Probably club business I want nothing to do with.Despite leaving the Saints officially, Tank still checks in, still tries to pull me back into that life with updates about brothers and rival clubs.

He doesn't understand that I meant it when I walked away.When you've seen what I've seen, done what I've done as club enforcer, there's no halfway out.It's all or nothing.

I toss back the rest of my whiskey just as another crash of thunder shakes the cabin.My dog, Bear, lifts his massive head from his bed near the fire, ears perked.

"Just the storm, boy," I tell him, but he's already on his feet, a low growl building in his chest.

Someone's out there.

I reach for the shotgun I keep by the door, a habit from years of watching my back.Bear's growl deepens, his attention fixed on the front entrance.

"Quiet," I command, and he immediately sits, still alert but silent.

For a long moment, there's nothing but the rain hammering the roof.Then I hear it, the unmistakable sound of footsteps on my porch.Bear hears it too, muscles tensing beneath his thick coat.

I position myself beside the door, shotgun at the ready.Nobody comes up here by accident, especially not in a storm like this.It's either someone looking for trouble or someone in it.

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