Page 2 of Mountain Man's Surrender

Mia’s face brightens. “Oh, Landry’s a good man. Mountain of a guy. Intimidating if you don’t know him with those scars and all, but he’s got a heart of gold.” She leans in, lowering her voice. “Keeps to himself mostly. Has a cabin up in the mountains. Not much for talking, but when Landry says something, folks around here listen.”

Well, too bad this Landry guy’s got some listening to do himself once I get over there. Just as soon as I finish this coffee.

Landry

Thewrenchslipsinmy hand, clanging against the engine block with a sound that echoes through the empty garage. I flinch at the sharp noise, my body tensing as my mind flashes—for a split second—to the crackle of gunfire and the metallic ping of spent shells. Cursing under my breath, I flex my scarred fingers, willing them to cooperate. The cold always makes them ache, which isn’t ideal for a man who lives in Vermont, but these mountains are home. Plus, they’re as far as I can get from the desert in the Middle East.

“Need a hand?” Tom asks from the next bay over where he’s tucked under a pickup.

“I got it,” I grunt, reaching back under the hood.

“Whatever you say, boss.”

I don’t correct him. After all, I’ve been making all the decisions around here since Simon passed, even though technically I never worked here and only officially owned the garage for barely a week.

Tom was Simon’s only other employee at Green Mountain. Hired a couple of years, he’s one of the few young guys in town I actually like. He doesn’t get involved with town gossip, keeps to himself, and best of all, he ignores my gruff attitude most days. I appreciate that more than he knows.

I rub at the throbbing pain that shoots up my forearm, watching as the snow outside falls thicker with each passing hour, then turn my attention back to the engine. Mrs. Wilkins needs her Subaru back by tomorrow, and keeping the garage running is the right thing to do. For the town. For Simon. For Aspen, if the girl ever shows up. Hell, for my own sanity.

The familiar scent of the antifreeze I’m topping off wraps around me like an old blanket, mingling with the sharp tang of metal. This place might not seem like much, but it was my sanctuary long before I chose to make it my responsibility. After Afghanistan. After the scars.

When we were teenagers, Simon and I spent long summer afternoons taking apart engines just to see if we could put them back together. When I came home after my service and he’d opened the place, it became my escape. And now, he’s gone. Three months, and it still doesn’t feel real.

I glance at the framed photo hanging crooked on the wall. It’s Simon and me standing proudly beside the ‘67 Mustang we restored soon after I was discharged, his arm slung around my shoulders. That car had been nothing but a rusted shell when we started.

“Everything can be rebuilt, Landry,” he’d said. “Just takes the right tools and enough patience.” The memory pulls at something raw inside me. I rebuilt plenty of engines with Simon, but he was the one who helped rebuild me when I came home broken.

A gust of wind rattles the garage’s old windows, and the building creaks in protest. This morning’s weather reportwarned of five feet of snow by week’s end, but the way those clouds are darkening, I wouldn’t be surprised if we get it sooner. Beyond the windows, Main Street is already transforming into the kind of postcard-perfect winter scene tourists pay premium rates to experience from the comfort of Serenity Slopes, the luxury ski resort just up the road.

The bell above the door jingles, accompanied by a blast of frigid air. Probably Earl dropping off those spark plugs he promised. Without emerging from under the hood, I call out, “Be right there.”

“By all means, take your sweet time,” an unfamiliar, city-polished voice answers, sarcasm dripping from every syllable.

The tone stops me cold as a shiver of warning snakes down my spine. We don’t get many strangers at the shop this time of year, especially not female ones who sound like she does. Young, with a brash edge that feels out of place. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it gets the better of me. I straighten, lifting away from the Subaru’s engine, and wipe my hands on a shop rag as I turn.

The woman, planted in the center of the garage, steals my breath. She’s beautiful, and not just because she’s like a fish out of water standing there against the weathered brick walls in the middle of a grease-stained concrete floor, but because I know exactly who she is. My best friend’s daughter.

Melting snowflakes glisten in the chestnut hair that falls in waves around her face, framing high cheekbones dusted with freckles. Her green eyes, sharp and wary, scan the garage, taking inventory. Her curves are bundled in a sleek wool coat that’s completely impractical for Vermont in January, and her leather boots don’t have a lick of tread on the soles.

I recognize Aspen Taylor from the picture Simon got, but I’d know who she was even if I’d never seen it. There’s no mistaking the resemblance. The shape of her eyes, the stubborn set of her jaw, hell, even the hint of copper in her hair.

My throat tightens as a wave of grief washes through me, followed by an unexpected jolt of attraction. The sensation, one I haven’t felt in years, but discern the second it hits me, spreads through my chest, heat settling low in my abdomen.

I banish it immediately. For God's sake, this is Simon’s daughter. And not only that, she’s much too young for me. Hell, this girl’s barely old enough to order a whiskey, whereas I’m north of forty-two.

“Can I help you?” My voice comes out rougher than intended, scraping against my throat. I don’t know why those were the first words out of my mouth. I know why she’s here. Hell, I’m the reason she owns the place now.

Those green eyes lock onto mine, widening as they take in my full six-foot-three frame, lingering momentarily on the scars that crawl up the right side of my neck before meeting my gaze again. I’m used to the look, the mixture of curiosity and discomfort that flickers across most people’s faces when they see me for the first time. But there’s something else in her expression. Ironclad determination.

“Are you Landry?” Her chin lifts in a way that spells trouble. As if I hadn’t teased that out already.

My brow furrows as I step forward, extending my hand before thinking better of it and wiping it once more on the rag. “Landry McCord,” I confirm. “And you must be Aspen.”

A lick of surprise, and maybe hesitation, dances across her delicate features before she schools her expression. “So you’re the man who’s been operating this property without permission.”

This property?The sharp words sever the tether that’s keeping me grounded. This garage was Simon’s life for twenty years. He built it from nothing, poured his soul into every inch of the place. And to her, it’s just property. Just an asset.

“Your father’s been gone three months,” I say, drawing on a deep reserve to keep my voice level. “Someone had to keep the doors open. We’ve got customers who depend on this place, especially in winter.” I gesture toward the window where the snow falls in earnest now, thick flakes spiraling in the strengthening wind.

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