Page 13 of Mountain Man's Surrender

“He was coming to meet me,” I whisper, more to myself than to Landry. “And he died trying.” A sob escapes before I can stopit, and suddenly, a fresh wave of tears erupts. For the father I never knew. For the relationship we’ll never have. For my childhood that was built on a lie.

Strong arms wrap around me, pulling me against a solid chest. I don’t resist, burying my face in Landry’s shirt as tears soak the fabric. He holds me, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other rubbing soothing circles on my back. He doesn’t offer empty words of comfort, just his steady presence, his strength.

“I spent my whole life angry at him,” I confess with a sniffle. “Even though my mother told me not to hold it against him. Now, I know why she said that. But I’ll never have the chance to tell him I’m sorry.”

“He knew you had nothing to do with what happened,” Landry says softly, his deep voice rumbling in his chest. “He knew you were innocent. Simon didn’t blame you, Aspen. Not for a second.”

His words are a balm, but they can’t entirely erase the grief, the sense of loss for something I never had. I pull back, wiping my eyes.

“Thank you,” I murmur, “for telling me the truth. For being there for him.”

And for being here for me now, I add silently.

His phone chimes loudly, startling us both. Landry reluctantly releases me and pulls it from his pocket, frowning at the screen.

“Everything okay?” I ask, missing his warmth immediately.

“Tom from the garage,” he explains, typing a quick response. “Mrs. Peterson’s transmission is making noises again, and she needs her car for a doctor’s appointment on Friday.” He glances up at me. “And he says Derek has been calling the garage number, looking for you. Apparently, he’s heading to town tomorrow and wants to meet in the afternoon.”

The reminder of the broker, of the impending sale, sends an unwelcome shiver through me. Just yesterday, selling the garagewas the simplest, clearest path forward. Now, with everything I’ve learned about my father, about the town that loved him, about this man who was his best friend…the decision feels infinitely more complicated.

If I sell the garage to this developer, what happens to the customers who depended on my father? What happens to Tom? To the community? To Landry, who clearly values the place as his last connection to my father? And what about my growing feelings for this complicated, honorable man—feelings that are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore?

“I should take a shower,” I say, needing space to think, although now I’ve got at least twenty-four hours here, alone with Landry.

He nods, something like disappointment flickering in his eyes. The cat jumps onto the bench again, tail swishing. He meows once, loudly, as if reminding us of his presence.

Landry reaches over to pet him, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. “You can’t go out now, cat. It’s freezing out there.”

I laugh softly, despite the turmoil inside me. “It might be freezing, but it’s beautiful, peaceful. I can see why you built your life here.”

Warmth fills his gaze. “Vermont grows on you.”

That it does,I think, but don’t say aloud.

Landry

WildwoodBrewing’staproomsmellsof hops and malted barley. Locals fill the place this afternoon as glass clinks against wood tabletops and laughter tumbles around the room. It’s cozy. Welcoming. Exactly what this town needed when the place opened last year.

I usually like dropping by, but not today. I’ve never been one to wish for closed roads, but this morning, I did just that. Every minute snow kept the roads impassable was another minute I had Aspen to myself, in my cabin, in my bed. Every cup of coffee we shared by the fire, each meal we cooked together, the stories she told me about her mother, about growing up in the city, about her dreams of building her jewelry-making hobby into something more, made me fall a little harder. Hell, we nearly polished off the entire bottle of apple brandy getting to know each other.

But now, back in public, the wish makes me uneasy. I’ve never been the type of man to hope for anything, let alone something as foolish as to have a woman half my age.

I shift in my seat at the corner of the long copper-topped bar, pretending not to watch Aspen as she settles at a table for two by the window. I try not to picture the way she looked when she stepped out of the shower this morning. When she stood naked except for a fluffy towel, water droplets clinging to her flushed skin, and smiled at me, lying on the bed exactly where she’d told me to wait.

I push away the memory. Any minute now, she’ll be sitting across from the broker, making a decision that impacts the entire town. Simon’s legacy. Me. I’ve made my position clear. Aspen knows exactly where I stand. Her silver pendant catches the light streaming through the glass as she absently twists the necklace between her fingers. She’s as tense about this meeting as I am.

The door swings open, letting in a blast of cold air. A slick-looking guy in his thirties with perfect hair and an expensive wool overcoat step inside. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end as he surveys the room. I’ve never met the man, but I know Derek Myers by reputation. Apparently, he specializes in small-town acquisitions, which I don’t understand, with him being from Vermont himself. He spots Aspen and heads her way, his clean-shaven face transforming into a practiced smile I’d love to erase from his face with my fist.

Her shoulders stiffen as he extends a hand. She crosses her legs and leans away from him even as they meet. A twinge of satisfaction ripples through my chest. With me, she’s all soft curves and relaxed limbs, her body open and trusting. Not at all with this joker, though he’s closer in age to the guys she should be dating.

My teeth grind as he slides into the seat across from her. Even from a distance, the calculating gleam in his eyes is as slick as the smile curling his lips. Derek isn’t a man who cares about Wildwood or the people here. He only sees dollar signs.

“Landry McCord, you look like you could use a drink.”

The voice startles me, dragging my attention from Aspen to the man who’s materialized behind the bar. Rhys Wilder regards me closely, the lines around his eyes crinkling. I didn’t notice my friend approaching, too caught up in watching Aspen’s meeting unfold, and boy, does Rhys know it.

“You know me well,” I admit, heaving a sigh.

---