Page 3 of S'more Mountain Man

He looked like he'd stepped straight out of one of my dog-eared romance novels—the kind with titles likeHot for the Mountain ManorCaught by the Lumberjack. The kind where the heroine gets lost in the woods and finds a gruff, gorgeous recluse who saves her from the elements before saving her from her clothes.

Finally, he spoke. "You lost?" His voice was low, rough as tree bark, the kind that probably sounded amazing when it wasn't potentially the last thing you'd ever hear.

I pushed myself up to sitting, mud squelching between my fingers. My brain, which had abandoned me somewhere around the flat tire incident, offered up the only response it could manage.

"Are you about to murder me, or...?"

Chapter Two

“This is why I don’t deal with people.”

Leif

I was a quarter mile into my perimeter check when the rain started. Not the gentle summer shower the tourists hoped for, but the kind of Montana downpour that turned trails into creeks and creeks into rivers. Perfect. Just what I needed when the fire risk was already high enough to keep me patrolling the ridge line every day this week.

Lightning forked across the sky, followed immediately by a crack of thunder that vibrated in my chest. Too close. I quickened my pace, axe in hand, mentally mapping the nearest shelters. My cabin was still a good twenty-minute hike through increasingly treacherous terrain.

That's when I heard it—a sound that didn't belong. Not the steady drum of rain on leaves or the groaning of wind-whipped branches, but something distinctly, irritatingly human. A woman's voice, muttering colorful curses at the wilderness itself.

I stopped, listening. Considered walking away. Not my problem if some city slicker had wandered off the marked trails. Except another flash of lightning illuminated the sky, followed by a yelp that sounded equal parts startled and pained.

Goddammit.

I veered off my usual path, following the sound. The undergrowth was dense here, ferns and salal dripping with moisture, collecting on my already soaked skin. I didn't bother moving quietly—the storm took care of any subtlety.

When I found her, she was on her hands and knees in the mud, looking like she'd gone ten rounds with the forest and lost spectacularly. Dark hair plastered to her head, clothes that belonged in a yoga studio rather than wilderness, and those ridiculous shoes—the kind with heels that might as well be invitations for a broken ankle.

This was why I avoided the summer crowds. People who had no business being in these woods, who treated the mountains like some kind of Instagram backdrop rather than the deadly serious environment it was.

She turned when I approached, eyes widening as she took me in. The fear there was expected—lone woman, strange man, middle of nowhere. The sudden shift to something else—something that looked suspiciously like appreciation—was not.

"Are you about to murder me, or...?" she asked, mud streaking her rosy cheek as she pushed herself to sitting.

I tightened my grip on the axe handle. "You lost?"

"No, I'm sitting in mud puddles for fun." She winced, immediately looking contrite. "Sorry. Yes. Very lost. My car has a flat tire somewhere that way." She pointed vaguely in a direction that could have been anywhere. "Or that way. Or possibly thatway." She indicated three completely different headings. "The trees all look the same."

Perfect. A directionally challenged civilian with a smart mouth. Exactly what this day needed.

"You shouldn't be out here alone," I said, scanning the darkening forest. The storm was intensifying, sheets of rain now falling so heavily they obscured visibility beyond twenty feet. "Especially not in those." I nodded at her mud-caked heels.

"Yeah, well, that wasn't exactly the plan." She attempted to stand, wobbled, and nearly went down again. "I'm Skye, by the way. Skye Dawson. In case you need to file a missing person’s report later."

Despite myself, I snorted. At least she had a sense of humor about her situation. Most people in her position would be hysterical by now.

"Leif Brannick," I offered, before I could think better of it. "And you won't be missing if you come with me. My cabin's closer than whatever campground you were headed to."

Her eyes narrowed, calculating. Smart enough to be wary, at least.

"You live out here? In the actual wilderness?"

"No, I commute from Seattle every day." The sarcasm slipped out before I could stop it. "Yes, I live out here."

That earned me a slight smile. "Just checking. Most axe murderers don't have fixed addresses."

"Most axe murderers don't waste time on people who are already doing such a good job of endangering themselves."

She opened her mouth, closed it, then laughed—an unexpectedly bright sound in the gloom of the storm. "Fair point."

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