Page 2 of Shelter Me, Sawyer

"Scarlett," she says, offering a soft smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "And I promise I'm not usually this much of a disaster."

I grunt, unconvinced. "You're bleeding."

She looks down, following my gaze to her leg. Just now noticing the gash above her knee where she must've caught it on a rock or branch. It's not deep, but it's messy. The kind that'll get infected fast if it's not cleaned up properly.

I sigh through my nose, the sound harsh in the stillness. I don't want this. Don't need the complication. But the mountain brought her here, whether I believe in that old wives' tale or not. And I know better than to ignore a sign when it's standing right in front of me, bleeding and shivering.

"Come on," I mutter, turning toward the cabin. "You can clean up inside."

"You sure?" Her voice is small, uncertain. Like she's afraid I might change my mind.

"No," I say without looking back. "But I'm not leaving you out here."

She hurries to catch up, boots slipping in the mud with every step. When she stumbles, nearly going down hard, I reach out on instinct. Her hand finds mine—small and cold and trusting—and my whole body goes still.

Something shifts in the air between us.

Maybe it's the mountain.

Maybe it's me.

But either way, Scarlett's here now.

And I've got a bad feeling I'm never going to want her to leave.

Two

Scarlett

I'veofficiallylostmymind.

Because instead of panicking like any rational person would, I'm following a grizzly bear of a man like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like stumbling onto a stranger's property in the middle of a storm is just another Tuesday.

Sawyer.That's his name, though he didn't offer it. I caught it carved into a weathered mailbox at the edge of his trail—right before I ducked under a fallen tree and prayed I wasn't trespassing on some serial killer's hunting ground.

He hasn't said a word since he offered to help. Just strides ahead with those impossibly broad shoulders and that quiet,contained strength, like he's part of the mountain itself. Like he grew here among the pines and granite outcroppings.

And honestly? He kind of looks like he did.

Everything about him screams wild and untamed. The thick, dark beard that's never seen a barber. The worn leather boots that have walked these trails a thousand times. The scowl that seems permanently etched into his features. If a flannel-clad lumberjack and a lone wolf had a baby, it would be this guy.

And yet… I don't feel scared.

I probably should. I'm following a complete stranger into the wilderness, soaking wet, bleeding, with no cell service and no one expecting me home tonight. Every true crime podcast I've ever listened to is screaming warnings in my head.

But something about Sawyer feels solid. Grounded. Like if the world were ending tomorrow, he'd be the guy who already had firewood stacked, soup simmering on the stove, and a plan for surviving whatever came next.

He opens the door and holds it for me, and I step inside—into another world entirely.

Warm. Quiet. Safe.

The air smells like cedar and coffee and something faintly spicy that might be cinnamon or might just be him. Everything is handmade, built from solid wood that's been worn smooth by years of use. The furniture is sturdy, masculine, beautiful in its simplicity. A stone fireplace dominates one wall, flames crackling behind an iron screen. Bookshelves line another, filled with volumes that look like they’ve actually been read instead of just displayed.

It's exactly what I would have imagined if someone had asked me to picture a mountain man's cabin. And yet it's nothing like I expected. There's something almost gentle about it. Welcoming.

Likehim, I'm beginning to realize.

He disappears into what I assume is the kitchen without explanation. I just stand there, dripping onto his wide-plank floors and hugging myself until he returns with a thick towel and a dented metal first-aid kit that looks like it's seen plenty of use.

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