Page 2 of The Mountain Man's Accidental Bride
With my luck going from bad to worse, rain begins falling from the sky. Not even a light sprinkle to prepare me for what is to come, but a heavy downpour. It’s like the clouds couldn’t possibly wait another second before letting everything out at once.
The trees surrounding me as I move hardly keep my body dry. What coverage the leaves have is taken out by the wind picking up.
In a matter of seconds, I’m drenched. My jeans are clinging to my thighs like a second skin. My gray shirt is looking black, and what hairs have escaped my ponytail are now curled like tendrils against my cheeks, clinging to my flushed skin.
Muttering my groans and annoyances, my steps grow more urgent as I try to avoid slipping on the ground. With the dirt turning into mud, the last thing I need is to twist an ankle.
Eventually, I come across a cabin.
Weathered cedar logs, silvered by decades of mountain storms, blend into the bark of the trees crowding around it. As if the forest is slowly swallowing it whole. The roof sags under a quilt of pine needles, and a single stone chimney juts upward, a stream of smoke lifting toward the sky.
No porch light burns. No cheerful wreath hangs on the door—just a rusted iron latch and a whiff of woodsmoke clinging to the damp air. The windows are dark, their glass winking like dull eyes when the wind shifts the branches.
It isn’t abandoned, which is a good thing. I think.
A stack of split logs leans against the side, bark still clinging in ragged strips. An ax is resting against the wall of the cabin, looking quite sharp despite the large pile of wood next to it.
Whoever lives here doesn’t want visitors, but I don’t have a choice. I need help. If not their help, then a phone so I can getsomeone.
Taking a set of creaky stairs leading up to a matching porch, I hesitate slightly as I make my way toward the front door.
What if the owner of this cabin isn’t the helpful type? Even worse, what if he’s dangerous? Like, serial killer vibes.
Maybe I should’ve stayed in my car until someone came to me.
Shivering at the thought of what I could’ve done, I try to brush off my worries and knock on the door.
At first, silence welcomes me. If it weren’t for the smoke coming out of the chimney, I’d have a good suspicion that no one was home. Knocking harder, my knuckles ache.
The sudden loud boom of thunder up above makes me jump, startling me just as the sound of heavy footsteps approaches from the other side.
My poor heart is still racing at the exact moment the door is yanked open—revealing a man who looks nothing like a serial killer. The only thing I can think of to describe him as is trouble.
Bigtrouble.
The man in the doorway isn’t just tall—he’s a reflection of the mountain itself.
Six and a half feet of hardened muscle, shoulders broad enough to blot out the storm behind me. Dirty blond hair, overgrown to the point of brushing his chin, frames a face that hasn’t seen a razor in months. His beard is wild, a shade darker than the rest of him.
It’s not his rugged appearance that steals the air from my lungs, but hiseyes.
Deep blue, flecked with green—not the serene shimmer of tropical waters, but the churning violence of the sea. The kind that drags sailors under.
My knees wobble, my body betraying me with a traitorous flush of heat.
This is the kind of man who hunts through a person’s darkest fantasies with teeth bared. That, or maybe he’s more of the kind I’d find in mine.
I’ve never had a type of man in my life, not until this very moment. Given the way my body is responding, I do not doubt my discovery. Not while I’m struggling to react under his watch.
I know for a fact that this man isn’t like Walter Green. Even if I’ve never seen my future partner before, there’s no way a man like this would ever find himself getting involved with Cupid’s Bloom Co. to find a wife.
If he wanted a bride, he’d go out and steal one for himself. Throw her over one of those broad shoulders and claim her as his.
Woof.
The downward curl of his lips is enough to snap me out of my daze. He looks angry, not just at the world, but at me as well. Like I’ve disruptedhispeace.
Well, he’s not the only one wishing I weren’t standing on his porch right now.
