Page 24 of The Mountain Man's Untamed Bride
Colonel watched me from the window, his beady eyes judging me as thoroughly as my mother's disapproving glances during Sunday service. Day two of cabin living, and the rooster had already established a morning routine of monitoring me.
"Still on surveillance duty, I see," I muttered, stretching my stiff back. The army-surplus mattress hadn't done me any favors overnight, and my hair looked even worse than yesterday's electrocution victim style. I slipped into my silk robe—still the only touch of luxury in this wilderness outpost—and checked my phone. No service, as expected.
The cabin was quiet. No sign of Bodhi. As I moved toward the kitchen, I noticed a folded note on the nightstand, my name written across it:
Scarlett,
Gone to town for security supplies after last night's discovery. Back before noon. Rifle's locked in cabinet - DON'T touch it. Stay inside.
—B
P.S. Don't let Colonel in. He's still keeping an eye on your vibrator.
The clock read 9:17 AM. Hours before Bodhi would return. My stomach rumbled, reminding me that reading notes wasn't breakfast.
I found peanut butter and bread in the kitchen and made myself a sandwich while surveying the space. Dust bunnies had colonized every corner, clearly feeling secure in their long-established territory.
"Well," I said to no one, "might as well make myself useful."
If I was hiding in a mountain man's home, I could at least clean it. I grabbed the broom from the corner—a tool I'd only ever seen in the hands of our housekeeper, never my own.
My first sweep sent dust clouds billowing, triggering a sneeze that startled Colonel from his window perch. He flapped away, looking offended.
"Oh, please. Like you could do better," I called after him.
Twenty minutes and several sneezing fits later, I'd created neat dust piles. In Atlanta, messes disappeared while I was at brunch. Here, housekeeping required actual effort.
I found a dustpan under the sink and scooped up my collections of debris. Not bad for someone whose cleaning experience ended at pressing "start" on a dishwasher.
Moving to the living area, I carefully shifted stacks of books before sweeping underneath. One leather-bound volumecaught my eye—thicker than the others, with no title on its worn spine.
Inside were hand-drawn sketches of breathtaking detail. Trees with bark so realistic I could almost feel the texture. Sunsets captured in watercolor, each labeled with only a date. Birds in flight, their wingspan measurements noted underneath.
Between the drawings were handwritten passages:
Mountain silence speaks louder than city noise,Yet sometimes the quiet screams so loudI'd trade one sunset for a single human voiceThat isn't my own, echoing off empty walls.
I closed the journal, something tight forming in my chest. "Great," I whispered. "He's gorgeous AND talented. This isn't fair."
I'd expected a simple mountain brute—the perfect anti-Langley to take my virginity and ruin me for a proper marriage in the eyes of Daddy Dearest. Instead, I'd found a man who could dismantle threats with the mind of a trained warrior but also created art that made my throat tighten.
Back to tidying, hoping the activity would help clear the tumult of emotions washing over me. By the time I finished, the cabin looked significantly less like a bear's seasonal residence. Progress on one front at least.
The sound of tires on gravel stopped me cold.
Bodhi returning early? The clock showed 10:43 AM.
But my hopes were quickly dashed when at the window, instead of Bodhi's battered truck I saw the same black Mercedes we'd spotted in town yesterday. My stomach immediately dropped.
Langley Richardson stepped out, looking nothing like the polished attorney from Atlanta. His expensive clothes werewrinkled and dirt-stained, his normally perfect Ken-doll blonde hair disheveled. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. He looked like he'd spent the night hunting through the wilderness—which, based on the watch Bodhi found, he probably had.
"Scarlett, darling!" His voice carried through the walls, pleasant but with that undercurrent I knew too well. "Your father's worried sick! This little adventure has gone on long enough!"
Like he cares about anything but his reputation.
I grabbed my phone. No signal, but I remembered finding a weak connection on the northeast corner of the porch. I typed quickly:SOS PSYCHO FIANCÉ HERE
The message showed the spinning wheel of non-delivery. I needed to hide.
