Page 4 of The Mountain Man's Untamed Bride
"Vacuum?" I repeated, the word sounding foreign in my mouth. "You think I own a vacuum cleaner? Out here? What would I power it with—optimism?"
"Broom?" he tried again, visibly recalibrating his expectations.
I pointed to the corner where a worn broom leaned like a neglected sentry.
"Right." Flint rolled up his sleeves. "This is going to take some work. Josie sent cleaning supplies, by the way. And food. She says your bride shouldn't have to eat squirrel on her first night here."
"I don't eat squirrel," I protested.
"Only because you're a terrible shot."
***
Four hours later, my cabin looked marginally less like a disaster zone. We'd swept, dusted, and removed at least three previously undiscovered spider metropolises. I'd changed the sheets in the spare room and confirmed that its previous woodland occupants had indeed relocated, though they'd left behind enough evidence to suggest they'd considered applying for permanent residency.
Flint had departed with promises to return tomorrow to "witness the magic," leaving me alone with my thoughts, a house that reeked of pine-scented cleaner, and a casserole dish from Josie with detailed reheating instructions taped to the lid.
"This is insane," I told Colonel, who had reclaimed his perch on the porch railing now that the threat of Flint had passed. "I'm not husband material. I don't even like people."
Colonel clucked, tilting his head in what could only be judgment.
I surveyed my kingdom—ten acres of remote Colorado wilderness, a cabin I'd built with my own hands, and a life carefully constructed to keep the world at arm's length. Tomorrow, a stranger would invade this sanctuary. A woman who claimed to want the simple life but probably had no idea what she was actually about to find.
The sun began its descent behind the mountains, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that no photograph could ever capture. On any other evening, I'd have sat on the porch with a beer, soaking in the quiet and the beauty. Tonight, I found myself arranging firewood into a neater pile and wondering if my spare towels still qualified as fabric rather than abstract fiber art.
As darkness fell, I stood on my porch, watching the first stars appear. The only sounds were the rustling leaves and the occasional hoot of an owl. Tomorrow, this peace would be shattered by a stranger who thought she wanted to be a mountain wife.
The same instinct that had kept me alive through two tours in Afghanistan now thrummed a warning beneath my skin. My carefully constructed world was about to change, and I was powerless to stop it. Tomorrow, Scarlett Montgomery would arrive with her sweet smile and traditional values, and nothing would be the same again.
Something told me she had no idea what she was getting herself into. But then again, neither did I.
Chapter Two
“Desperate Times, Mountain Measures”
Scarlett
My poor BMW wasn't built for this.
I winced as my car scraped over another rock, the chassis groaning in protest. This wasn't a road—it was a boulder collection someone had forgotten to clear. Behind me, my designer luggage slid ominously across the trunk with each bump and dip.
"Almost there," I muttered, squinting at the darkened GPS screen. It had surrendered twenty minutes ago, leaving me with nothing but the vague directions from a gas station attendant who'd looked at me like I was an alien when I'd asked about Promise Ridge.
I cranked up my playlist to drown out the concerning noises from beneath my car. My favorite rapper's explicit lyrics filled the space, detailing exactly what she'd do to any man whotried to control her life. I grinned, picturing my father's face. Reverend Elijah "Hellfire" Montgomery would surely burst a blood vessel if he could see his precious daughter now.
The car hit a pothole deep enough to qualify as a small canyon. My head nearly smacked the roof, and I heard the sickening crack of a nail breaking.
"Seriously?" I glanced down to see my freshly done gel manicure ruined, the red extension on my index finger snapped clean off. It had been my small rebellion—blood red with little handcuff designs that would make Daddy need smelling salts during Sunday service.
One broken nail, however, was nothing compared to the broken life waiting for me if I'd stayed back in Atlanta. That dinner was the final scene in my good-daughter performance—the moment I decided to tear up the script and write my own damn story.
***
The restaurant had been Daddy’s choice, of course—an overpriced steakhouse where the men who funded his megachurch made deals over bourbon while their wives discussed charity galas and pretended not to notice the waitresses' ages. I'd worn my most modest dress, which still earned a disapproving glance from Mother when the fabric dared to suggest I had a figure underneath.
"Scarlett, darling," Langley Richardson announced, sliding into the seat beside me. His teeth gleamed unnaturally white beneath the crystal chandeliers. "You look lovely. Almost perfect."
The "almost" hung between us like a threat.
