Page 5 of The Mountain Man's Untamed Bride
Daddy beamed across the table, his expression practically screaming how fortunate I was to have caught the attention ofthe Richardson family's heir. Mother nodded along, her smile frozen in place as always, eyes darting to nearby tables to ensure we were being properly observed by Atlanta’s social elite.
As my parents discussed wine with the waiter, Langley leaned close, his cologne not quite masking the scent of expensive scotch on his breath despite the early hour.
"I've already picked out the modest clothing catalog I've approved for you," he whispered, his hand finding my knee under the crisp white tablecloth. "As my wife, you'll need to present yourself appropriately—in public, that is. No more of these..." his eyes dropped to my chest, "distractions. Those assets are for my private appreciation only."
His phone buzzed and he checked it, smirking slightly before sliding it face-down on the table. The same smirk I'd seen in that photo Melissa had shown me from his last "business trip" to Vegas—the one with the blurred-out women my father had dismissed as "manipulated images from jealous troublemakers."
The way he squeezed my thigh under the table, just a little too high, a little too hard, told me everything his carefully curated Sunday persona tried to hide.
I maintained my smile even as something inside me shriveled. In that moment, staring at my untouched lobster bisque, I knew I would rather live in a cardboard box than marry this man who saw me as nothing but another acquisition for his collection.
***
The memory dissolved as my car bounced over another rock. At least I'd had the presence of mind to empty my bank account before leaving—the one my grandmother had set up that my parents couldn't access. It wasn't much, but it would buy me time to figure out my next steps.
Promise Ridge, Colorado. Population: probably fewer than my father's Sunday congregation.
I'd found Mountain Mates during a desperate late-night search for escape routes. The website looked like it hadn't been updated since dial-up was cutting edge, complete with pixelated photos of bearded men staring soulfully beside pine trees.
The questionnaire had made me laugh out loud.
What qualities do you bring to a traditional marriage?it had asked.
I took a sip of wine and typed with a sly grin: "I absolutely love cooking, cleaning, and submitting to male authority. I've never had an independent thought, and my hobbies include staring adoringly and nodding."
I'd crafted exactly the kind of fantasy woman I imagined these overgrown male hillbillies would want—the complete opposite of who I actually was.
For the "About Me" section, I laid it on even thicker:
I'm a meek, quiet girl from a good family. I love animals, children, and hope to have a big family someday. I have old-fashioned values and believe a woman's place is in the home. I can't wait to keep house for the right mountain man!
I attached a photo from my church's youth ministry page—me with minimal makeup, hair pulled back, wearing a demure blue dress with a practiced Sunday smile. The same smile that had won me Miss Teen Atlanta three years ago, despite dropping my flaming baton twice during the talent portion. My pageant days had ended when I'd suggested that perhaps world peace wasn't achievable through better swimwear, but Daddy still had the tiara displayed in his office to impress church donors.
Perfect bait for mountain men seeking a submissive bride—they'd never suspect that behind that angelic smile lurked awoman who'd been kicked out of finishing school for teaching the other girls how to pick locks with hairpins.
The confirmation email had arrived within hours, featuring a picture of one Bodhi Wilder from Promise Ridge. The man looked like he ate pinecones for breakfast—wild brown hair, intense eyes, and a beard that could hide small woodland creatures. But his location was perfect—remote enough that no one would think to look for me there.
So I'd packed my car under cover of darkness, left a vague note about "finding myself," and hit the road before dawn.
Now, after a day and a half of marathon driving fueled by gas station coffee and determination, I was beginning to question my sanity.
The trees finally thinned, revealing a clearing with what I assumed was my destination. I'd been picturing something from those mountain retreat renovation shows—rustic-luxe with exposed beams, a stone fireplace, and tastefully arranged antlers on the walls.
What I saw instead was a structure that looked like it had been built by someone who'd learned about houses from a child's drawing. Solid, definitely, but lacking any hint of decorative intent. This place was built to withstand the apocalypse, but unfortunately not to host an Instagram photoshoot anytime soon.
And there, on the porch, stood the man himself.
I caught my breath.
Bodhi Wilder looked like he'd walked straight out of a wilderness survival guide. He was taller than his photo suggested, with shoulders broad from actual labor rather than gym sessions. His shirt had the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms mapped with veins and sinew.
His beard was as untamed as promised, framing a mouth currently set in a thin, unimpressed line. His eyes—a warm brown that might have been inviting if they weren't narrowed suspiciously—tracked my car like I was an invading army.
I pulled to a stop and killed the engine. In the sudden silence, my heartbeat seemed unnaturally loud.
So this is the mountain man mistake I'm about to make. At least he's nice to look at.
I checked my reflection, quickly refreshing my forbidden red lipstick. I smoothed my deliberately tight white top, adjusted my girls to reveal a good helping of cleavage, and opened the car door.
