Page 9 of The Mountain Man's Mail Order Surprise
CHAPTER TWO
GIA
One Week Later
The bus lurches to a stop,and I grip my swollen belly as the baby decides this is the perfect moment to practice his soccer kicks. Six months pregnant and running for my life wasn't exactly in my life plan, but here we are.
"Crimson Hollow," the driver calls out, his voice gravelly from too many cigarettes. "End of the line."
I struggle to my feet, my lower back screaming in protest. The other three passengers don't even look up as I gather my single duffel bag and the manila envelope that contains everything I need for my new life. Including the address of one Rosco Kane, the father of my baby.
If he doesn't slam the door in my face first.
The October air hits me like a slap when I step off the bus. It's colder here in the mountains than it was in Vancouver, and my thin jacket does nothing to block the wind that whips through the valley. Around me, Crimson Hollow spreads out likesomething from a postcard. Quaint shops line the main street, mountain peaks rise on all sides, and everything looks so normal I almost cry.
Normal. Safe.Far away from Zack and his threats and his goddamn lawyers who think they can take my baby just because he's rich and connected.
Even though the baby isn't his. A fact I've been trying to prove for three months while he uses his family's money and influence to make my life a living hell.
I check the address on the crumpled paper one more time. 1247 Timber Ridge Road. The taxi driver at the station quoted me sixty dollars to get there, money I don't have. Looks like I'm walking.
The duffel bag cuts into my shoulder as I trudge up the winding mountain road. My feet, already swollen from the long bus ride, ache in my worn sneakers. But I keep walking because the alternative is going back to Vancouver, and that's not happening. Not when Zack made it clear he'd rather see me dead than raise "his" child.
Even though I know exactly whose child this is. Even though I've thought about Rosco every single day for six months, wondering if I'd ever see him again.
Timber Ridge Road stretches higher into the mountains, past modest homes and sprawling cabins tucked between towering pines. The numbers climb slowly. 1201, 1215, 1223. Almost there.
My heart pounds harder with each step, and not just from the altitude. What am I going to say? Hi, remember that night in New York? Surprise, you're going to be a father and my psycho ex is trying to kill me?
Yeah, that'll go over well.
But I'm out of options. When I saw Rosco Kane's profile on Signed, Sealed, Hitched, it felt like a sign from the universe.Not just because he was looking for a practical arrangement that could solve my custody problem, but because it was him. The man from the Marriott hotel bar who made me feel safe and cherished and beautiful for one perfect night.
The man I've been half in love with and searching for six months.
1247 appears on a carved wooden sign beside a gravel driveway that disappears up the hill between massive pine trees. My stomach clenches, and not from another baby kick. This is it. The moment that determines whether I have a future or end up sleeping under a bridge somewhere.
I trudge up the driveway, gravel crunching under my feet. The trees part to reveal a log cabin that looks like it belongs in a magazine. Two stories, wraparound porch, picture windows that probably offer amazing mountain views. Smoke curls from the stone chimney, and warm light glows from inside.
It's beautiful. It's peaceful. It's everything I dreamed about during those long, terrifying nights in Vancouver when I wondered if Zack would make good on his threats.
A massive pickup truck sits in the driveway, mud splattered and work worn. Tools and equipment fill the bed, along with what looks like a chainsaw and safety gear. This definitely belongs to a man who works with his hands.
Just like he told me that night in New York.
I climb the porch steps, each one requiring more effort than it should. The baby has been especially active today, like he knows something big is happening. Or maybe he's just as nervous as I am about meeting his father.
My hand shakes as I reach for the doorbell, but before I can press it, footsteps thunder inside. Heavy boots on hardwood floors, moving fast like someone's in a hurry.
The door swings open, and I forget how to breathe.
It's him. Six months later, but definitely him. The same dark eyes that seemed to see straight through me in that hotel bar. The same strong jaw and full lips that I've dreamed about kissing again. The same powerful build that made me feel small and protected in his arms.
He's more sexy than I remembered, if that's even possible. Flannel shirt rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair. Jeans that hug his thick thighs. Work boots that have seen serious use. And his face... those cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, the beard that tickled my skin when he kissed my neck.
This man could have any woman he wanted. Why the hell would he need a mail order bride service?
Unless he's been looking for someone specific too.
