Page 3 of Curvy Girl and the Mountain Man Wolf
Impossible.
I stand motionless in my living room, listening to their heavy breathing as they struggle up the path. A woman and a child. Out here, in this blizzard, miles from the nearest road that's maintained in winter. My territory has been undisturbed for eight years, and now this.
The knock comes, frantic and urgent. I consider not answering. Consider retreating to the back room and letting them move on. It's what I've done before on the rare occasions hikers have strayed too close. But the child's scent—cold, too cold—makes that impossible.
I move to the door, each step with reluctance. Opening it reveals exactly what I expected: a woman, auburn hair dusted with snow, green eyes wide with fear and hope. A small girl pressed against her side, her face nearly blue with cold.
What I don't expect is the jolt that runs through me when our eyes meet. The sudden roaring in my ears. The way my wolf lunges forward, pressing against the cage of my ribs, howling one word: Mine.
"Please," she says, and her voice sends another shock through my system. "We're lost. Our car broke down. My daughter… She's just a little girl. She's so cold."
I force myself to look at the child, trying to regain control. She's small, maybe five or six, with the same auburn hair as hermother. Her lips are taking on a bluish tint. Hypothermia. They won't survive another hour in this storm.
"How did you find this place?" I ask, my voice rough from disuse. I speak to almost no one except my wolf and occasionally Jim, my contact in town who brings supplies.
"We were driving to Cedar Falls. The GPS took us up some mountain road, and our car overheated. We've been walking for—" She stops, and I can smell her fear spike. She's afraid of me. Smart woman.
She should be afraid. I'm dangerous. I haven't been around humans, especially not a female who makes my wolf react this way in nearly a decade. Not since Afghanistan. Not since the night I lost control.
"Please," she whispers, breaking into my thoughts. "Just until the storm passes. I have a little money—"
"Keep your money." I step back; against every instinct I've developed over eight years of isolation. "Come in before you both freeze to death."
They hesitate for just a moment before hurrying inside. I close the door behind them, sealing us in together. The cabin suddenly feels too small, too warm, too full of their scents.
"Thank you," the woman says, helping the little girl remove her snow-covered coat. "I'm Lois. This is my daughter, Lily."
Lois. The name suits her, with that auburn hair and the fierce protectiveness I can sense radiating from her. I should introduce myself, but my name feels strange in my mouth after so long.
"Kane," I finally say, moving to add another log to the fire. I need to put some distance between us. Need to regain control of my wolf, who's pacing restlessly beneath my skin, wanting to get closer to her. "Kane Wolfe."
"Thank you, Mr. Wolfe," she says, and I almost want to laugh at the absurdity of it. Mr. Wolfe, like I'm some civilized man and not a half-wild creature living alone on a mountain.
"Just Kane," I mutter, keeping my back to them as I poke at the fire. The flames leap higher, and I hear the little girl—Lily—sigh with relief as the heat reaches her.
"Your hands are like ice, sweetie," Lois says to her daughter. "Come closer to the fire."
I turn to see her guiding the child toward the hearth, and for the first time, I really look at my unexpected guests. Lois is smaller than I initially thought, maybe five-foot-four to my six-foot-six. Curvy in a way that makes my wolf growl appreciatively. Her clothes are rumpled from travel, her face pale with exhaustion and worry. The child is a miniature version of her mother, with the same green eyes currently wide with both fear and curiosity as she stares up at me.
"You live here all alone?" Lily asks suddenly, and I see Lois tense.
"Lily, don't be nosy," she admonishes quietly.
"It's fine," I say, though it's not. Nothing about this situation is fine. "Yes, I live alone."
"Where are all the other people?" Lily continues, apparently unafraid of the giant, bearded stranger towering over her. Kids. No sense of self-preservation.
"There aren't any other people," I tell her, moving to the kitchen area. It's not much, a wood stove, some counters, basic supplies, but it's far enough away that I can breathe without their scents overwhelming me. "Just me."
"Like a hermit?" Lily asks, and I hear Lois make a choking sound.
"Lily, please," she whispers. "Mr.—I mean, Kane has been kind enough to let us in. Let's not bother him with questions."
I find myself wanting to tell the kid it's okay, that her questions don't bother me, but that would be a lie. Everything about them bothers me. The way Lois's scent makes my wolf pace and whine. The way the child looks at me without fear, as if I'm not something to be afraid of.
"You need dry clothes," I say instead, forcing myself to think practically. "And something warm to drink. When did you last eat?"
"This morning," Lois admits. "We were trying to make it to Cedar Falls before stopping."
