Page 2 of Her Mountain Man Protector
“Julian Sebastian Kingsley, do you take Mila Octavia Van Alstyne to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
A pause. The groom sniffs petulantly. “I do.”
The minister forces a smile. “And you, Mila Octavia Van Alstyne, do you take Julian Sebastian Kingsley to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
The room seems to hold its breath. I open my mouth, ready to say the two words that will change my life forever. The two words that will save me and my sister. But nothing comes out. I strain my vocal cords, panic rising as Julian eyes me impatiently. The people behind us are starting to murmur, and I hear my mother’s voice, a snarl so quiet I almost think I’ve imagined it, “Say I do.”
But I can’t. I can’t say anything. I stagger back, desperate to get away from the minister and my frowning groom. “Sorry. I’m…I’m sorry.” My voice catches, tears burning in my eyes. “I can’t do this.”
Then I turn on my heel and flee the chapel, ignoring my parents’ shouts, the indignant cries from the Kingsley family, the exclamation of surprise from the minister. I barrel down the hallway, through the oak front doors of the mansion and out into the cool mountain air, running toward the woods without a backward glance.
2
HOLDEN
I straighten my back,groaning as it clicks. I’ve been hunched over Isabelle’s truck for hours, replacing the dead battery, corroded terminals, and alternator belt. She bought it secondhand when she moved out here last month, and the damn thing stopped working almost instantly. Now it’s good as new, and I feel a flicker of satisfaction as I wipe my oily hands with a rag, slam the hood of the truck shut and start the engine to double-check it works. When I hear the telltale growl, I text my daughter.
Hey Izz. Truck’s fixed.
It feels good to be useful again, putting my skills as a mechanic to work. Ever since I sold my auto shop in Denver and moved back to Cherry Hollow, I’ve been rattling around like a damn ghost, unsure of what to do with myself. I recently made an offer on a property in town—an old warehouse I want to convert into a garage. But I haven’t heard back yet. It feels like I’m stuck in limbo, and working on my daughter’s truck is the first thing that’s given me purpose in weeks.
I start to tidy my tools when my phone buzzes with a reply from Isabelle.
Awesome! Thanks so much Dad, you’re the best :) I’ll pick it up tomorrow morning.
I reply with a thumbs-up emoji, feeling a rush of affection for her as I pocket my phone. Moving back to my hometown was a big decision, but it was worth it to be close to my daughter. I adopted Isabelle in my early twenties and moved us both to Denver, never expecting to return to Cherry Hollow. It feels weird being back—like hearing an old song I only remember half the words to—comforting and unsettling at the same time. But moving back here isn’t the only big change that’s happened lately.
Isabelle and Wyatt.
I still can’t wrap my head around it.
It all started when Ralph Kramer died. He was an old buddy of mine, and he left his log cabin jointly to me and my childhood best friend, Wyatt Baxter. When I came out here to settle the inheritance with him, I made the mistake of bringing my daughter. They fell hard and fast—too damn fast if you ask me—and now they’re living together in Wyatt’s cabin, about twenty minutes from here. They’re happy, and I know that’s all that matters. But fuck, it’s still taking me a while to adjust.
Too many damn changes.
With a sigh, I put the last of my tools away. The sun is setting as I make my way back toward the cabin, streaks of bruised purple sky showing through the canopies overhead. At least the forest still feels like home. I spent my childhood in these woods, roaming the mountain with Wyatt by my side. I know these trees better than I ever knew the streets of Denver. Just wish I felt the same about Ralph’s cabin.
My cabin,I remind myself for the millionth time.Mine.
Although Ralph left this place jointly to me and Wyatt, I bought out his share a few weeks back. This place is now officially one-hundred percent mine…but it still doesn’t feel like home. On the surface, it’s perfect—a big, rustic log cabin out in the forest. But I can’t stop thinking of it as Ralph’s, not mine. The place is full of boxes I can’t bring myself to unpack, even though I’ve been here nearly a month.
I’ll start tomorrow,I tell myself.Can’t keep feeling like a stranger here forever.
Closing the front door behind me, I head for the bathroom to wash my hands, watching the water run black. My phone buzzes in my pocket once more, and I feel a quick jolt of anticipation as I reach for it with still-wet fingers, wondering if it’s the owner of the warehouse finally getting back to me. But it’s just a dumb notification from a local news app I don’t remember installing.
BREAKING: KINGSLEY HEIR JILTED AT ALTAR
I glance at the headline before swiping the notification off my screen and uninstalling the app. Like I care about some random rich dude getting stood up.
Dumb phone.
I leave the bathroom, stepping over a couple of boxes to reach the kitchen. The clock on the wall says it’s after eight, and the sky outside is more black than purple now. It gets dark fast in the mountains—another little fact of life out here I’d forgotten. The trees outside are swaying, the wind picking up as night draws in, and when the knock on the door comes a little while later, I assume it’s just branches batting against the porch. But then the noise comes again, louder this time.
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK.
I frown, looking up from my book. Setting it down, I head for the door, wondering who the hell it could be at this hour.
Maybe Isabelle, coming to get her truck early?
