Page 2 of Stone Cold Mountain Man
But he only grunts at me in response.
Okay.
A few minutes later, with a rumble of engines and a spray of gravel, my Jeep climbs out of the ditch with a little groan.
“Yes!” I give the man in his truck a thumbs up. “Thank you!”
He unhooks the chain, tosses it into the truck bed, and dusts his hands off on the side of his jeans.
“Road gets slick when the sun drops behind the ridge,” he says, “You should head back down before dark.”
“Oh, actually, I’m not passing through.” I gesture toward the Jeep. “I bought a place up here—Cedar Ridge Cabin? That’s what the listing called it.”
His expression changes so fast I almost miss it—something sharp flickers across his features, then settles into an unreadable mask. “You bought it?”
“Yes?” I answer, unsure why it sounds like a crime. “Is that a problem?”
He shakes his head, jaw tight. “No problem.”
The words say one thing but it’s clear from his tone that it very much is a problem.
“I’m Taylor.”
Before I can press, he turns on his heel and walks back to his truck.
“Wait! What’s your name?” I call after him.
His answer is nonresponse as he slams his door shut. He starts the engine, gives me one long, unreadable look, and drives off, taillights bright red against the darkening trees.
I stare after him, baffled. “Well, Dottie,” I say, retrieving my succulent from the passenger seat, “Looks like we’ve met the local welcoming committee. And he’s—delightful.”
Dottie, as usual, has no comment.
I slide behind the wheel, start the engine, and point the Jeep uphill toward my new life. Maybe I should take the hint and keep my distance from Mr. Glare-and-Go, but something tells me that won’t be as easy as it sounds.
2
Wade
I hit the gas harder than necessary, gravel pinging against the undercarriage as I leave her standing there with her succulent and wide eyes.
Not smart, Wade. Losing your cool over a woman stranded in a ditch. She didn’t ask for your help and sure as hell didn’t deserve the scowl you tossed at her before peeling out.
Except it wasn’t really her I was mad at.
It was Brent Mallory—the bastard nephew of old man Mallory, rest his soul.
When Ed passed last spring, I figured the mountain was finally going to be quiet. I’d offered Brent a solid price for Cedar Ridge Cabin, more than it was worth for a sagging roof and a cracked wood stove. He’d agreed, even shook on it over lukewarm coffee at the diner in town. A week later, he backed out and sold to—her.
I take the next curve slower, the road narrowing between granite outcrops. The sun’s dropping fast, throwing shadows across the hood.
Great.
Just what I needed. A newcomer with big-city shine in her eyes, driving an old Jeep like she’s out for a Sunday cruise. She has no idea what she signed up for. No idea what January does to plumbing up here, or how fast a nor’easter can bury a cabin roof if you’re not out there shoveling every couple of hours.
She’s going to freeze, starve, or set the forest on fire trying to light kindling with hairspray or something.
I rub a hand over the back of my neck, trying to shake the tension out of my shoulders. Not my problem. If she wants to play pioneer, she’ll figure out really quick that this mountain doesn’t bend for anyone.
