Page 3 of Stone Cold Mountain Man
By Christmas, she’ll be back in whatever city she escaped from, selling the place to the first person who offers cash. And then Cedar Ridge will be mine, like it should’ve been in the first place.
I grip the wheel, my knuckles turning white as the image of her standing in the road. Her long auburn hair tucked under a knit cap, a puffy jacket that was clearly made more for fashion than keeping someone freezing in the cold, and a succulent in her hand. I already don’t get city people, but what the hell was that about?
Shaking my head to clear my thought about—her. I remind myself that she won’t be here for long. Don’t get any ideas about the fact that she’s pretty,
She’ll be gone soon.
I repeat it like a mantra as the trees thin and the roofline of my cabin comes into view. Heavy beams, metal roof, smoke curling from the chimney I stoked before heading down to the supply store. Everything neat and solid and quiet, just the way I like it.
I park the truck and kill the engine. Silence wraps around me, thick and familiar—the only company I ever wanted.
So why is my pulse still thudding from more than the drive?
I see her again in my mind—the soft curves of a body that would be heaven to wrap up next to on cold mountain nights. And her smile that can rival the brightness of the sun high in the sky. She is sunshine incarnate. Alive. Like someone who’d never learned to dim herself to fit in.
Why did she have to be so fucking pretty?
And I’d barked at her like she was an intruder. Which, technically, she is.
I haul the chain out of the truck bed and hang it on its hook inside the shed, focusing on the simple rhythm of order—tool here, rope there, lock the latch. The ritual calms me, grounds me.
She won’t last.
That thought soothes more than it should. She’ll figure out the water line freezes when temps drop below zero, the woodpile runs out faster than you think, and hauling it uphill in knee-deep snow is a misery best left to someone built for it.
When she’s had enough, I’ll make a new offer. Fair. Clean.
And this stretch of mountain will go back to the way it was—quiet, steady, mine.
I glance toward the tree line, the road somewhere beyond.
Still, a part of me—small, stubborn—hopes she doesn’t take a corner too fast or get herself lost out there tonight.
I shake it off, heading for the porch. Better to put her out of my head before she turns into a problem I don’t need.
I head inside and stoke the stove. It takes a moment to let the heat push back the chill in the air. My cabin smells like pine and coffee—like home. I settle into the armchair, staring out the window as dusk turns the pines to silhouettes.
Somewhere down the mountain, Taylor—because of course she had a name like that—will be unpacking boxes and trying to make Cedar Ridge hers.
I give it a month.
Two, tops.
Then the land will finally be mine, and I can get back to the one thing I wanted from the start: silence.
3
Taylor
By the time I drive up the last stretch of road, the sky has slipped into that golden hour that makes everything look like a Bob Ross painting.Happy little trees. Which is probably why, for a split second, Cedar Ridge Cabin doesn’t look—terrible.
Then I park before I climb out and get a better look.
“Wow,” I whisper, resting my hands on my hips. I tilt my head to the side hoping maybe another angle will help the scene in front of me. “It’s well, uh, aged since the listing photo, huh?”
Brent Mallory’s carefully angled shots had made this place look rustic-but-charming—like the kind of spot where you’d drink cocoa in a hand-knit sweater while deer frolicked nearby. Up close, it’s more rustic-but-should-probably-be-condemned.
The siding is faded, the porch leans a little, and the roof sports a patchwork of shingles that clearly lost a battle with the elements. I can almost hear my parents’ voices carrying up the mountain.Taylor Anne, you did what? Bought a shack in the middle of nowhere without even inspecting it?
