Page 1 of Stone Cold Mountain Man
1
Taylor
Everyone said I was too loud. Too curvy. Too dramatic.
So, in the spirit of being just too much, I cashed out my tiny retirement account, packed up my life, and bought a cabin in the woods.
“This is going to be good for us,” I tell Dottie as the dirt and gravel crunch beneath the tires of my secondhand Jeep. Dottie, my little succulent, sits in the cupholder, looking smug and unbothered—as always. She doesn’t care that my “cabin in the woods” plan came with no practical skills and a credit card balance that makes me queasy. But that’s future Taylor’s problem.
The mountain road narrows, twisting through ancient pines. The late-afternoon sun slices across the hood, and I breathe in deep.
Clean air.
Pine needles.
A whiff of freedom.
For the first time in forever, the weight on my chest loosens.
“I’m going to take this time to reinvent myself,” I announce. “No bosses telling me I’m too much in meetings. No exes calling me a handful.” I glance at Dottie’s stubby leaves. “Just us, a wood stove, and a new life.”
The universe decides at this moment that my cockiness is a little too much and decides to knock me down a peg.
A blur darts out from the tree line. It’s brown and fast and likes to live it’s life on the edge darting out in front of automobiles. I yell and jerk the wheel in an attempt to avoid crushing the little critter that looked no bigger than a squirrel. The Jeep lurches. Gravel spits. The tires skid, and then—whump—I’m nose-down in a ditch.
It takes my brain a moment to catch up to what just happened. If I’d turned the other way, my Jeep would be barrel rolling down the mountain right now.
“Oh my gosh,” I groan, heart thudding. “This is not the way I expected to make my grand entrance to the area.”
I cut the engine and rest my forehead against the steering wheel until my pulse stops trying to claw out of my throat. Dottie remains serene, like near-death by woodland creature is just another Tuesday.
“You’re no help,” I mutter, stroking one of her plump leaves. “Okay, crisis management time.”
I grab my phone—zero bars. Of course. I grab Dottie and shove open the door. I struggle a little with only one free hand to scramble up the sloped shoulder of the ditch, and start waving my phone in the air like an overcaffeinated weathervane.
“Come on, there’s got to be a signal.”
I’m too preoccupied with connecting back with civilization for help when a dark pickup barrels around the bend.
I freeze, phone aloft, as the truck fishtails slightly before stopping a few feet away.
Two near death experiences in less than twenty minutes. That’s got to be a record on this mountain.
The driver’s door swings open, and out climbs the human embodiment of a storm cloud. Broad shoulders, flannel shirt, jaw carved from granite.
“What the hell are you doing standing in the road?” His voice is low, sharp enough to chop a piece of wood clean in half.
“Trying to get a signal,” I say, holding up my phone to show him. “My Jeep’s in the ditch.”
He rakes a hand through dark hair, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like a curse. “You could’ve been killed.”
“Not really the outcome I was hoping for,” I say, aiming for lighthearted, but it lands like a brick on the ground between us.
His eyes—icy blue, because of course they are—flick to the Jeep. After a moment, the rigid line of his shoulders loosens, though his face stays set in stone. “Stay put.”
He strides back to the truck, grabs a chain, and returns with a purposeful gait that makes me step aside automatically. He hooks the chain to my bumper, working with efficient, silent movements. No wasted words, no smile.
I hover nearby, half tempted to offer some moral support, half afraid he’ll bite. “I really appreciate this,” I say.
