Page 5 of Stone Cold Mountain Man
Every morning when I step out on the porch, Cedar Ridge is still there through the thicket of pines that divides my land from her.
She’s as stubborn as a splinter under my skin.
I thought she’d take one look at the cracked siding and warped porch boards and run screaming back to whatever pampered life she decided to leave behind.
But no. She’s still here, working on that cabin like it’s a mission. There’s a new stack of split wood by the door, a makeshift clothesline tied up between the cabin and the car port, and curtains that weren’t there last week. The porch even has a brace under the beam—solid enough that I had to admit, if only to myself, that she knows how to handle a hammer.
I hate that I notice.
I hate worse that she’s carved out space in my head.
When I’m chopping wood, I catch myself wondering if she’s got enough to make it through the first frost. When I’m tuning my truck, I remember her face that first day—half defiant, half relieved—as I hauled her Jeep out of the ditch.
And like right now, when I’m in the shower, that’s where the real problem starts.
Steam and memory mix, and suddenly I’m thinking about the curve of her hips under that oversized sweater, or how her smile lights up even when she finishes her latest task. I imagine her pulling back the curtain, stepping in close, skin slick with heat—
“Cut it out,” I mutter, slamming the faucet off.
I drag on jeans and a flannel over my damp skin and shove my feet into my boots. I head outside before my own thoughts make a fool out of me. The air’s crisp, the kind that stings your lungs but makes you feel alive. Good. I need alive, not distracted.
Today’s job is patching a few shingles the wind tore off last spring. I haul the ladder out of my shed with a bundle of replacements shingles tucked under my arm. I lean the ladder against the cabin wall, and climb. Up here the world makes sense: hammer, nails, wood, sky. The rhythm of my work drowns out the noise in my head.
I’m just settling into the quiet when a sound cuts straight through it—high, raw, and full of terror.
A woman’s scream.
Taylor.
Every muscle in my body snaps tight. I don’t think, I move—sliding down the roof, and drop the last few feet hard enough to jolt my knees. Then I’m running to her. The branches of the trees dividing our land claws at my arms and slaps my face.
The scream stops. That’s worse than the scream.
“Hold on,” I growl to no one, pumping my legs faster.
The clearing opens, and there she is.
Taylor stands near a small pile of firewood, frozen mid-step. The logs she’d been carrying are scattered around her boots. Her eyes are fixed on something in front of her. I follow her line of vision and see the reason behind her scream.
A big brown bear noses around the porch steps, claws scraping the boards as it investigates. It looks young—three years, maybe four. It doesn’t seem to be taking too much interest in Taylor, but curiosity is only one wrong step from dangerous.
I catch her gaze and lift a hand—warning her to stay put. She swallows, nods once, eyes wide as saucers.
The bear dips his head, sniffing at a trash bag by the steps.
I circle wide, slow, so I don’t spook him. When I’m close enough, I step in front of her, blocking her. It this bear is going to try anything, at least it will have me to contend with, so Taylor can save herself.
“Don’t run,” I say quietly.
“I wasn’t planning on it,” she whispers, voice shaking.
“You screamed pretty well, though.”
A quick breath might’ve been a laugh if complete terror wasn’t stealing all the air from her lungs at this moment.
The bear keeps rummaging, remaining uninterested—at least, for now. I raise my arms just enough to look bigger, talking low and calm. “Alright, big guy. You’ve seen enough. Time to go.”
Taylor presses a hand to my back—just fingertips, but I feel it all the way through. She’s trembling. The urge to pull her into my arms is outweighed only by the four-hundred-pound brown bear in front of us.
