Page 1 of Trouble with the Mountain Man
one
Maple
Thesoundhitsmefirst. There’s a deep, grinding crack that seems to come from the bones of the house itself. I freeze in the kitchen doorway, coffee mug halfway to my lips, as dust motes dance in the morning sunlight streaming through the window.
"Mommy?" Seven-year-old Ally looks up from her cereal, brown eyes wide with concern. "What was that?"
"Nothing, sweetheart." The lie tastes bitter. I force a smile and ruffle her dark curls. "Probably just the house settling."
But I know better. The 1940s stone cottage I bought six months ago has been "settling" for weeks now, each new crack in the foundation a reminder that I may have bitten off more than I can chew. What seemed like a steal in Vancouver's inflated market—a charming fixer-upper in Silver Ridge where my cousin Jake works as a logger—now feels like a money pit I can't afford to maintain.
After dropping Ally at school, I circle the cottage's perimeter with growing dread. The stone foundation that looked "rustic" inthe listing photos now shows obvious signs of failure. Gaps have opened between stones, some loose enough that I can wiggle them with my bare hands. The southeast corner, where the kitchen sits, has dropped noticeably.
My phone buzzes with a text from Jake:Coffee later? Juniper's making her famous cinnamon rolls.
I could use both the caffeine and my cousin's steady presence. Jake moved to Silver Ridge five years ago, and his glowing reports of small-town life had convinced me to make the leap after my divorce. Now I'm wondering if I made a terrible mistake.
Twenty minutes later, I slide into a booth at Juniper's Diner, grateful for the warmth and the familiar smell of bacon and coffee. Jake waves from the counter where he's chatting with the owner, Juniper Reed, a woman in her late twenties with kind eyes and flour in her dark hair.
"You look like hell, cuz," Jake says as he joins me, his logger's build filling the booth across from me.
"Thanks. You really know how to make a girl feel better." But I'm smiling despite myself. Jake's bluntness is exactly what I need.
"House troubles again?" Juniper appears beside our table, coffeepot in hand and concern written across her face.
I nod, accepting the coffee she pours. "The foundation. It's getting worse."
"You need Flint Miller."
"Who?"
"Stone mason. Torin's brother," Jake explains. "Built half the stonework in this town, including the new retaining wall at the fire station. If anyone can fix your foundation, it's him."
"Can I afford him?"
"Won't know until you ask," Juniper says. "He's particular about his jobs. Don't take on just anything." She glances toward the window. "Actually, there he is now."
I follow her gaze to see a man climbing out of a battered pickup truck across the street. Even from this distance, he's impressive—tall and broad-shouldered, moving with the unhurried confidence of someone completely comfortable in his own skin. Dark hair, work clothes, and hands that look like they could reshape mountains.
The bell above the door chimes as he enters, and suddenly the diner feels smaller. He's bigger up close, all solid muscle and quiet intensity.
"Flint!" Juniper calls, waving him over. "Get over here!"
He pauses, and I catch a glimpse of his profile. He has a strong jaw and a serious expression. For a moment, I think he might ignore the summons. Then he heads our way.
"Maple, this is Flint Miller. Flint, Maple Webster. Jake's cousin from Vancouver," Juniper introduces. "She needs your expertise."
He nods once. "Ma'am." His voice is deep, gravelly. Economical, like everything else about him.
"Please, sit." I gesture to the booth, suddenly nervous. "Juniper says you might be able to help with a foundation issue."
Flint slides in beside Juniper, his attention focused entirely on me. It's unnerving and thrilling at the same time. "What kind of issue?"
I explain about the cottage, the cracks, the settling. He listens without interruption, those grey eyes never leaving my face. When I finish, he's quiet for a long moment.
"I'll take a look," he says finally.
"I should mention, I don't have a huge budget—"
