Page 7 of Burning for the Mountain Man
“I could show you around tomorrow. The cabins, some land for sale. Give you the lay of the land.”
“That would be amazing.” I glanced toward the clock on the mantel. Barely eight-thirty. “Actually…” I smiled. “It’s still early. And I’m not doing anything. Maybe we could go now?”
4
WILDER
What the hell was I doing?
I was driving the winding mountains of the town I now called home with Sage, a woman who was getting to me. Her smile, her voice—she was rewriting everything I'd planned for my life.
I couldn't let that happen. I couldn't let her in. A woman like her would never, ever fall for a flawed man like me.
"Where do you live?" she asked.
I gestured vaguely toward the dark peaks ahead. "Up there. Way up."
"Can I see it?"
My hands tightened on the wheel. "It's pretty remote. Not much to see."
Her voice was soft but determined. "I want to see where you live. Please?”
I should have said no. Should have driven her straight back to the inn and called it a night. Instead, I found myself turning onto the narrow dirt road that led to my cabin, the truck's headlights cutting through the darkness as we climbed higher into the mountains.
The road twisted and curved, getting steeper with every turn. Sage gripped the door handle but didn't complain, just watched the forest rush past with wide eyes.
"How often do you make this drive?" she asked.
"Every day."
"In winter?"
"In winter, spring, summer, fall. Doesn't matter." I downshifted as we hit a particularly sharp curve. "Four-wheel drive helps."
"It's beautiful up here. Isolated."
"That's the point."
She was quiet for a moment. Then, "Why do you live so far from everything?"
Because it's easier than letting people see what's left of me. Because I can't handle the pity in their eyes when they notice the scars or realize I can't hear them properly. Because loneliness is safer than rejection.
"I like the quiet," I said instead.
Finally, the cabin came into view—a simple A-frame structure tucked against the mountainside. I'd built most of it myself over the past two years, and it showed in every careful joint and hand-hewn beam.
But the real feature was the wall of windows facing the valley below. Even in the dark, you could see the lights of Wildwood Valley twinkling like stars that had fallen to earth.
I parked and killed the engine, suddenly hyperaware of how alone we were up here. No neighbors for miles. No cell service. Just us and the mountain and whatever was building between us.
"Wilder," Sage breathed, staring at the cabin. "This is incredible."
Pride warmed my chest despite my reservations. "It's not much, but?—"
"It's perfect." She was already climbing out of the truck, drawn to the windows like a moth to flame.
I led her inside, flipping on the lights. The interior was sparse—just the essentials. Too sparse, probably, for someone used to real homes. It had a kitchen area, a living space with massive windows, and a loft bedroom above. Everything built by hand, everything exactly as I wanted it.
