Page 1 of Mountain Man's Longing
Chapter one
Brenna
The stupid lock refuses to cooperate.
I’m about thirty seconds from caving in to the tears stinging the backs of my eyes. But there’s no way in hell I’ll let that happen. Crying would be like waving a white flag of surrender. Defeat I’m unwilling to admit. Not after I’ve come this far.
I square my shoulders and suck in a deep breath. The rich scent of wet earth and fallen maple leaves fortifies me enough to swallow past the hollow ache in my throat. I punch in the code on the blasted keypad embedded in the solid-looking front door of this remote Vermont cabin.
Again.
It turns out the eighth time’s not the charm. From the looks of my wrinkled fingertips, you’d think I’ve been soaking in a warm lavender bubble bath for hours, instead of fighting this supposed “smart” lock in freezing rain for ten minutes.
Water streams off the porch roof in torrents. The wind whips through the trees with a howl that sounds like a pack of wolves. My cashmere sweater is plastered to my skin like wet tissuepaper, and I’m completely helpless against the raging storm that seems to have knocked out power to this rustic cabin that’s supposed to be my home for the next three nights.
If there was power here to begin with…
I eye the place, doubt creeping in as my gaze travels over the rough-hewn logs and wide stone chimney. Did the list of amenities on the rental page include electricity? It definitely said something like, “Hike right from your doorstep then return to a roaring fire and a skyful of stars.”
Is that code for off the grid?
My forehead falls against the smooth, aged wood with a thump as my shoulders drop in defeat.
Back home in the city, George, my building’s unflappable concierge, would have already remedied thissituation. He’d have had maintenance here in minutes with a profuse apology. And he’d have a hot matcha latte from my favorite cafe down the block sent up for my trouble.
Here in Wildwood? I’m stranded in the middle of nowhere, battling an electronic keypad that’s not lighting up to save my life. Literally.
So much for trying tofind myself. Right now, all I’m discovering is maybe I’m not cut out for rural small-town life, despite my conviction that a little cabin in nature, rather than the penthouse of a sixty-story high-rise, is where I belong.
Thunder explodes overhead. I flinch hard enough to bite my tongue. The metallic taste of blood in my mouth snaps some sense into me, and suddenly, I’m furious instead of scared. I didn’t come this far to be defeated by weather and a stupid lock.
No, sir, not after I white-knuckled my way here in my new Range Rover. It was hours of terror on a license that’s barely six weeks old. Because I’d had to learn how to drive before getting it. It’s not as if I could ask Roger, our chauffeur, to schlep me across state lines on what my mother deemed a “fool’s errand.” So hereI am, watching the dirt road wash away from under the new tires like mascara in tears.
At least, I made it. A little later than planned. And technically, I’m not inside the home base from where I have exactly three days to find my biological father and figure out if every time my mom sighed, “You are your father’s daughter,” it was the character assassination she made it sound like. Or, if maybe, the kernel of truth in that phrase is the answer to why I’ve never felt as if I belonged in my perfectly curated life.
My gaze drops to the useless phone in my hand. Once I drove through the one-stoplight town of Wildwood half an hour ago, it promptly dropped out of range of cell service. I press a hand to my growling stomach. I’ve been too nervous to eat all day, surviving on gas station coffee and the kind of bone-deep determination that, at the moment, seems more like a character flaw than a strength.
I throw my shoulder against the solid door, which accomplishes nothing except to make my teeth rattle. My toes squish around in the toe box of my designer ankle boots, and I’m shivering so hard I can barely think straight.
What was I thinking? I don’t know how to survive on my own. I barely know how to last two days without takeout. And now, I’m freezing my ass off while my stepfather’s nasally voice echoes in my head. “You’ll come crawling back in no time, Brenna. We all know it.”
Maybe, he’s right. Maybe, I should just get back in my car, drive to Serenity Slopes, the luxury ski resort I passed on the way here, order room service and admit defeat. Except, I can’t. Not when I’m this close to finding out who I really am underneath all the polish and trust funds and charity galas where I smile pretty and say nothing important.
There has to be another way. I turn toward my car, my grip tightening on the key fob when something stops me cold.Through the sheets of rain, there’s a warm glow cutting through the darkness across a wide meadow, maybe a block or so away uphill. It’s another cabin, much larger than mine, with golden light blazing from one of the windows like a beacon.
The wind shifts, carrying the rich scent of wood smoke. Something deep in my chest aches with longing. Someone over there is warm and dry, probably enjoying that crackling fire while I’m out here drowning in my own incompetence.
But the rental instructions were crystal clear:Contact property owner onsite ONLY via text for true emergencies.
If this doesn’t count as an “emergency,” I don’t know what would. And sleeping in my Range Rover is an option I’m only willing to consider once I’ve exhausted all other possibilities. My stomach is cramping, and my whole body is shaking. Plus, something dangerously close to panic is slicing down my spine.
I shove my wet hair from my forehead, studying the cabin in the distance again. Should I march up there and knock on the door like some drowned rat? Because then what? I keep knocking when the loner inside pretends not to hear me, and I’m back to square one?
Actually, I suppose the worst-case scenario is that an ax-wielding serial-killer recluse opens the door. One who decides I look like perfect victim material for his evening entertainment.
I shake off the thought and, with a quick prayer to the storm cloud-covered heavens above, step off the front porch and into the night. The muddy ground immediately swallows my left boot, and I stumble forward, arms windmilling as I fight for balance. Rain lashes my face, but I keep climbing toward that golden light, slipping, and sliding like a city girl who clearly has no business in the wilderness. At least not yet.
I’m about halfway to my destination when the cabin door opens. My progress comes to a screeching halt as a figure emerges into the rain. Even from this distance, he’sunmistakably male. Massive, and holding an umbrella in one hand and a lantern in the other. He moves with purpose down his porch steps, cutting across the meadow straight toward me.
