Page 23 of Mountain Man's Longing
Seemingly satisfied, he nods. “Good, because if you hurt her, I’ll kill you.”
I’d have said the same thing if she were my daughter. I turn toward my truck then pause with my hand on the door handle. “I’m sorry. Not for caring about her, or for falling for her, but for the way this happened. And for keeping it from you.”
“I know you are.” His voice carries a note of forgiveness I don’t deserve. “Just…don’t make me regret this.”
As I drive back up the mountain, his words echo in my head. Hope wars with the sick feeling I might have already lost her. The way she looked at me in the workshop earlier, as if I’d disappointed her in every way that mattered, burns in my chest.
I was supposed to be the man who fought for her, who’d move heaven and earth for her. Instead, I pushed her away the second things got complicated.
Tomorrow, Eric will ask her what she wants. Tonight, I’ll lie awake knowing she’s just down the hill—surely, she’ll have moved into the rental, if for no other reason than to be far from me—believing I’m the kind of man who takes what he wants and disappears when the going gets tough.
Staying away from her tonight will be impossible, but it’s the least I can do. Even if my hands are already itching to touch her again.
Chapter twelve
Brenna
The hiking boots I ordered online a few weeks ago feel stiff around my ankles as Eric and I approach the trailhead marker pointing toward Maple Ridge. Maybe, I should have broken them in rather than wearing them for the first time on a hike, but it seems to be the story of my life lately. Leap headfirst and see where I land.
“We’ll start easy and see how you do.” Eric hands me one of the water canteens he’s brought, his eyes crinkling at the corners when he smiles. “But something tells me you’re tougher than you look.”
The crisp fall morning nips at my cheeks. Each breath of sharp mountain air feels fresh, cleaner than anything I’ve ever breathed in the city. Even Central Park seems like a dull replica of nature out here, where the trees stretch as far as the eye can see.
“See those clouds?” Eric points to a line of white gathering in the distance as we hit the trail. “That’ll bring weather this afternoon, but we’ll be back down by then.”
I study the sky, trying to read the signs he sees so easily. “How can you tell?”
“Wind direction, their shape, the way they’re moving. You learn to watch for it up here.” He adjusts the straps of his pack. “Your mother couldn’t read weather worth a damn. Insisted on hitting the slopes one day because the sun was shining at the lodge, even though we couldn’t see the top of the lifts.”
“What happened?”
“Had to ski her down between my legs like a five-year-old when visibility dropped to nothing.” His chuckle echoes off the trees. “Stubborn as hell, but I loved that about her.”
I glimpse what my mother must have seen in a younger version of this man all those years ago. The easy confidence, the way he takes care of people. For the first time, I understand how she could have fallen for him so quickly, how she could have slept with him after knowing him only a few days. I can’t miss the parallel to my own situation with Graham and wonder if maybe, she and I are more alike than I like to admit.
The trail starts to climb, switch backing through stands of maple and birch. Leaves crunch under our boots. Gold and red foliage drifts down like random pieces of confetti, and the altitude makes every inhale feel earned.
“Tell me about your life in the city,” Eric says. “What did you do? Besides charity galas and looking the part.”
I almost stumble over a root. “How did you—”
“Did some digging after you left yesterday.” There’s no judgment or guilt in his voice, just curiosity. “Wasn’t hard once I knew your new last name. Plenty of information online aboutThe Buchanans.”
I cringe at the way he says the name. As if being a member of that family is like being royalty. “I tried to find my own path. Went to art school for a little while, but my stepfather…” I trail off, unsure how to explain Richard’s suffocating expectations.
“Didn’t approve?”
“He sees art as only an investment. Thinks making it yourself is a waste of time.” I can’t hide the bitterness that creeps into my voice. “Maybe, he’s right, but doing it well is the only thing I’ve ever had to try hard at. I’ve never had to struggle, really struggle, for anything else.”
Eric stops walking, turning to face me on the narrow trail. “Struggling isn’t just about money. Sometimes, the hardest fight is figuring out who you are when everyone else has already decided for you.”
The understanding in his green eyes, which look so much like my own, makes my throat tight. He sounds like Graham the other night. Full of wisdom. Experienced in the world, not just in a boardroom.
We climb higher, the trail growing steeper as it winds around granite outcroppings. My calves burn with a satisfying ache. Sweat beads at my temples then immediately cools in the mountain breeze. Without thinking, I climb over a fallen moss-covered log that blocks the path.
“Nice,” Eric says, following me. “Most flatlanders would’ve gone around or needed a hand.”
Pride floods through me. I hadn’t even thought about it. I just moved. As if my body knows how to navigate this terrain, though I haven’t been here long.
