Page 25 of Mountain Man's Longing
I can’t imagine Graham mentioned my virginity when he confessed to Eric, and a small part of me wonders if my father’s reaction would be the same if he knew. And actually, I wonder now if the case wasn’t the same with my mother when she met Eric. She always said it only takes once to get pregnant. Not that I want to dwell on the thought.
“There was,” I confess, thinking back to that night. To the moment I saw that mountain of a man across the meadow coming out to rescue me in the middle of the storm. “I felt…something. But…”
But then everything changed.
“If he asked for my permission, it means he’s serious. Means he’d move heaven and earth for you if you let him. But he might need some time to come around. Graham came back from overseas broken. Took him years to find his footing again. Woodworking helped, of course. But you’re the first woman he’s been willing to lay his heart on the line for.”
The wind picks up. I look out over this vista that feels like home in a way nowhere else ever has. In the distance, the clouds still approach, but for now, the sun warms my face.
“What if I’m not built for this?” I gesture at the surrounding mountains, uncertainty creeping in, despite my resolve to embrace who I am. “For a relationship?”
“You’ll learn.” Eric’s smile is warm, confident. “Wildwood has a way of teaching you who you really are, if you’re brave enough to listen. And you’ll have both of us by your side as you do.”
With that, we start the hike back down, my legs trembling from the descent but my heart feeling lighter than it has in years. The conversation with my father has shifted my perspective. It reminded me of the reason I headed up to the mountains in the first place.
Chapter thirteen
Graham
The walnut planks still sit untouched on my workbench. Knowing Eric, the hike with Brenna likely took most of the morning, but it’s almost one o’clock now, and I’m losing my damn mind. I pick up the chisel for the hundredth time then set it down again without making a single cut.
The jewelry box I finished hours ago sits on the corner of my bench, the mountain range I carved into the lid inspired by the memory of Brenna, her face tilted up to the sun yesterday. She belongs here, in these mountains, with me. If I haven’t blown things with her already.
I slip the small box into my pocket and head for the door. Screw productivity. I need air, need to move, need to do something other than imagine every possible reason she might not come back.
But as I step outside, my heart damn near stops. Her Range Rover sits in the parking spot by the rental cabin. How did I miss her return? The workshop’s positioned uphill, but still—
Relief floods through me, releasing my coiled tension. She’s safe. She’s here.
I stride toward my cabin, ignoring the question in the back of my mind. Why didn’t she come say hi when she returned? Maybe, her conversation with Eric was the final straw. Maybe, forever is too much for her to handle.
My concern ratchets up the second I walk through my cabin door. The place is empty. There’s not a single sign she’s been here at all.
Fuck. She went straight to the rental. Didn’t even consider coming to see me first. This is worse than I thought.
The walk down the meadow feels like a death march. With each step, I’m mentally bracing for the rejection I’m about to face. For Brenna to tell me she’s changed her mind, no matter what permission Eric gave us. That what happened was a mistake she won’t repeat.
But when I’m halfway there, I spot her through the back porch screen. My breath catches somewhere between my lungs and throat because she’s more gorgeous than ever.
Brenna’s sitting at the pottery wheel, her hands covered in gray clay. She’s shaping what looks like a bowl or maybe a mug. Her dark hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, and there’s a smudge of clay on her left cheek that reminds me of the smear of real mud on her cheek the night we met. When I rescued her in the storm.
Or, to be honest, when she rescued me.
She doesn’t look up when I approach, just continues to guide the clay with steady hands. The scent of wet clay drifts through the screen, mixing with traces of her expensive perfume, creating something raw and elemental that makes my mouth go dry. The wheel spins with a gentle hum, and watching her work through the mesh barrier—completely absorbed, vulnerable in her concentration—fills my heart with joy.
“I was wondering when you’d come down,” she says, without looking up. As if I hadn’t been counting the hours until I’d getto see her again. As if I’d taken my sweet time once I saw she’d returned.
“Why didn’t you come up?” The question comes out rougher than I intend.
She glances up at me through the screen, her green eyes calm but knowing. A small smile plays on her lips, but her hands never stop moving, clay slick between her fingers.
“I knew you’d track me down.” Her voice holds quiet confidence. “And sometimes, a girl likes to be pursued.”
She didn’t change her mind. Didn’t give up on me. I still have a chance.
Relief hits me like a sledgehammer. I waste no time whipping open the screen door and filling the small space. In two strides, I’ve erased the distance between us and dropped to my knees.
“I’ll chase you until you’re mine completely. Until there’s no doubt in your mind you belong with me.”
