Page 7 of Her Mountain Man Outlaw
Carefully, I peel open the first page. My heart warms at the sight of Maddox as a gangly teenager, with the same familiar, intense gaze as he stares into the camera. There are several photos of him and a woman who I assume is his mom—a slender brunette with the same tanned skin as him. As I turn the pages, Maddox gets older, and a little girl appears in the photos, a pale redhead with wide eyes and freckles.
His sister?
In the last picture, Maddox is in his mid-twenties. He was already big and brawny back then, but his hair is cut short, and he’s clean shaven. He’s wearing an Army uniform and a barely there smile. The redhead looks about nine in this photo, hanging onto Maddox’s arm and baring her small teeth at the camera. His mom stands on the other side of him, looking proud but also tired, like she hasn’t slept for a few nights.
There’s something strange about all the photos. I flip back through the pages, and that’s when it hits me. Most of them are misshapen, like they’ve been cut. In a few photos, I notice a stray hand on a shoulder, or the sliver of a man’s shirt, but whoever they belong to has been sliced away.
Weird.
I feel a flicker of unease before I turn back to the most recent photo and catch sight of a detail I missed before. On Maddox’s uniform, the surname Albrecht is emblazoned on the camouflage chest.
Maddox Albrecht.
Instinctively, I reach for my phone and search the name, wondering if Google can tell me anything more about this mysterious mountain man. But the search doesn’t load. The cell service is too bad out here, and the storm probably isn’t helping.
I slide the photo album back under the bed where I found it, turning off the light and lying on my back, facing the ceiling. Questions whirl around inside my brain as I think about the photos. Maddox said he didn’t have any family out here, so why did he leave his mom and sister to live a reclusive life on Cherry Mountain? And what made him cut all those family photos? Who did he cut away?
I’m desperate to figure it all out, but my eyelids are starting to feel heavy, the sound of the storm like a lullaby. After a few more minutes, the world fades to black, and all my questions slip away as sleep carries me under.
“Aargh!”
I jolt awake with a gasp, blinking at the darkness surrounding me.
What the heck was that?
I’m sure something woke me. A scream. Someone in pain. My heart thuds as I sit frozen on the bed, listening out for the sound. Just when I’m thinking it must have been the wind, I hear it again. Quieter this time. A muffled shout. A grunt of pain.
Maddox.
I jump out of bed, hurrying down the corridor toward the living room. The fire is dying down, embers burning dark orange in the hearth, but I can still make out Maddox on the couch. A thin film of sweat glistens on his skin, his face contorted into a mask of anger.
“No,” he mumbles, tossing against the couch cushions. “Stop…no…let me out…let me…alone…leave them.”
My heart thuds as I scurry toward him, kneeling by the couch and shaking him gently.
“Maddox,” I whisper, my voice getting louder as I try to wake him. “Maddox, it’s not real. You’re dreaming. Please wake up.”
It takes another few moments of shaking his shoulders and saying his name before he finally snaps out of it, opening his eyes with a sharp inhale. He stares up at me.
“Sophia?”
His voice sounds even deeper now that he’s just woken up. It’s not the time to notice things like that, but I can’t help the shiver that runs through me when he says my name.
“Hi,” I say softly. “You were having a nightmare.”
Some of the tension seems to seep out of him as he looks at me.
“Shit,” he mutters. “Sorry for waking you.”
“It’s okay.”
He’s shirtless beneath the blanket draped over him, his bare arms exposed, thick and bulging. I can make out the dusting of hair at the top of his chest, the blanket covering the rest, and I force myself to swallow.
“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask. “Your nightmare?”
Maddox’s brows knit together. “I can’t remember the details.”
I can tell he’s lying, but I don’t push it. Something about this moment feels fragile—almost intimate. The dying light of the fire, the sound of the storm outside, the two of us alone in this cabin together…
