Page 7 of One Bride for Three Single Dads

It’s barely visible from the main road. Just a gravel shoulder, until you get halfway through it and see that it continues beyond a break in the alpine trees. It winds sharply back and up, straight up the side of the mountain. Emily’s old VW doubles down on the transmission and bears us stubbornly forward.

If you ask me, it looks like we’re going straight into a trap. Like a religious cult hideout. Like a prepper compound. Mountain people come in all varieties, some friendlier than others.

Why didn’t I think of that? An ad on Craigslist? A random answer, right away? We’re probably going to die.

Good job, Emily.

Though, truly, it is my fault.

Eventually though, the trail opens up and it looks like a regular old front yard. The drive circles up toward the front door of a very large house, and then circles back to where we are now in a sort of teardrop shape.

“This is more like it,” she murmurs under her breath.

I have to agree. It’s a beautiful house, and set up on the mountain in a way that I bet the views are breathtaking. Not really the murder house I was expecting? But, of course, still have to see who lives inside it.

The lawn is short and well-kept, practically golf course-length. The house is two stories with a lot of wide windows, kind of a modern style. But there are columns on either side of the front door, bringing a touch of classic elegance to the design. People around here don’t like things too modern. We are suspicious of change.

At the front door, Emily steps on the brakes and slows the car to a stop.

“Good luck in there,” she smiles.

She smiled! Excellent!

Suddenly a lot more optimistic, I smile back.

“Thanks! I’m sure it will be fine.”

“Do your best!” she reminds me pointedly. “I will come back for you in an hour.”

To my surprise, I am really glad. Part of me did not believe she was ever coming back.

“That sounds great,” I swallow.

“Well, think good thoughts!”

I twist the knob and open the VW door, making sure my skirt is arranged properly around my knees before walking to the front doors. The entryway is all slate and attractive planters filled with different heights of grasses. Not a lot of flowers, but very handsome. Like a tailored suit, somehow.

I hear the door chime deep within the building. It has that low, confident tone of real bells. Not an electric chime. Not the kind of thing that comes with security cameras and stuff that you see in a lot of newer buildings. A real doorbell.

After a short time, my middle clenches when I hear footsteps that grow louder with every second.

Okay.

Deep breath.

Here we go.

The door opens, and I almost choke on my tongue. Standing in front of me is a tall, sandy-haired, strapping lumberjack of a man. His emerald eyes gleam with curiosity and confidence as he stares back at me.

I, on the other hand, am struck dumb and mute.

He has to be about six foot two, maybe late twenties. Maybe thirty, even. His handsome face is a bit sunburned at the tops of his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, indicating that he works outside. His square jaw tucks neatly into a thick, muscular neck. His shoulders are so strong they practically pull his golf shirt apart at the seams.

After a few moments, one side of his mouth twists into a smirk.

He reaches out a hand toward me.

“Ambrose Crawford,” he announces.

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