Page 7 of Beneath the Mountain Sky (McBride Brother Lumberjacks #1)

KILLIAN

T he narrow, winding gravel road up the mountain to the McBride homestead takes every bit of concentration to maneuver, yet I can’t seem to keep my eyes on it instead of her.

Willow sleeps in the passenger seat, her temple resting against the window in exactly the same position she’s been in since almost the moment we left the hospital—even after she insisted she wasn’t tired as I helped her climb up into the truck.

I knew she was lying.

Twelve months may have passed, but that time can’t erase the hours, days, weeks, months, and years I spent learning this woman.

Her desires.

Her wants.

Her needs.

And right now, she needs sleep.

Time to heal, like the doctor said.

I glance over at her every few minutes to check on her. Every time we go over a bump, I wince, knowing it probably hurts her, but she barely moves or reacts to the very rugged road that was never designed to be comfortable for anyone going up it.

She’s so exhausted from her ordeal that the pain it must be causing her to get jostled on this shitty road doesn’t even register—or maybe it’s just the pain meds the doctor gave her that are keeping her asleep through the two-plus hour drive.

Of course, Willow didn’t want to take them.

Tried to say she was fine, even though I saw every twinge, every wince, every cringe as she struggled to get out of bed and dressed, even with the help of the nurse.

But knowing we’d be coming up here, how long it would take, and how difficult a drive it is, I’m relieved I finally got her to relent.

I couldn’t bear to see her in any more pain than she’s already suffered.

Because of me…

The closer we draw to the turnoff to the property, the heavier the guilt weighs down on me and the stronger the anxiety ripples beneath my skin.

For the past year, I’ve prayed she would return. That I’d have an opportunity to apologize. That I might get a chance to beg for her forgiveness and receive at least that, even if she could never forget what I said or take me back.

It’s all I’ve wanted.

The only thing I’ve wanted for so damn long that it was basically all I thought about.

Having her back.

But not like this.

Never like this.

Seeing her in so much pain, so confused, so frustrated, makes my body vibrate with a barely contained rage.

At anyone else who may have had a hand in this.

At myself.

At the fact that we have nothing to go on.

Sheriff Briggs didn’t find anything near the river during his initial cursory search after we found her, and since Willow still doesn’t remember, his talk with her this morning before we left the hospital didn’t offer any helpful details.

Which means I need to get out there.

As much as I don’t want to leave her—even for a moment—I know this mountain better than anyone.

If there’s something to find, Connor, Liam, and I will find it.

Just like I found her.

The truck rolls over another bump in the dirt road, jostling the cab. Willow shifts restlessly in her sleep, her soft brow furrowing, eyes scrunching closed, and I reach over and rest my hand on hers atop her thigh, twining my fingers through her much smaller ones.

She instantly relaxes, releasing an almost relieved sigh.

Fuck.

My heart stutters, skipping a beat with the knowledge that I still have that effect on her.

After all this time and everything that happened between us, I can still calm her nerves and quell her anxiety.

I can be the balm she needs to soothe whatever pain she feels and the hero to chase away the demons in her dreams.

But it’s only because she doesn’t remember.

It’s only because—to her—everything’s still great between us.

She still thinks things are perfect because they were that night after the Memorial Day Festival last year…

The next day changed everything.

The next day is what got us here.

As we reach the turnoff for our land, I reluctantly tug my hand away to turn the wheel and pull through the narrow archway of trees that lead up onto the mountain, to the homestead that’s been in the McBride family for nearly two hundred and fifty years.

It takes almost fifteen minutes for the forest to finally open up to reveal the large clearing holding my cabin, the main barn, my workshop, Willow’s workspace, and the rest of the smaller outbuildings, along with the livestock pens.

Sitting on the site of the original cabin that occupied this space, this one, almost a hundred and fifty years old, and has housed generations of McBrides, was our home.

Where we lived.

Where we were so happy.

I could have built something bigger and more modern, the way Connor and Liam have deeper onto the property to have their own spaces, but there was always something about this old place—the history, knowing my ancestors hand-hewed all the logs and built it with their bare hands.

Leaving it would be nearly impossible for me.

And Willow understood that.

She understood me.

If only I could have trusted that…

Instead of parking the truck in the safety of the barn, where it would be protected from the storms that like to pop up in the afternoons this time of year, I pull up in front of the small, one-story structure held together by chinking, pride, and the sheer will of the men who built it.

It’s more important to make things easier for Willow than to keep this truck dry, and being closer means less of a walk for her—which seems wise, given her condition.

As soon as I put it into park and turn it off, Willow jerks awake, her hands flying out around her. Startled, she presses her palm to her chest, as if she can’t catch her breath.

“We’re home.”

Her head whips in my direction, and her sleep-hazed eyes meet mine, a relieved exhale rushing from her lungs. “Did I fall asleep?”

I nod. “The whole way.”

She rubs her eyes, yawning so hard it makes me wince, afraid she’ll split open the healing cut on her lip. “I’m so sorry. I’m just?—”

“You don’t have anything to apologize for, Honeybee. You’re exhausted. Stay there, I’ll help you out.”

I climb from the truck, agitated even more than I was a few seconds ago.

The old Willow would have argued.

She would have insisted she could do it on her own because she could .

The woman I’ve been in love with for what feels like my entire life has always been so fiercely independent.

Even up here, which isn’t necessarily true of all the women on McBride Mountain.

Some men here still have a very antiquated idea of what a woman’s role should be—keeping the house and raising the children… and that’s about it.

But not me.

Not after seeing the way Mom stepped up after Dad died.

I may have only been five, but watching her take over McBride Timber, adopt Connor and Liam as a single mom, and become the matriarch of the mountain in her own right demonstrated how strong and resilient people say “the weaker sex” really is.

Willow is no different.

At least, she wasn’t.

Through all her mother’s issues with alcohol and addiction, Willow found safety here with us, but she never once asked for help or admitted she needed it.

She’s too proud.

Too fucking strong.

When this was her home with me, she never hesitated to help with anything on the homestead: caring for the animals, handling the chores so they could get done quicker, even setting up her own organic candle-making operation that became so popular with the locals and the tourists before she left that she couldn’t keep up with demand.

And she never once asked for anything from me except to assist in building her workshop—though, that was more of me insisting when I caught her trying to lay out where she was planning to pour a concrete slab and realized what she was up to.

It still stands there—filled with all her honey harvesting and candle-making materials but somehow empty because she hasn’t been here.

A reminder of what could have been, what should have been, if I hadn’t been such a fucking idiot.

So, having to help her—not because it’s the gentlemanly thing to do but because she needs it—doesn’t sit right.

I tug open her door and reach in to assist her out of the lifted truck. She clenches her jaw and winces, pressing her right hand against the left side of her ribcage as she steps down.

My hand on her hip steadies her. “You okay?”

With gritted teeth that suggest she’s anything but, she nods. “Yeah.”

Broken ribs are truly awful.

Every little movement can irritate them.

I can’t even imagine how uncomfortable she must be from that alone. Not to mention all the bruises that cover her body and the scrapes and cuts in various places caused by the jagged rocks and sticks in the river that abused her on her way down it.

It makes me want to go find each and every one and obliterate them with my fucking axe for what they did to her—inanimate objects or not.

I loop my arm around her waist carefully, kick the truck door closed behind us, and ease her up the two steps to the front porch of the cabin.

She stares up at it, a wistful look in her steely eyes. “It feels like I was just here yesterday.”

In so many ways, it does.

I can still physically feel the pain of that argument. I can see the look in her eyes that told me it was over before I stormed out of the cabin. It might as well have happened for me yesterday, too, the same way Willow’s mind makes her feel like it did.

Fighting my desire to drop to my knees and beg her never to leave again, I give her a tight smile. “I wish you had been; then maybe none of this would have happened.”

I wouldn’t have walked away.

I would have stayed.

I would have pleaded and done whatever was necessary to make her stay.

Before Willow can question me any further about our argument, I turn the knob and urge her inside in front of me, closing the door behind us.