Page 1 of Claim Me, Colt (The Mountain Code #2)

Colt

The first thing I hear is the sound of an engine.

It’s too fast. Too smooth. A European purr that doesn't belong in these ancient Appalachian hills where my cabin sits like a fortress against the world.

Nobody ventures this deep into the mountain unless they're lost, running, or hunting something they shouldn't be.

My place is seven miles from the nearest paved road, past where the GPS signals die and the cell towers give up.

That's exactly how I built my life after Afghanistan—isolated, protected, and far from anything that could remind me of convoy engines and roadside bombs.

So when I hear tires screech and the distant crunch of metal meeting granite, every instinct I honed as an Army Ranger kicks in. I grab my rifle from above the mantle—muscle memory from too many nights when silence meant danger—and head toward the sound.

The storm clouds overhead have been building all afternoon, thick and bruised purple against the peaks. Mountain weather moves fast up here, and tonight's going to be a soaker. I can smell it in the air—wet earth, ozone, and the promise of lightning.

It takes me eight minutes to reach Miller's Creek, moving through the forest like the ghost I was trained to be. Long enough for my heart rate to settle into a steady rhythm, for my eyes to adjust to the shadows between the pines.

I spot the wreckage first—a sleek black sedan with government plates, the kind that scream D.C. politics from a mile away. The front end is half-submerged in the shallow creek, water rushing around the crumpled hood. One wheel spins uselessly in the air, ticking like a broken clock.

Then I hear movement. My eyes swivel to the spot like a hawk’s.

And I see her.

A curvy goddess climbing up the muddy creek bank in what used to be an elegant white dress, now torn and soaked transparent.

Designer heels dangle from one manicured hand while she claws her way up the rocky slope with the other.

Her honey-blonde hair hangs in wet ropes around her face, and she's cursing under her breath—every word more out of place than the pearl necklace still somehow gleaming at her throat.

She doesn't notice me until she's almost on level ground, breathing hard from the climb. When she does, she stumbles back a step, her wide eyes taking in my rifle first, then my face.

"Oh!” she cries. “You scared me.”

I don't respond. I just study her.

“Sorry about… um… that ...” She waves one muddy hand like that explains the government car in my creek.

She's a mess, but not the kind of mess that breaks easy. There's steel in her spine and fire in her green eyes that reminds me of bottle glass catching sunlight. She’s the kind of woman who belongs in marble hallways and campaign photographs, not crawling out of a creek in the middle of the nowhere. But she’s not weak. She’s an enigma.

"I was driving a bit too fast, I guess,” she says, tucking a strand of wet hair behind her ear. “The road curved, and the brakes didn't quite catch in time." She attempts a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.

Thunder rumbles overhead, and she glances up at the darkening sky.

"What are you running from?" I ask.

She blinks. "Excuse me?"

"Lady in a fancy dress speeding on a mountain road in the middle of nowhere?" I shift the rifle to a more casual position. "That's running."

Her mouth opens, closes. The fake smile drops completely, and for a second, I see past the polish to something raw underneath.

The fear. The fury. The desperation.

She straightens, shoulders squaring like she's facing a firing squad instead of one scarred mountain man.

"An engagement party," she says, voice steady despite everything. " My engagement party."

Can't say I've heard that one before.

A fat raindrop splats against her cheek, and she shivers. The storm's rolling in fast now—I can feel it in the pressure drop, in the way the trees have gone still like they're holding their breath.

She surveys her surroundings with the calculating look of someone weighing limited options. Ruined car, gathering storm, strange man with a gun in the middle of nowhere. Most city women would be crying by now.

She just stands there, chin lifted like she didn't just crawl up a creek bank looking like a runaway fairy tale gone wrong.

"Do you have cell service up here?" she asks.

I shake my head. "Tower's thirty miles east. You're not getting signal until you're back on the main road."

She pulls out her phone anyway—a thin thing with a shiny metallic finish that probably costs more than most people make in a month. The screen shows no bars, just like I told her.

"Of course not," she mutters, swiping at a smudge of mud on her cheek. "That would've been too convenient."

Her voice cracks just slightly at the edges. She’s exhausted and angry. Not fragile… just stretched to the breaking point.

I should point her in the direction of town and send her on her way. But something about the way she's standing there—designer dress destroyed, makeup smeared, expensive heels dangling useless from her fingers, yet refusing to look defeated—gets under my skin.

Maybe it's the way she climbed out of that wreck without crying for help.

Maybe it's how she's not asking me to fix anything for her.

Or maybe it's just that she looks like she understands what it means to want to disappear.

"My cabin’s about a mile up the ridge," I hear myself saying. "It has hot water, food, and dry clothes."

She tilts her head, studying me with those sharp green eyes like she's trying to solve a puzzle. "You live out here alone?"

"Yeah."

"Why?"

The question hits different than I expected. Most people ask where I came from or what I do for work. She cuts straight to the why.

"Because people complicate things," I say. "Trees don't."

She doesn't flinch at the bluntness. Just nods slowly, like that makes perfect sense to her.

"Okay," she says simply. "Lead the way.”

She follows close as I cut through the trees along a path only I know, stepping carefully over roots and rocks in her bare feet. She doesn't complain about the rough ground or the chilly spring day or ask how much further. Doesn't try to fill the silence with nervous chatter.

She just moves quietly through the forest while the first fat raindrops start filtering through the canopy.

By the time we reach the cabin, the wind's picking up in earnest, sending leaves spiraling across the clearing.

She pauses at the bottom of the porch steps, looking up at the log structure I refurbished with my own hands after I came back from my third deployment.

It was a dilapidated hovel when I bought it.

Now… well, it's not fancy but it’s solid.

Weathered cedar logs, tin roof, wraparound porch with a swing I never use.

But it's mine, and it's been my sanctuary for five years now.

"You built this?" she asks, running her fingers along the smooth porch rail.

"More or less."

She nods appreciatively. "It's beautiful. Feels... safe."

That word—safe—does something to me I don't want to examine too closely.

"You want a place to hide from whatever you're running from?" I push open the front door, gesture her inside. "This is it."

She steps over the threshold without hesitation, and I catch a hint of her scent as she passes—something expensive and floral beneath the creek water and mud.

"Thank you," she says quietly, turning to face me in the warm lamplight. “I really appreciate it, Mr...” Her voice trails off as she waits for my name.

“Call me Colt,” I say, my voice gruff.

“Thank you, Colt,” she says, flashing me a dazzling smile. “I’m Simone.”

She steps inside, and I lock the door. Not to keep her prisoner, but to keep her demons—whatever they may be—from barging in after her. I’ll protect her from whatever’s chasing her.

Outside, the storm breaks like a warning.

And I know—somehow—she’s going to turn my world upside down.