Page 6 of Claim Me, Colt (The Mountain Code #2)

Colt

She's washing dishes in my kitchen sink, humming something under her breath.

It's such a simple thing—a woman doing dishes—but it does something to my chest that I haven't felt in years.

Contentment. Like all the jagged pieces inside me are finally settling into place.

She's changed into the sweatpants I left her, rolled up at the cuffs so she doesn't trip. My flannel shirt is tied at her waist now, and every time she reaches for another plate, it rides up just enough to show a strip of smooth skin above the waistband.

I should be helping her. Should take the dish towel from her hands and finish the job myself.

Instead, I lean against the doorframe and watch her move around my space like she belongs here.

Because maybe she does.

"You don't have to do that," I say finally.

She glances over her shoulder, suds up to her elbows. "I know. I want to."

"Why?"

She considers the question while rinsing a coffee mug. "Because no one's ever let me just... be useful . It’s a nice feeling.” She sets the mug in the drying rack with satisfaction.

I cross the room and take the dish towel from the counter, drying the dishes she's washed. We work in comfortable silence, her washing and me drying in a rhythm that feels like we've been doing this for years.

When the last plate is clean, she leans back against the counter, looking pleased with herself.

"What now?" she asks.

"Now you tell me what you want to do."

She blinks. "What I want to do?"

"Yeah. Not what someone else expects or what looks good for the cameras. What you want."

The question seems to stump her. She stares at me for a long moment, then laughs—but it sounds hollow.

"I don't know," she admits. "Isn't that pathetic? I'm twenty-eight years old and I have no idea what I actually want to do with my day."

"Not pathetic. Just honest."

She pushes off from the counter and walks to the window, looking out at the forest beyond. The storm cleared overnight, leaving everything green and sparkling.

"I used to paint," she says quietly. "In college, before I graduated and Dad decided I needed to focus on more 'practical' pursuits. I was actually pretty good at it."

"What kind of painting?"

"Landscapes mostly.” She traces a pattern on the glass with her finger. "I haven't touched a brush in ages.”

Something about the wistfulness in her voice makes me want to put my fist through a wall. What kind of people take someone's joy and systematically strip it away?

"I've got supplies," I hear myself saying.

She turns. "What?"

"Art supplies. Paints, brushes, canvases. Previous owner left them behind, and I never got around to throwing them out."

Her eyes light up like I just offered her the moon. "Really?"

"I have no idea of the quality,” I add quickly, not wanting her to be disappointed.

I lead her to the spare room I use for storage, dig through boxes until I find what I'm looking for. The art supplies are dusty but intact—watercolors, acrylics, brushes in every size, stretched canvases still wrapped in plastic.

She handles them reverently, like they're made of spun gold. "Thank you.”

I rub my neck awkwardly. “I didn’t do anything.”

She rises on her toes and kisses me—soft and sweet and full of gratitude that makes my chest tight.

When she pulls back, she's smiling again. "Where should I set up?"

I grin back at her. "Wherever you want."

She chooses the back porch, arranging the easel so it faces the forest. I bring her coffee and then leave her alone, instinctively understanding that this is something she needs to do without an audience.

I spend the morning splitting wood, but I can't help glancing over at her every few minutes. She's completely absorbed in her work, brush moving with confident strokes across the canvas. Her whole body language has changed—shoulders relaxed, face peaceful in a way I haven't seen before.

She looks like herself. Finally.

Around noon, she steps back from the easel and calls my name.

"Colt? Can you come look at this?"

I set down the axe and walk over, curious. What I see takes my breath away.

She's captured the forest in perfect detail—every shade of green, every play of light and shadow through the leaves. But more than that, she's captured the feeling of this place. The peace. The wildness. The sense of being completely alone in the world.

"It's incredible," I say, and mean it.

She ducks her head, suddenly shy. "I'm out of practice."

"It's perfect."

She looks up at me then, and I see tears in her eyes.

"I forgot how much I loved this," she whispers. "How much I missed it."

I pull her against my chest, wrapping my arms around her. "Then don't stop," I murmur against her hair.

"I won't," she says fiercely.

And holding her there on the porch, surrounded by the scent of pine and paint and possibility, I make a silent promise to myself.

Whatever it takes, I'm going to make sure she never has to stop being herself again.

That afternoon, while she works on a second painting, I walk down to check on her car. It’s totaled—engine flooded, front axle bent beyond repair. It's not going anywhere without a tow truck and a lot of money.

When I get back to the cabin, she's cleaning brushes in the kitchen sink, humming that same tune from this morning.

"Car's done for," I tell her.

She pauses, brush halfway to the water. For a second, I see panic flicker across her face—the reality of her situation hitting home.

Then she squares her shoulders and nods.

"Okay. I'll figure something out."

"You could stay."

The words are out before I can stop them. She turns to face me, eyes wide.

"Stay?"

"Here. With me. As long as you want."

She sets down the brush, studying my face like she's trying to read my mind.

"You don't even know me," she says softly.

"I know enough."

"What if I'm terrible company? What if I cry all the time or eat all your food or—"

I cross the room and cup her face in my hands, cutting off her words. "What if you paint every day and laugh at my terrible jokes and make this place feel like home instead of just a hideout?"

Her breath catches. "Colt..."

"I'm not asking you to marry me tomorrow," I say. "I'm just asking you to stay long enough to figure out who you are when nobody's watching. You owe it to yourself."

And yeah, I have selfish motives, too…

She searches my eyes for a long moment. "What about my family? The media? They'll come looking eventually."

"Let them come. This mountain doesn't give up its secrets easily."

A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "Is that what I am? Your secret?"

"You're whatever you want to be."

She rises on her toes and kisses me, soft and sure.

"Then I want to stay," she whispers against my lips. “For now.”

For now will have to do... until I can convince her to stay forever. By God, I’m going to try like hell to keep her.