Page 2 of Comforted By The Mountain Man (Eden Ridge: Hunter Brothers #1)

ASHER

T he whiskey burns smoothly down my throat as I settle back into the wooden chair on my porch, finally alone after hours of my brothers' voices filling every corner of my house. Don't get me wrong, I love the bastards, but sometimes a man needs silence more than he needs company.

The evening air is cool against my bare chest, and I roll my shoulders, trying to work out the knots that seem permanently lodged there these days.

Forty years old, and I feel like I'm carrying the weight of the world.

Hell, maybe I am. Between managing the family land, helping at the distillery when Ezra needs me, and making sure my brothers don't kill each other or themselves, there's not much time left for anything else.

I take another sip of the whiskey, letting the burn settle in my stomach. This is my time. The only hour of the day that belongs to just me, when I can sit on my back porch and pretend I'm not responsible for every damn thing that goes wrong in this family.

The moon is full tonight, casting silver light across the mountain landscape that stretches out before me.

This land has been in our family for three generations, and I'll be damned if I let it go to hell on my watch.

Dad always said a man's worth is measured by how well he protects what's his, and I've been protecting this place since Beckett withdrew from the world after our parents died in that fire.

Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I'd left like Holden did so many years ago.

If I'd packed up and headed for the city, found myself some corporate job where the biggest worry was meeting quarterly projections instead of keeping six brothers from falling apart.

But then I remember that someone has to stay. Someone has to be the anchor.

Might as well be me. At least Holden, my twin, has been home more since Mom and Dad died.

I'm reaching for the bottle to pour another finger when I notice something that makes me pause.

There's water running down the hillside from the direction of the old Fletcher cabin, creating a steady stream that catches the moonlight.

That's not right. The Fletchers moved out six months ago, and as far as I know, the place has been sitting empty ever since.

I set down my glass and squint through the darkness. The cabin is about a quarter mile away, barely visible through the trees, but I can definitely see water flowing from that direction. A lot of water.

It could be a broken pipe. Could be vandals.

Could be nothing at all, but something in my gut tells me to check it out.

I've learned to trust that instinct over the years, especially when it comes to protecting what's mine.

And even though the Fletcher place isn't technically mine, it's close enough to my property line that whatever's happening over there could become my problem real fast.

I grab a flashlight from the kitchen and pull on my boots, leaving my shirt behind. No point in getting dressed for what's probably a ten-minute walk to check on some busted plumbing. The night air feels good against my skin anyway, and the whiskey has left me feeling warm and loose.

The walk to the cabin takes me through a stretch of woods that I know like the back of my hand.

I've been hunting these trails since I was a kid, back when Dad was still alive to teach me to differentiate animal tracks or droppings.

Those were simpler times, when the biggest responsibility I had was making sure I cleaned my rifle properly after every use and learning plumbing from him because he believed every man needed a practical skill.

The sound of rushing water gets louder as I approach the cabin and by the time I can see the structure through the trees, I know this is more than just a small leak. Water is pouring out from under the front door.

This is bad. Real bad. If nobody addresses this soon, the whole foundation could be compromised, and even though it's not my cabin, I can't stand by and watch a perfectly good structure get destroyed by something as simple as a busted pipe.

I approach the front door cautiously, my flashlight beam sweeping across the porch. The wood is already warping from the water damage, and I can hear the sound of rushing water coming from inside. I knock hard on the door frame.

"Hello? Anyone in there?"

No response. I try again, louder this time.

"Hello! You've got a major water leak in there!"

Still nothing, but I swear I hear movement inside. Footsteps, maybe. Someone could be trying to deal with whatever disaster is happening in there.

I try the door handle, but it's locked tight. The smart thing to do would be to call the sheriff, let him handle whatever's going on. But by the time he gets out here, the damage could be irreversible. And if there's someone inside who needs help...

The decision makes itself. I take a step back and slam my shoulder into the door. The frame is old and weakened by moisture, and it gives way easier than I expected. I stumble forward into the cabin, my flashlight beam cutting through the darkness.

Something hard and solid connects with the side of my head, and stars explode across my vision. I stagger sideways, reaching out instinctively to grab whatever hit me before it can strike again.

My hands close around something warm and soft and definitely human. A person. A woman, based on the curves I can feel beneath my palms. She's wet and slippery, and she's fighting like a wildcat, her elbows and knees moving in panic.

"Let me go!" The voice is high and terrified, distinctly feminine. "I have a kid! Please don't hurt us!"

"Whoa, hey, calm down," I try to say, but she's not listening. She's still struggling against my grip, and in the chaos, I feel fabric give way under my hands.

Then the moonlight streaming through the window illuminates what I'm holding, and my brain completely short-circuits.

She's naked. Completely, absolutely naked, with water dripping from her dark hair and skin that looks like it's been kissed by moonlight. Her eyes are wide with terror, hazel and beautiful, and fixed on my face like I'm the devil himself.

Time stops. Everything stops. The sound of rushing water, the feeling of my boots slipping on the wet floor, the ache in my head where she clocked me with whatever makeshift weapon she found.

All of it fades into background noise because I'm looking at the most beautiful woman I've ever seen in my life, and she's standing in my arms without a stitch of clothing on.

"Oh, God," she whispers, and I can see the exact moment she realizes what happened. Her hands fly up to cover herself, but there's nowhere to hide, nothing to grab onto. The towel that must have been around her is now a soggy heap at our feet.

I should look away. I should give her my jacket, except I'm not wearing one. I should do something, anything, other than stand here like a complete jackass, staring at her like I've never seen a woman before.

But I can't move. Can't think. Can't do anything except memorize every curve, every line, every detail of the woman who just tried to brain me with what I now realize is a toilet plunger.

"Turn around!" she finally manages to gasp out, and the command breaks through my stupor.

I spin away from her so fast I nearly lose my balance on the wet floor, my heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to escape. Behind me, I can hear her scrambling around, probably looking for something to cover herself with.

"Who are you?" she demands, and there's still fear in her voice, but there's anger now, too. Good. Anger is better than terror.

"Asher Hunter," I manage to say, my voice coming out rougher than I intended. "I live next door. I saw the water and thought..." I stop, trying to get my thoughts in order. "I thought the place was empty. I was trying to help."

"Help?" There's disbelief in her tone. "You broke down my door!"

"Your door?" I turn around slowly, making sure she's covered first. She's wrapped in what looks like a sheet, her dark hair plastered to her head, water still dripping from her skin. She's clutching the fabric like a lifeline, and her eyes are still wide with a combination of fear and fury.

"You live here?" I ask.

"As of about three hours ago, yes." She takes a step back, putting more distance between us. "And you just broke into my house where my son has to sleep."

The accusation hits me like a slap. She's right. I did break into her house. It doesn't matter that I thought it was empty, doesn't matter that I was trying to help. I broke down her door and scared the hell out of her.

"I'm sorry," I say, and I mean it. "I thought the place was abandoned. I saw all the water and..." I gesture helplessly around the room, where water is still flowing steadily from what I assume is the bathroom. "You've got a serious problem here."

She follows my gaze and seems to remember the crisis that started all of this. Her shoulders sag with what looks like exhaustion and defeat.

"I know," she says quietly. "The shower pipe broke when I tried to turn it on. I don't know how to fix it."

And just like that, the pieces click into place. She's not some squatter or vandal. She's a woman who just moved into a falling-down cabin with a kid, and now she's dealing with a plumbing disaster in the middle of the night. Alone.

"Where's the water main?" I ask, already moving toward what I hope is the right direction.

"I don't know." The admission comes out small and defeated. "I don't know anything about houses or pipes or..." She gestures around the flooded room. "Any of this."

I find the water main in a closet near the kitchen and turn it off, stopping the flow immediately. The silence that follows is almost deafening after the constant sound of rushing water.

"That'll stop the flooding," I tell her, turning back to face her. "But you're going to need a plumber to fix the actual break. And someone to deal with all this water damage."

She nods, but I can see the overwhelm in her expression.

"I can help," I hear myself say, and I'm not sure who's more surprised by the offer, her or me.

She studies my face in the dim light, and I can practically see her weighing her options. Trust the strange man who just broke down her door or try to handle this disaster on her own.

"Why would you do that?" she asks finally.

It's a good question. Why would I help a complete stranger who just tried to assault me with bathroom equipment? Why would I offer to fix her problems when I've got enough of my own?

I look at her standing there in her makeshift sheet, water dripping from her hair, exhaustion written in every line of her body. And I think about the kid she mentioned, probably sleeping in one of the bedrooms, completely unaware that his world just got a little more complicated.

"Because it's the right thing to do," I tell her, and realize I mean it completely.

She stares at me for a long moment, searching my face for something. Whatever she finds there must satisfy her, because she nods slowly.

"Okay," she says. "But I can't pay you. I don't have any money."

"I didn't ask for money."

"Then what do you want?"

The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with implications I'm not ready to examine.

I want to know why she's here, why she chose a falling-down cabin in the middle of nowhere to start over.

I want to know about the fear I saw in her eyes when she thought I was going to hurt her.

I want to know everything about her, and that realization should scare the hell out of me.

Instead, I just say, "I want to make sure you and your kid are safe."

Her expression softens around the edges of her face.

"I'm Sierra," she says quietly. "Sierra Martinez."

"Nice to meet you, Sierra Martinez," I reply, and despite the circumstances, I find myself meaning that too. "Even if you did try to murder me with a plunger."

That earns me a small smile, the first one I've seen from her, and it transforms her entire face. Beautiful doesn't even begin to cover it.

"Sorry about that," she says, not sounding sorry at all. "I thought you were..."

"Someone else," I finish when she trails off. There's a story there, one that involves the kind of fear I saw in her eyes. But that's for another time.

"Yeah," she says simply.

I look around the water-damaged room, already mentally cataloging what needs to be fixed and how long it'll take. This isn't a small job, but I've handled worse. And something tells me that helping Sierra Martinez might be the most important thing I've done in a very long time.

"Well," I say, "we should probably start cleaning up this mess."