Page 1

One

Emery

“ M ama, be careful in the mountains!”

My son’s voice crackles through the speaker, adorable like always. Legend is three years old and absolutely convinced he runs the world. Maybe he does. At least, mine .

“I will, baby,” I murmur, guiding my minivan up the final stretch of the winding dirt road. My stomach does a nervous little twist as I catch a glimpse of a log cabin through the pine branches in the distance. “You be good for Grandmama, okay?”

“I am good! Grandpop says I’m the goodest ever! ”

I smile, even though my palms are a little sweaty. “He’s right.”

“Emery, honey?” My grandmother’s voice cuts in. “Are you sure about this? Those mountains at night are dangerous, and who knows who that man is you’re going to see out there in the middle of nowhere.”

“I’m fine, Grandmama. Just a house call. Anyway, he’s the Sheriff, I’m pretty sure I’ll be safe. Gotta go. Love you all,” I say as I end the call.

Sheriff Colt Boone.

I mean, what kind of name is that? It sounds like a brand of whiskey or bar of soap that smells like leather and flannel.

The man Logan described as grumpy as hell and built like a brick wall that half of the female Wildfire population would like to climb. And a respectable portion of the male population as well. The kind of man you don’t want to meet in a dark alley unless you’re trying to get ruined.

Which, apparently, I’m doing. Professionally, of course.

I park beside a massive black truck that looks like it could eat my van for breakfast. My fingers tremble a little as I check my reflection. My hair is barely hanging on in its messy bun, and my lips are dry. I swipe on Cherry Chapstick like it’s armor and take a breath.

Just a trained medial assistant. Doing her job. No big deal.

Oh, did I mention? I’m here to check his wound. A bullet hole in his ass.

As I make the final approach to the sheriff’s house, I’m comforted by the fact the cabin is honestly incredible.

Not like the Dutton’s Yellowstone behemoth, but somehow better.

Small and neat with ferns filling the beds, and what looks like one of those tree trunks that’s been carved with a chainsaw into a magnificent, artful grizzly bear.

Once I’m parked, engine off, I click open my door. Outside, it’s one of those Wildfire nights that belong in a song or a book.

There’s a coolness to the mountain breeze that blends magically with the waning heat of the late summer day.

The path leading to the front door is made of flagstone and gravel. I walk carefully, balancing my bag on my shoulder, my new pair of knock-off Tori Burch flats providing zero grip on the slightly uneven terrain.

When I look up to take in the front door of my destination, I note a sign nailed to a carved piece of wood above the porch.

“Beware of the Owner”

My jaw unhinges, wondering if I should turn tail and make haste back to civilization in my minivan when, I roll the ball of my foot on a loose rock. My arms fly outward but it’s no use. I’m tumbling, knees crashing down onto hard stone with an ‘oof’.

My palms scrape raw, and the bag on my shoulder lands with a thud three feet ahead of me.

“Shit,” I hiss, trying to catch my breath as a hot explosion of pain expands from my left kneecap.

With clenched teeth and squinted eyes, I push up on my hands, trying to right myself when I hear it.

The distinctive sound of heavy, cast-iron hinges squealing.

Followed by the thud, thud, thud of heavy footsteps on wooden steps.

Then, a low voice, rough as the gravel digging into my knees. “Jesus Christ.”

I barely lift my head before thick, grabby hands are around my waist.

I’m on my feet in about two seconds flat. He lifted me like I’m nothing and at two-hundred eighteen pounds, nothing is not really how I would describe me.

I’m not ashamed of my body, but I know I’m no featherlight.

With a whooshing exhale, my feet connect to solid ground, but his hands are still on me.

Thumbs under my ribs. Heat burning through my scrubs.

My eyes trail up, and up, and my heart forgets how to beat.

Colt Boone is huge.

A mountain of a man with messy dark hair and a chest made of hard lines and thick muscle. His jaw clenches like it wants to snap steel in half. There’s a scar on his neck that draws my eyes like a magnet.

And then there are his eyes.

They remind me of my son’s favorite Blue Raspberry flavored Slurpee. Like a frozen Mediterranean tide pool.

And right now, they’re locked on me like he’s trying to memorize the shape of my soul.

He’s not just gorgeous. He’s so magnificent, it’s hard to keep my eyes on him.

Like looking at the sun, I have to take him in in little bits, or I’ll go blind.

“You drove up here alone, in that?” His voice is rough as his eyes dart to my car, Adam’s apple moving as he swallows.

I blink, my heart slamming into my ribs. “It’s got all-wheel drive…” I swallow right with him, distractingly aware he still hasn’t let me go. “I’m your home care provider.”

His gaze drops to my feet, then slowly drags up my legs, lingering in places that make my thighs clench.

“Flats? Did you not know you were driving half way to heaven up the side of a mountain?” His thick brow furrows. “You could’ve broken your fuckin’ neck .”

My breath catches, a defensive anger making me blink. “But, I didn’t, did I?” I squirm out of his grip which makes his mouth tick into an infuriatingly sex frown. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to sue you for negligent path maintenance causing great bodily injury.”

He takes a long breath, his stupidly sexy chest expanding under the plaid flannel, then he sniffs and his eyes drop to where I’m favoring my left leg. “You’re fucking bleeding .”

He sounds absolutely furious about it.

“It’s just a scrape.” I glance down, thinking this must be how Nancy Kerigan felt after getting whacked with that metal police baton.

“You shouldn’t be scraped at all.” His jaw ticks as his hands finally drop away from my waist, though he doesn’t step back. If anything, he leans closer. “Little girl like you, you shouldn’t even be out here.”

Little?

I frown, suddenly defensive. Is he being an asshole right now? “I’m a medical assistant from the agency assigned to you after your hospital stay. I came to take care of you.”

His nostrils flare like he doesn’t like that answer one bit. “You’re not takin’ care of me while you’re hurt.”

I swear smoke is starting to come out of his ears. I blink. Blink. Blink.

He leans in closer, so close I can feel his breath brush my lips.

“You showed up for me . You bled for me . You think I’m not going to make sure you are taken care of?

I shift back a half-step. His lips are so close I don’t trust myself not to lean in and kiss him, full tongue.

The way he says the part about being taken care of sounds dirty in the best sort of way and I swear the carved grizzly is taunting me from over his shoulder.

“I’m just here to clean your wound, not get a lecture on mountain safety. So, let’s just do that, shall we?”

His smile is pure sin and lethal .

His arms cross, and the movement pulls his flannel tight across shoulders that look like they were built to carry a girl like me straight into the woods and do the most debauched and wonderful things to her. His eyes stay fixed on my face, unblinking, like he’s logging points on a map for later.

He lowers a hand and scoops up my bag, spinning on the toe of his worn hiking boot and heading back toward the porch.

“Come. Or I’ll throw you over my shoulder and carry you.” He tosses me a look and little fingers of naughtiness drum down low, reminding me of how long it’s been since I had any sort of Sheriff Boone sort of action.

I stand there for a second, my knee getting warm and achy, like my suddenly awakened-from-years-of-slumber vagina.

My eyes solidly pinned on how his butt looks in those worn Levi’s, thinking I’ve just scratched the winning ticket because I’m gonna ask him to drop his drawers in the very near future.

“Come on, babygirl. We gotta look at that knee. And apparently,” He smirks like he’s reading my mind, “you’re gonna get an up close and personal look at my ass.”

He extends a hand as I get to the stairs and I bite back the wince as I bend my leg to take them one at a time. His jaw is set hard, a slight shake of his head, but his hand engulfs mine, warm and demanding, leading me across the worn wood planks of the porch and through the door.

Inside the cabin, it’s warmer than outside. Dark wood everywhere. Beautiful stained glass lamps that look shockingly like authentic Tiffany lamps. It adds a layer of surprising refinement to the rustic, minimally decorated masculine space.

The strong scent of coffee and maybe woodsmoke from a well-used iron stove in the kitchen tops off the classic mountain cabin vibe.

It’s lived-in but orderly. The kind of place that shouldn’t feel comforting but somehow does.

There are a few photos on the walls. A foursome of men in several that look similar to Sheriff Boone here, but each with their distinctive features, along with a small but determined looking older woman who I can only assume is the mother to this mountain man-meat clan.

“Take a seat, let’s take care of that knee,” he releases my hand then drops my bag with a thud on a sturdy, square kitchen table with four matching chairs that looks gorgeously hand carved.

Then he marches off to the cupboards, tugging one open and pulling out a first aid kit.

When he turns back around, his brows draw tight. “I said, take a seat.”

“I’m fine. I’m here to take care of your wound, remember?”

“And I don’t need a nurse. Didn’t ask for one.”

“Medical assistant,” I mutter, unzipping my bag and digging inside. “And your doctor sent me. He said you’ve been ignoring follow-up care for two weeks.”

His jaw flexes. “Okay, here’s the deal. I take care of your knee, I’ll let you take care of my ass.”

I huff, but only because his protectiveness is starting to get under my skin. “Fine.”