Page 17 of Eco-Activist’s Mountain Men (Mountain Men Reverse Harem #4)

Luke

I t feels like I’ve been holding my breath forever. Finally, they head inside, and I let out a quiet sigh of relief.

It’s not like I’ve done anything wrong. I’ve got as much right to be out in the yard at night as anyone else. But it would have looked strange—suspicious even—if I’d had to explain why I didn’t announce myself when Luna first came outside.

Truth is, I don’t really know why I didn’t speak up.

I wasn’t spying on her. I wasn’t trying to be secretive.

I’d only gone out to check the diesel level in the primary tank.

If the tank runs dry, the generator stops.

And when the generator stops, everything goes dark.

Not a crisis—we’ve got plenty of barrels in the fuel dump—but it’s a pain if it happens in the middle of a shower or halfway through cooking.

There was still about a foot and a half of fuel left, enough for now. I was heading back when the kitchen door opened and the light spilled across the yard. Out stepped Luna, Southpaw padding faithfully behind her.

I froze. I just didn’t want to get into a conversation that late.

So I stopped, slipped behind the shadow of the outbuilding wall, and waited for her to go back inside.

But she didn’t. She sat down on the bench.

Southpaw lay at her feet. The longer they stayed, the harder it got to reveal myself without looking like I’d been deliberately eavesdropping.

And then I went and made it worse—shifted my weight and kicked a loose piece of storm debris. Just a tiny clatter. But in the stillness of the night, every sound is amplified. Her head whipped around. Southpaw growled low. And me? I held my breath and prayed they wouldn’t notice.

Now that they’re gone, I straighten and let my lungs work again. My mind circles back to the voicemail I just overheard.

So it was sabotage. Deliberate.

Luna herself had admitted as much. I don’t trust her, not fully—but I’ll give her this: she’s been honest about why she came here. Honest about her politics, her intentions, her mistakes. She’s not hiding. And God help me, I find that… attractive.

I can’t stand games. Most people—even women I’ve dated—hide behind polite smiles and careful words. You never know if they mean what they say, or if they’re playing some angle. I hate that shit. I never played it myself, never had the patience.

But Luna wears her heart right out on her sleeve. Sometimes she’s infuriating, too sharp-tongued for her own good. Sometimes I want to throttle her. But at least you always know where you stand with her.

That counts. More than I like to admit.

This Tim Collier, though? Tim is something else. That guy’s a real piece of work. What kind of leader sends two people to hang banners twenty feet up on narrow walkways, then doesn’t bother telling one of them when the other bails? Who does that? Nobody in their right mind.

But he did.

And now he’s doing it again. Ordering her back up there in two weeks, just so his media circus can swoop in with cameras rolling.

And then there were his words. Strange words. Haunting me.

“Should look great in 4K high-res, with you lying on the ground underneath.”

Why the hell would she be lying on the ground?

Unless…

My mind races, chasing shadows, piecing fragments together: the wire cutters… the hotel receipts… Tim talking about reconnaissance. There’s a picture there. I can almost see it, like one of those magic-eye illusions. But every time I think it’s about to come clear, it slips away.

And that scares me. Because I think when it does come clear, it’s going to be ugly.

For now, I’ll do the one thing I can. If the cell towers are back up, I’ll dig into Kill Climate Change. Especially into Tim Collier. Luna mentioned his name once in the kitchen, casual as anything.

Tim Collier.

It rings a bell. Something about it scratches at the back of my memory. Familiar, but I can’t place it. Not yet.

Maybe if I sleep, it’ll come to me. But I don’t feel like sleeping. Not now.

They’ve gone inside. Good. Time to move.

I head toward my room, phone in hand, already planning. I’ll start the research now. Better than lying in bed, staring at the ceiling.

Back in my bedroom, I grab my phone. Sure enough, I have a signal.

Good.

A cluster of messages flashes across the screen, but they can wait until morning. Right now, I want answers. I want to know more about Kill Climate Change… and about the man running the show—Tim Collier.

I type “Kill Climate Change” into Google and hit search. A second later, results fill the tiny screen.

At the top is the group’s official site: killclimatechange.org.

Beneath it, a short Wikipedia entry. I skim through it, hunting for anything useful.

Formed in 2017 in Portland. That makes me pause.

Portland again. Coincidence? Maybe. Maybe not.

They’ve been around for about eight years.

Not a charity—just a registered not-for-profit.

Director and principal shareholder: Tim Collier.

Well, well. Not just their “leader,” then. He owns the whole damn thing. That doesn’t prove anything by itself, but it makes me sit up a little straighter.

I scroll through more entries—most of it noise.

Then I dive into the group’s own site. Their mission statement is front and center: “To protect Mother Earth from the ravages of man-made climate change, and in so doing, to spread life, health, peace, and happiness to all mankind throughout the world.”

Jesus. I almost gag. Who writes this drivel, and who actually swallows it?

I keep scrolling. There’s plenty of coverage of their stunts—blocking highways, chaining themselves to construction equipment, buzzing oil tankers in inflatable dinghies. Media bait. Noise.

Half of their focus seems aimed at forestry.

Articles on rainforest destruction—stuff I could actually get behind in principle.

But alongside those are cherry-picked stats and glossy “documentaries” designed to paint the U.S.

Forest Service and contractors like McKenzie Forestry as villains.

Everything is cleverly edited, exaggerated, twisted until it’s propaganda.

Still… taken together, there’s a dangerous rhythm to it. A little truth mixed with a lot of poison. The kind of thing gullible people lap up.

After a couple of hours of scanning, one question burns in my mind: why?

Why us? Why now?

Time to zero in on Collier himself. That name—Tim Collier—it scratches at the back of my skull. Familiar. I’ve seen it somewhere in the last few years. But where?

I open a new search page, type in his name, and hit enter.

The little search icon spins… then the signal dies. My screen goes gray. Two words glare back at me: NO INTERNET SIGNAL.

I wait. Five minutes. Ten. Nothing.

It’s half past four in the morning now. My eyes ache, my body heavy. Screw it. Tomorrow’s another day. Hopefully, by then, the signal will be back again.

For now… sleep.

It’s breakfast, and everyone’s in the kitchen.

I’m hiding in the corner with a mug the size of a bucket, coffee as black and strong as I could make it, doing my best not to yawn after a night that ran way too late.

Eric, Jack, and Toby are buzzing, trading stories about the cell connection flickering back to life in the night, then dying again before morning.

They’re laughing about missed calls and unread texts, swapping jokes about girlfriends, exes, and family members who are probably furious with them by now.

The only other one not joining in? Luna.

That alone is unusual. But what really gnaws at me is that she’s sitting there tight-lipped when she ought to be telling us everything she heard from Collier. This is important. She knows it’s important.

Instead, she just sips her coffee in silence.

It gets under my skin. She’s been here more than a week—sleeping in our rooms, eating our food, using our power, walking around with a crutch I made with my own hands.

Not to mention, we carried her in from near death, patched her up, and treated her injuries.

And how does she repay us? By keeping secrets.

By protecting the people who sent her here to sabotage us in the first place.

Enough.

I set my mug down hard on the table. It makes a heavy thud that cuts through the chatter. The laughter dies. Heads turn.

“Hey, Luna,” I say, fixing her with a look. “We’ve not heard from you yet. Didn’t you get any texts or messages worth sharing with the rest of us?”

Her head jerks up. Her eyes dart guiltily to her phone, then to the guys, then back to me.

“Nothing exciting.”

“You sure?”

“What? Yes, of course I’m sure.” Her voice is quick, defensive. Her cheeks flush pink, and her hand trembles just enough that I notice. She scratches her nose—classic liar’s tell if ever I saw one. “What do you mean?”

“What do I mean?” I lean forward. “I mean, don’t you think we deserve to know your eco-crew is planning to fly in with cameras in fourteen days? That they expect you to hang a banner for them—make us look bad, make this whole camp look bad? That’s what I mean.”

The kitchen goes dead silent.

Luna gasps, sharp enough to cut glass. Her face floods crimson, then drains pale in a heartbeat. Her eyes narrow into slits, her whole body tensing like a bowstring pulled tight. A vein throbs in her neck.

Her reply is quiet, controlled—but like ice.

“Have you been spying on me?”

“No,” I start. “I just happened to overhear when you?—”

“You just happened to overhear, did you?” Her words slice clean through mine. “At what… two-thirty in the morning? What the hell were you doing? Where were you? Hiding?”

“Well, sort of. You see?—”

“So you were spying on me. What are you, some filthy peeping Tom? Hanging around outside my window, watching me undress? Is that what gets you off out here?”

Her voice rises, louder, hotter, building from that cold start until it’s a shout. The others sit frozen, stunned, their eyes flicking back and forth between her and me.

“No, that’s not fair,” I say, heat rising in my chest. “I only?—”

“Oh, you only , did you?” She cuts me off again, viciously.

“You only what? Only spy on girls you don’t like?

Because let’s be honest—you’ve had it in for me since the moment I got here.

Don’t deny it. You’re not exactly subtle.

I’ve known from the start what you think of me—if you even think of me as a person at all. ”

She grabs the crutch from beside her chair, shoving it under her arm, and rises in one sharp movement.

“Well, okay then, you great big stupid fucking ox. Have it your way.”

She pauses in the doorway, her chest heaving, then turns for one final jab.

“I don’t want to be here anyway, you… you… lousy stinking Wookie!”

And with that, she stomps out into the yard.

Southpaw lumbers to his feet, ready to follow, but she whirls on him, too.

“And you can stay here as well, you pestilent carpet on legs! Nobody asked you to come!”

The wolf-dog freezes, ears drooping. He lets out a soft whine, then slumps back down by the table, staring mournfully after her like a scolded child.

The silence afterward is thick enough to choke on.

Finally, Toby clears his throat, pasting on his brightest grin.

“Well,” he says. “Who’s for more bacon?”