Page 19 of Eco-Activist’s Mountain Men (Mountain Men Reverse Harem #4)

Luna

G oddammit, who the hell does he think he is, talking to me like that?

No one’s allowed to speak to me that way, not even my closest friends—and certainly not Captain Hulk Features himself, Luke Williamson, the chainsaw-wielding, mass tree-murderer of Oregon State. Damn, I am so angry.

All I can think as I storm out of the kitchen is the sheer arrogance of the man.

Where the hell does he get off talking to another human being that way?

I thought I was supposed to be their guest, for fuck’s sake.

What happened to that old-fashioned courtesy and respect for women that’s supposed to exist out in the countryside?

Because I sure as hell don’t see it coming from him.

Too many muscles, not enough brains. Maybe the steroids shrank his brain along with his dick.

But the truth—my truth—is that the reason I snapped so hard is because I got defensive. And the reason I got defensive? Because deep down I know he’s right.

Which only makes him an even bigger bastard.

I jam Luke’s homemade crutch under my arm and stomp down the steps, out into the yard, then follow the track, climbing into the forest.

The damned phone signal still isn’t back either. Meaning not only do I have to put up with Luke’s bullshit, but I can’t even call Tim to tell him not to come. So what exactly am I supposed to do?

I’m lost. I don’t even know what the sides are anymore, let alone which side I’m supposed to be on. My whole worldview—carefully built, piece by piece—has been kicked apart like a child’s sandcastle.

And it’s all because of that walking mountain, Luke.

I could scream.

Still, it feels good to be out of the lodge again. The last time I ventured out a few days ago, it led to… well, surprises. Big ones. Sex with Toby had been… God, it had been amazing.

So different from Eric. Where Eric was hesitant, awkward, but achingly gentle, Toby was bold, confident, and skillful. Eric gave me tenderness. Toby gave me fire. And both left me wanting more.

It’s like the difference between hot chocolate and coffee.

Two things I could never compare because I love both.

Sometimes I crave the sweetness, sometimes the kick, but both are part of me.

Both hit differently, but both hit right.

If I’m out of one, sure, I’ll survive—but I’d always rather have both.

That thought lingers as I trudge higher up the track.

The lodge is long out of sight. The late summer sun is warm, the breeze playful enough to ruffle my hair and keep the worst of the bugs away.

I pause when I spot a beetle gleaming metallic gold in the sunlight, strolling across the dirt like I don’t even exist.

“It doesn’t know I’m here. Even if it did, it wouldn’t care,” I mutter. “Just like those bastards down below.”

And speaking of bastards—there’s more than just the four men at the lodge. There’s Tim Collier. And Randy Jessup.

Two monumental assholes.

Randy first. He bailed on our mission—left me hanging, literally—because he had to take his hamster to the vet.

A hamster. What the actual fuck. He left me to risk my neck climbing into the treetops alone because Mr. Fluffy had a cough?

He didn’t just let me down, he let the whole crew down.

If he’d been there like he was supposed to, maybe I wouldn’t have fallen. Maybe I wouldn’t have almost died.

And Tim, our self-appointed leader. He calls the shots, controls the money.

I’ve always suspected some of it even comes from his own pocket, which—fine, credit where it’s due.

But the voicemail he left me? Not a word about whether I was okay.

Not one question about where I’d been sleeping, what I’d been eating, how I’d been surviving out here.

No concern for the fact that I might have been halfway up a collapsing walkway in the middle of a thunderstorm.

No. All he cared about was getting his footage. His precious film crew. His banners flying on cue.

And now that I replay it in my head… why the hell is the footage so important? He talks about it like it’s going to change the whole world. Like one shot of a couple of banners is going to make CNN sit up and start crying into their microphones.

Really? For banners?

The more I think about it, the more it doesn’t make sense.

Sure, at first we were excited. The plan was simple: Randy and I sneak in, climb the walkways, secure the banners, and wait for morning. Then Tim swoops in with his chopper and film crew, cameras rolling, to catch us unfurling them. Boom—media exposure. Public outrage. Hashtag trending.

But now, with a little distance… how much impact would it really have? A couple of banners strung between trees? So what?

Thinking about it now, it all seems like an awful lot of effort and expense for not much reward.

I mean… I could understand the media being interested if it were something bigger.

Something that actually exposed bad practices, rather than just one of our Kill Climate Change banners.

If we could catch the logging crew in the act—doing something shady, illegal, or cruel—that would be a story.

That would be footage worth showing the world.

So why is Tim so insistent on his little banner stunt?

I shake my head. It just doesn’t make sense.

And there’s another thing. If I’m brutally honest with myself, I’m starting to wonder why we’re even targeting this company at all.

Yes, they’re a logging company. Yes, they cut down trees.

But there are trees and then there are trees.

This isn’t untouched virgin rainforest that’s been thriving for millennia.

This is mostly evergreen softwoods—conifers that can be planted, harvested, and replanted in a couple of decades.

It’s not rare hardwoods that only grow a centimeter a year, supporting delicate ecosystems that collapse if one tree is removed.

What’s more, from what I’ve seen and from what the guys have told me, McKenzie Forestry Services is actually a model for sustainable practice.

They plant more saplings than they harvest—and they do it at their own expense.

They’re not stripping the land bare; they’re managing it.

So why are we going after them with such intensity?

Why not focus on a company that’s actually guilty of wrongdoing?

That doesn’t make sense either.

And then there’s Luke. For all that he’s a massive bastard, he’s made me question things I never thought I’d question.

Wouldn’t my time—and my so-called activism—be more worthwhile if I focused on real solutions?

Like sustainable timber harvesting for houses?

Actual homes people need? Instead of lying in front of oil tankers, screaming slogans at security guards?

The reason I joined Kill Climate Change was to make a difference. Gandhi’s words come back to me: Be the change you wish to see in the world.

What do I wish to see? More conflict? More pointless stunts? Or more houses?

I sigh.

At least my ankle is holding up better than I’d expected. I’ve been walking for over an hour and a half, and though it aches, it’s mostly okay.

Actually… where am I?

I stop and turn, scanning the forest. I don’t recognize this area from the trip Toby and I took on the quad bike. The slope is steeper here, rockier too. Towering firs surround me—mostly Douglas with the occasional Lodgepole pine mixed in.

I glance down at the faint trail beneath my boots. It’s not really a track at all. More like something animals have carved into the hillside over years of use.

Great. Just great.

And of course, like an idiot, I came out here without my phone.

Not that it would get a signal, but at least I’d know the time.

Judging by the sun, I’d guess around eleven-thirty, maybe noon.

Still plenty of daylight. No real hurry to get back to the lodge anyway.

I’m not ready to face those men. Not yet.

But I am thirsty.

I stop, listen. Is that water? A trickling sound, faint but distinct, threading through the wind and the birdsong?

I tilt my head. Yes. I think it is. Up ahead, maybe higher. If I keep climbing, I’ll reach it. And if I get high enough, maybe I’ll also find a lookout point. Then I can see where I am.

“Onwards and upwards, Luna,” I mutter.

The land gets steeper, the soil looser. I have to use both hands and feet to scramble, skirting boulders, sliding on gravel.

At one point, a rock gives way under my boot and skitters downhill, knocking more stones loose in a miniature avalanche.

My heart lurches into my throat as I freeze, waiting until the clatter fades and silence returns. Jesus, that was close.

I slow down, more cautious now. The crutch I’d brought along is abandoned somewhere below—it was useless on the slope, leaving me no hands free to steady myself. My ankle throbs with every step, a warning that I’m pushing too far, too soon.

But the sound of water grows louder, surer, until finally I crest a rise and find it.

A small spring seeps from a crack in a rocky outcrop, maybe eight feet high. The water splashes into a shallow pool before trickling down into the thirsty soil. In winter, I bet this is a proper waterfall. For now, it’s barely a trickle. But it’s enough.

I crouch, leaning close. Not the pool—that could be filthy, anything could be in it. I know better than that. I reach higher, cupping my hands beneath the fresh flow where it bursts straight from the rock.

The water is cool, clean. I sniff it. Nothing. Tentatively, I sip. It tastes fine. Pure, even.

Hell, I’m thirsty.

I drink deeply, filling my hands again and again until the hollow ache in my throat eases. Then I splash some across my face, sighing with relief as the heat leaves my skin.

Better. Much better.

So… what now?

I sit down on a flat stone near the spring, ankle throbbing, chest damp with sweat. My thighs tremble from the climb, my body reminding me just how far I’ve pushed it.

I’ll stay here for an hour. Rest. Let the ankle settle, let my strength return. Then… then I’ll figure out my next move.

"What? Where am I?"

I wake with a start, blinking in confusion. Then it comes back to me—the argument in the kitchen with Luke, storming out, my hike into the forest, the long climb up the hill to the spring, and finally lying down to rest.

Shit. I must have fallen asleep.

The sun is much lower now, and in the forest that’s bad news. Light only filters through the canopy when it’s high overhead. Here in this rocky clearing, it’s still bright enough, but once I start down, the shadows will swallow me. Dark. Spooky.

Oh well. Nothing I can do about that.

What I can do is worry about the fact that going down is harder than going up. A person’s center of balance leans the wrong way, and one bad step… yeah. I hadn’t thought of that before. I think about it now.

I push to my feet, testing my body. My ankle throbs, but it’s more of a dull ache than a sharp pain—I can work with that. My wrist feels fine. I yawn, stretch. At least I’m rested. Plenty of energy.

Time to move.

But which way?

I sigh. My only real plan is to try retracing my steps, following my own trail down. If I do that, eventually I’ll end up where I started.

Logical enough. What could possibly go wrong?

I decide not to answer that question. Instead, I square my shoulders, step forward, and start singing to keep my spirits up.

" I got the eye of the tiger, a fighter, dancing through the fire, ’cause I am a champion…"

It works. For a while.

Then I misstep. Land awkwardly. My already injured ankle twists, and white-hot pain explodes up my leg. I scream, lose my balance?—

—and crash hard. My head smacks against a rock with a sickening thud.

The world tilts. Colors blur.

Darkness rushes in.