Page 2 of Her Beary Spicy Valentine (Welcome to Bear Mountain #2)

holly

I ’d thought I'd stumbled into some kind of weird Christmas movie, but it turned into a Western when I walked into the Bear Mountain Bar & Grill.

Every single person in the bar turned to look at me the moment I stepped through the door.

Actually, I should say every single man —they were all men.

Three rough-looking guys occupied the booth closest to the door, their leather jackets adorned with patches I couldn’t quite make out in the dim light. But their energy was unmistakable. These weren’t dentists blowing off steam with a weeknight ride. No, they were outlaws—rugged, clad in a Johnny Cash level of head-to-toe black, and radiating unapologetic 1% triangle patch pride.

A huge lumberjack of a guy with Viking-blond hair tied back in a messy bun swiveled on his bar stool, narrowing his eyes at me. Even squinting, his blue eyes practically glowed, their vivid color standing out even from across the room. Menace or suspicion? I couldn’t tell.

The bartender behind the counter was the only one in the place who looked remotely Christmas movie-ready. With fine features and coppery hair, he could have easily been cast as the male lead in one of those Netflix shows where nurses like me go to heal their emotional wounds.

The other four guys, though? Not so much.

However, all five bar patrons had one thing in common: they were staring at me. Silent and unblinking.

All conversation—if there had been any—ceased the moment I appeared, like someone had flipped an off switch.

Signs plastered everywhere advertised breakfast, lunch, and dinner specials, but nobody seemed to be eating. Just... staring.

I swallowed hard, adjusted the strap of my purse over my shoulder, and raised my chin—before promptly lowering it again to dash toward the bathroom in the back corner of the bar.

Listen, top five rule of midwifery: Pee First. Basically, if you're going to do something difficult and slightly scary—like convincing a first-time mom to push something the size of a watermelon out of her vadge—you empty your bladder first.

Without daring to make eye contact, I ducked into the door marked by a cartoon brown bear wearing a pink bow and matching summer dress.

The women’s room was shockingly clean. After taking care of business and washing my hands, I grabbed a paper towel from the fully stocked dispenser and tossed it into the wastebasket.

It landed with an echoing plunk . The bin was completely empty, but its edges coated with a thin layer of dust—like it hadn’t been used in days. Maybe weeks.

Where are all the women?

My chest tightened with unease. Sure, Canada’s murder rate was way lower than America’s, but had I just stumbled into the Canuck version of some horror movie? The kind where random American women are kidnapped and kept by scary Canadian mountain men?

“Okay, Holly, no. Don’t go there,” I commanded myself, pushing back against the rising tide of panic. “You’ve dealt with worse than this.”

Actually, I hadn’t. But now was not the time for truth in encouragement.

“They’re just a bunch of guys in a creepy mountain bar,” I assured the wide-eyed woman in the mirror. “You’re here for Noelle, and you’re starving. So you’re gonna walk out there, get some food, and figure out what’s going on with your sister.”

The pep talk worked—sort of. My heart was still racing when I stepped out of the women's toilet, but at least my feet were moving in the right direction.

I kept my eyes trained on the copper-haired bartender as I crossed the room.

Don’t look at anybody else. Pretend like you don’t see the other four. Don’t look at anybody else. Pretend like you don’t see the other four.

The mantra repeated in my head, but I could feel the other men’s eyes burning holes into me as I beelined toward the bartender, who was still polishing the same glass.

“Where did you come from, baby?” a gravelly voice asked out of the blue. “And where are you headed?”

I stopped dead in my tracks. Dangit!

I’d been so focused on pretending not to see the other guys in the bar that I didn’t notice one of the bikers slide out of the booth. By the time I realized, he was already standing in my path, grinning like he’d just claimed a prize.

Grizzled, with flecks of gray in an otherwise black beard, he loomed over me, his amber-brown eyes gleaming with a mix of amusement and something sharper, more intense.

Danger .

It radiated off him in waves, setting off all my “girl, run!” instincts—but other than that, he wasn’t entirely unattractive. My eyes caught on the chiseled jawline framed by the perfect amount of scruff and the broad shoulders filling out his leather jacket like he’d just stepped out of one of those old-school motorcycle movies.

Still, I took a huge step back. “I’m just... heading to the bar to order something to eat.”

He stepped with me, blocking my path again. When I tried to cant to the left, he shifted, too, cutting me off. “How do you smell this good?”

“Um...” My voice cracked. “Because I showered?”

“Like a whole box of chocolates.” To my absolute shock, the hard-edged biker leaned in closer, inhaling audibly.

“Fuck me..." His eyes fluttered, like he'd just taken a hit of some kind of drug. "I’d happily eat you for supper, baby.”

“For supper?” I echoed weakly, my voice threatening to give out.

“Hey, leave her alone.”

The command came from behind me, low and firm.

When I turned, the hulking blond from the bar was standing there.

He was even taller than the biker, his giant frame blocking out most of the room behind him. And those blue eyes I’d spotted all the way across the bar? Even more vivid. Seriously, they could’ve landed him an automatic extra role on any Viking show.

But to my surprise, they were filled with what appeared to be genuine concern for me.

“Hey, what are you doing here? “The town’s closed.” He hunched down the near foot it took for us to be at eye level, his gaze worried. But then he audibly sniffed at me, too.

What in the world?

“But the bar is open,” I carefully pointed out, doing my best to both step away from him and his flaring nose while not bumping into the biker whose amber stare was currently burning a hole into my back. “I was hoping to grab some dinner—and ask about my sister. Noelle Winters.”

“Noelle?” The Viking’s expression flickered with recognition. “Hold on, you’re the sister of the Tuk’mara’s new mate?”

His entire face lit up. “Does that mean you’re planning to stay?”

“What? No! I have a whole life back in…” I started to answer—before thinking better of letting these guys know where I lived.

“What’s a tookmahra ?” I asked instead, carefully repeating the title he’d use in association with the guy Noelle had decided to stay with after knowing him for less than a week. “And what’s his actual name so I can find him and my sister?”

“Who cares?” Before the Viking could answer, the biker’s hand clamped around my wrist, pulling me to face him. “What’s your name, baby?”

“Um… none of your business!” I snapped, trying and failing to pull my arm out of his grip.

“Hey, take your dirty hand off my mate!”

The Viking’s voice boomed through the bar—right before he grabbed the biker by the shoulders and made him unhand me.

By lifting him in the air and body slamming him into the nearest table.

I gasped and slapped both palms over my mouth as the wooden table crumpled under the biker’s weight.

“You’re going to have to pay for that, Constable,” the bartender said somewhere in the background, his voice bored, like bar fights were a regular Tuesday occurrence.

Constable? Wait, was this the actual human officer I’d come to the RCMP station looking for—right before my confrontation with the animatronic Mountie?

Before I could follow that realization thread, the biker launched himself to his feet. He spat out a mouthful of blood and grinned at the Viking like this was all just part of some violent foreplay. Then he lunged, fist-first.

The Viking fought like a linebacker—all brute strength and sheer power—but the biker was faster. Sharper. For every ham-handed swing the Viking took, the biker landed two. Precise, vicious punches aimed at the most vulnerable spots on the larger guy’s body.

I stood frozen, unable to move or speak.

This wasn’t… this couldn’t be real. I was a chubby, 34-year-old divorcee who couldn’t be bothered to wear makeup or anything nicer than a pair of scrubs most days. Random strangers—huge, hot random strangers—didn’t get into fistfights over me. Heck, they didn’t even ask me out.

What is even happening?

As if to answer, a sickening crack echoed through the bar as the biker’s fist smashed squarely into the Viking’s nose. Blood sprayed, and the blond stumbled back, cupping his face with both hands.

“Enough!”

The voice cut through the chaos like a whip cracking, and I turned to see him—the Mountie from the station.

His uniform was pristine against the backdrop of the rustic bar, and his expression was ice-cold as he strode over to the two fighters.

Within seconds, he had both the Viking and the biker zip-cuffed.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the Viking said, his voice whistling as he spoke. “She smells so good. I lost my mind when this Iron Claw tried to talk to her, touch her…”

“I had every right to touch her,” the biker growled. “She’s my Valentine’s Day box of chocolates.”

“Bear up, both of you.” The Mountie’s glare snapped between the two men like a switchblade. “I don’t care what her scent is doing to you. You need to get yourselves under control. And you...”

His cold, dark eyes landed on me.

“Go home before you wreak any more havoc here!”

“Okay, that’s a little dramatic,” I answered, jerking my head back. “I was just about to order dinner before these guys started, like, literally sniffing at me—and fighting for reasons I still don’t quite understand!”

“You hungry, baby?” the biker asked, grinning through a bloodied mouth. One of his eyes had already swollen shut. “I’d be happy to cook you something good.”

“Not from a holding cell, you won’t,” the Viking cut in before I could respond, blood still streaming from his nose. His voice was muffled and thick, like speaking through a layer of cotton.

“Shut your mouths, the both of you,” the Mountie gritted out. Then he pointed at the bartender. “And if you feed her or tell her anything else, I’ll throw you and your twin in the station jail, too.”

The handsome bartender raised his hands in nonchalant surrender. “You got it, Takoda.”

“Wait, but what about—” I started to ask, only to flinch when the Mountie the bartender had called Takoda scowled so hard it felt like a physical shove.

“Go home,” he repeated between clenched teeth. “Before it’s too late.”

I shook my head at him. “Too late for what?”

A dark shadow crossed over his face. And instead of answering, he just turned back around to drag the two men out of the bar.

Leaving me standing there in stunned silence.

Save for mystomach, which growled again, loud enough to echo in the high-ceiling Bar & Grill.

But the bartender avoided my gaze like he could neither hear nor see me.

“Well,” I muttered, woefully regretting not stopping for a sandwich at the mountainside Barrington Super Center I'd passed on the way up here. “I guess dinner's not happening .”

But that didn’t mean I wouldn’t be getting what I came for.

I straightened my coat and headed for the door, my mind racing.

Okay, tookmahra. I had one clue about where my sister might be and who she might be with.

I pulled out my phone as I stepped outside, only to groan in frustration. Not a single bar of reception, and all the WiFi options needed passwords.

Great .

Maybe heading back down the mountain would help—at least I could look up this “tookmahra” thing or figure out where to go next.

I unstrung my scarf to rewrap it tighter around my neck for the hike back to the RCMP station.

But it slipped from my hand when I spotted a row of signs strung across a path leading further up the mountain. Like a fence.

The flickering glow of the Bear Mountain Bar & Grill sign illuminated the words:

Ayaska Village.

DO NOT PASS.

Only Bear Mountain Residents Allowed Past This Point.

VISITORS NOT ALLOWED.

I wasn’t a Bear Mountain resident.

But my father died less than a year after I was born, my mom had gone back to my evil stepdad and was no longer returning my calls, and my beloved little sister that I used to talk to near daily was somewhere in this town.

Maybe in the Ayaska Village I wasn’t supposed to visit.

Go home!

The Mountie’s voice echoed in my head as I stepped past the row of warning signs. And fear prickled through a nervous system still shaken by the chaotic bar fight.

But I squared my shoulders. I wasn’t going home. Not yet.

I strode up the dark, snow-covered road, my jaw set with determination. If my baby sister was in that village, I was going to find her.