Page 3 of Hunted by the Mountain Man (Darkmore Mountain Men #5)

three

Anna

I wake to the smell of coffee and bacon, momentarily confused by the unfamiliar surroundings. Then it all comes rushing back—the attack on the safe house, fleeing into the blizzard, Cole finding me half-frozen in the snow.

Cole warming me with his own body through the night.

Heat floods my cheeks as I remember waking up naked in his arms, the careful way he touched my face, the possessive edge in his voice when he called me "his." The way I didn't want him to stop.

I'm wearing his thermal shirt now—it hangs to mid-thigh like a dress—and thick wool socks that make me feel tiny and protected. Outside the bedroom window, snow is still falling but gently now, no longer the violent blizzard that nearly killed me.

"Anna?" Cole's voice carries from what must be the kitchen. "You awake?"

"Coming," I call back, running fingers through my tangled hair and trying to look less like I just spent the night in bed with a virtual stranger.

The main room of his cabin is even more impressive in daylight.

Built into the hillside with stone walls and exposed beams, it feels both rustic and sophisticated.

Solar panels visible through the windows, communications equipment that looks military-grade, bookshelves lined with everything from survival manuals to classic literature.

This isn't some hermit's shack. This is a carefully planned sanctuary.

Cole stands at the stove, wearing jeans and a flannel shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders. He's barefoot, hair still mussed from sleep, and something about seeing him in this domestic setting makes my pulse quicken.

"How are you feeling?" he asks without turning around, but I catch him glancing at me in the reflection of the window.

"Much better. A little sore, but warm." I move closer, drawn by the smell of real food. "This smells amazing."

"Scrambled eggs, bacon, toast. Nothing fancy, but it'll get your strength back up." He plates the food with practiced efficiency. "Coffee?"

"Please."

He pours from a French press into a heavy ceramic mug, and when he hands it to me, our fingers brush. The contact sends a little spark through me, and from the way his eyes darken, he feels it too.

"Thank you," I say, meaning more than just the coffee. "For everything. You saved my life."

"You would have done the same." He sets a plate in front of me at the small dining table. "Eat. You need to rebuild your energy reserves."

I take a bite and nearly moan with pleasure. After months of safe house food and years of quick meals eaten on the run, this simple breakfast tastes like heaven.

"You're a good cook," I observe, watching him settle across from me with his own plate.

"Army teaches you to make decent food with limited ingredients. Plus, three years of cooking for one—you either get good at it or resign yourself to eating garbage."

"Three years up here alone?"

His jaw tightens slightly. "More or less."

I sense there's a story there, but I don't push. Instead, I look around the cabin again, noting details I missed in last night's hypothermic haze.

"This place is incredible. You built all this yourself?"

"Most of it. Had help with the solar installation and some of the communications equipment." Cole sips his coffee, watching me over the rim. "Needed somewhere secure, self-sufficient. These mountains provide both."

"Secure from what?"

For a moment, I think he won't answer. Then he sets down his mug and meets my eyes directly.

"My former commanding officer. The military justice system. Private contractors who don't appreciate soldiers with inconvenient consciences." His voice is matter-of-fact, but I hear the pain underneath. "I testified about war crimes in Afghanistan. Some people didn't appreciate my honesty."

My fork pauses halfway to my mouth. "War crimes?"

"Civilian casualties that could have been avoided. Rules of engagement violations. Mission objectives that prioritized politics over human lives." Cole's expression is carefully neutral. "I was a combat medic. I saw what those decisions cost."

"So you reported it."

"And got marked for elimination when the investigation got buried." He shrugs, but there's nothing casual about the tension in his shoulders. "Turns out the U.S. military doesn't like whistleblowers any more than organized crime does."

The parallel hits me like a physical blow. "We're the same."

"Both stupid enough to think telling the truth mattered more than staying alive," he agrees with a rueful smile. "Both learning that justice is a luxury most people can't afford."

"But you're still fighting." I gesture around the cabin. "This isn't hiding—this is preparing."

Something shifts in his expression. "Maybe. What about you? Still planning to testify?"

"If I live long enough." I push food around my plate, appetite suddenly gone. "Costa's reach is long. Even if I make it to trial, there's no guarantee he'll be convicted. Or that I'll survive the attempt."

"You will." The certainty in Cole's voice makes me look up. "Both. You'll testify, and you'll survive."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because you're not alone anymore." He reaches across the table, covering my hand with his. The contact is warm, steady, grounding. "Costa's men are good, but they're street fighters playing in mountain terrain. They're out of their element."

"And you're not?"

"These mountains are my element. This is where I've trained myself to disappear, to fight, to survive." His thumb traces circles on the back of my hand, probably unconsciously. "They want to hunt you in my territory? Let them try."

The confidence in his voice should be reassuring, but it's the protective edge that makes my breath catch. The way he says "my territory" like it includes me now.

"Speaking of which," Cole continues, releasing my hand and standing to check something on his communications array. "Storm's cleared enough for radio traffic. Your friends are chattering on their comms."

"What are they saying?"

Cole adjusts frequencies, and harsh voices fill the cabin—accented English mixed with what sounds like Russian or Ukrainian.

"They're frustrated," he translates after a few minutes. "Lost your trail in the storm, two men down with frostbite, having to regroup and expand their search pattern."

"How many?"

"Sounds like eight or ten left. Originally twelve to fifteen, but the mountain's taking its toll." Cole's smile is sharp. "They're not equipped for extended winter operations in this terrain."

"But they won't give up."

"No. Costa's paying them too well." Cole turns from the radio, his expression serious. "Which means we need to be smart about our next moves."

"We?"

The word slips out before I can stop it, and I see something flicker across Cole's face—surprise, maybe, or satisfaction.

"You think I'm letting you face this alone?" He crosses back to me, stopping close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "Anna, I haven't felt this protective of anything in three years. I'm not walking away now."

"You don't owe me anything—"

"This isn't about owing." His hand cups my cheek, the same gentle touch from this morning that made my heart race. "This is about something else entirely."

"What?" The question comes out breathier than I intended.

"I don't know yet." His thumb brushes across my cheekbone. "But I'm going to find out."

Before I can respond, alarms start shrieking throughout the cabin. Cole's instantly in motion, checking displays and grabbing equipment with military precision.

"Motion sensors," he reports tersely. "Multiple contacts, half a klick south and moving this way."

My blood turns to ice. "They found us."

"Not us. The general area." Cole's already shutting down non-essential systems. "But it's time to relocate."

"Where?"

"I've got a secondary position. Better defensive terrain, multiple escape routes." He hands me a pack and outdoor gear sized for someone much larger. "Get dressed. We move in five minutes."

As I struggle into winter clothing designed for a man twice my size, I watch Cole transform from gentle protector to lethal operator. The change is both terrifying and oddly comforting.

These men hunting me have training and numbers.

But Cole Manning has something they don't—three years of preparation and a very personal reason to keep me alive.

"Ready?" he asks, shouldering his own pack and checking his rifle.

I nod, though I'm anything but ready for whatever comes next.

"Stay close," Cole says, leading me toward what looks like a supply closet but opens to reveal a tunnel carved into bedrock. "And Anna?"

"Yeah?"

"Trust me."

As we disappear into the mountain itself, leaving the warm sanctuary of his cabin behind, I realize that trust isn't the issue.

The issue is that somewhere between waking up in Cole Manning's arms and watching him prepare to defend me with his life, I've started falling for a man I barely know.

And that terrifies me more than Costa's hired killers ever could.