Page 1 of Ignited By the Mountain Man (Fall for a Mountain Man #2)

KEELY

The pile of logs and kindling was stacked so high, I had to look up to see the top. It wasn't the tallest bonfire I'd ever seen, but it was still impressive.

But I wasn't here to gawk. I was here to take pictures. And if I wanted to get anything done, I'd better knock this out before the hot mountain men showed up with their muscles and axes and…whatever else mountain men had going on.

This angle was interesting, but the bonfire looked even fuller from the other side.

I began moving in a circle around the heap of logs and branches, snapping as I went.

Finally, I adjusted the lens and took a second go around, this time moving even farther back to capture the sheer height of this thing.

Crack.

I heard the noise at the same time I felt it—I'd stepped on something.

Not just a little something, either. A big pile of something.

It wasn't soft and smushy like dog poop—I'd experienced that in my time as a photographer too.

No, this was something bumpy and distinctly fall-like. A pile of limbs and leaves.

What the heck?

I lowered my camera. It was a big pile, like a smaller imitation of the tower in front of me.

But I hadn't just stepped on it. I’d scattered it.

Limbs had toppled over into a big puddle that I assumed was from recent rain.

Or maybe someone had watered the ground.

Was that a bonfire thing? I really had no idea.

They could have been practicing putting it out, for all I knew.

"Hey! You're standing in the extra kindling pile."

The voice behind me had me jerking around, scattering even more limbs and leaves and whatever else was in the pile. Even more of it toppled into the puddle, and I winced.

But all that was soon forgotten as I came face to face with my accuser.

Okay, now I was definitely gaping, and there was nothing I could do about it. I couldn't take my eyes off this guy if someone paid me a thousand bucks to do it.

He was tall and bulky, with muscles that strained the short-sleeved T-shirt he wore. Yes, short sleeves. It wasn't extra chilly, but fall had definitely arrived in this town. Interestingly, though, he didn't look a bit cold. If anything, he'd broken out in a sweat not too long ago.

I instinctively looked at my camera like I was going to take a picture, then lowered it again. It was habit—I see something beautiful, I snap it. If I didn't have my camera, I did it with my phone, just to tag the location so I could come back later with my gear, if possible.

"I'm so sorry," I blurted out, finally finding my voice. "I was just taking pictures for an article, and I didn't realize—"

"An article?" His brows drew together, creating a furrow between dark eyes that seemed to see right through me. "You're press?"

"Freelance journalist. Travel and lifestyle stuff. Nothing invasive, I promise." I gestured helplessly at the scattered pile. "I was trying to capture the authentic small-town fall festival atmosphere before everyone arrived."

He looked down at the mess I'd made, then back at me. "Well, you've definitely captured something."

The dry tone in his voice made heat creep up my neck. "I can help clean this up. I’ll put it back together."

"Most of it's soaked now." He crouched down and picked up a few pieces, examining them with the critical eye of someone who actually knew what he was doing. "This was my dry starter pile. It took me twenty minutes to collect the perfect pieces."

"Perfect pieces?" I crouched beside him, trying to help gather the scattered kindling. "There's a science to this?"

He glanced at me sideways, and I caught a hint of amusement in those dark eyes. "You could say that. Different sizes burn at different rates. You need the progression just right, or the whole thing fails before it gets going."

"Oh." I picked up a wet stick and looked at it like it might tell me its secrets. "So this was important."

"This was crucial." But his tone had lost some of its edge. "Lucky for you, I came prepared for complications."

He stood and walked over to his truck, which I hadn't even noticed parked at the edge of the field. When he returned, he was carrying a cardboard box.

"You don't have to stay," he said, setting the box down a safe distance from the puddle. "I can handle this."

"Are you kidding? I caused this mess. The least I can do is help fix it." I paused. "Plus, this might make an even better story. 'City girl learns the ancient art of fire-making from local mountain man.'"

That earned me a snort of laughter. "Ancient art? I'm thirty-five, not three hundred."

"You know what I mean." I watched as he opened the box and began pulling out what looked like professional fire-starting supplies. "This is clearly beyond my skill set."

"Most things are, when you've never had to do them." He glanced up at me. "You're not from around here."

It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. “Chattanooga, Tennessee. Well, technically I'm from a lot of places, but Chattanooga’s my home base right now."

"What brings you to Wildwood Valley? Besides ruining perfectly good kindling piles."

"Research. I'm writing a piece about small mountain communities and their fall traditions. How they bring people together, preserve local culture, that sort of thing. Your bonfire is supposed to be the centerpiece of my article."

"Great. No pressure." He held up two different types of what looked like bark. "Birch or cedar?"

"I have absolutely no idea."

"Birch." He set the cedar aside and began arranging small pieces of the birch bark in the center of a clear area. "Burns hotter, catches easier."

"How do you know all this?"

"Military training, mostly. Plus, I've lived here three years. You pick things up." His hands moved with practiced efficiency, building a small nest of tinder. "When the power goes out in your cabin if someone sneezes too hard near a transformer, you learn to be self-sufficient."

I found myself mesmerized by the careful way he arranged each piece. There was something almost meditative about it, the precision and patience.

"Were you supposed to be doing this alone?” I asked. “Where is everyone?"

"The rest of the volunteer crew took a dinner break.” He struck a match and carefully touched it to the birch bark. "I grabbed a sandwich and headed back over here. No one else seems all that stressed about the fact that busloads of teenagers are arriving at any minute.”

The bark caught immediately, small flames licking upward. He began adding pieces of kindling, each one placed with deliberate care.

"That's amazing," I said softly. "You make it look so easy."

"Years of practice." He looked up at me, the firelight already beginning to play across his features. "Want to try?"

"Try what?"

"Adding those pieces." He indicated what remained dry from the pile I’d scattered. "But you have to do it slowly. Too much too fast, and you'll smother it."

I scooted closer, suddenly very aware of how near he was. Close enough that I could smell his cologne, which was something woodsy that suited him perfectly. Finally, though, I had to leave him to get a stick from the pile. I grabbed one and held it up.

"Like this?" I asked.

"Smaller pieces."

His voice was lower now, rougher. I swooped down for another stick and held it up for him. This one got his approval. When I was standing next to him again, he took my hand to guide me, his fingers warm against mine.

"Now, lay it across the flame, not on top of it,” he said. “You want air flow underneath."

I followed his guidance, acutely conscious of his hand still covering mine. When the stick caught and began to burn, I felt a ridiculous surge of pride.

"I did it!"

"You did." He was smiling now, a real smile that transformed his whole face. "Natural talent."

We worked together in comfortable silence after that, gradually building up the fire until it was large enough to begin catching the pieces toward the top. With each successful addition, I felt more confident, more connected to this primal act of creation.

"You know," I said, feeding another stick to the growing flames, "I've been to bonfires, but I've never actually helped start a fire before."

"Most people haven't. They just show up when it's already going." He sat back, watching the flames climb higher. "There's something satisfying about starting from nothing, building it up piece by piece."

"Is that why you volunteered for this? The satisfaction?"

He was quiet for a moment, his gaze fixed on the fire. "Partly. Also because someone has to do it, and I know how to do it safely."

"Safety's important to you."

"Yeah. It is." Something in his tone suggested there was more to that story, but before I could ask, he was standing up. "We need to keep it going now. We’ll just gradually add more kindling."

This part required both of us. Together, we added pieces of kindling from the dry pile and the surrounding area. Our teamwork became more natural with each piece we added.

"Careful," he said as I stood next to a particularly large log that appeared to be more precariously perched than the ones around it. "If that slips—"

At that exact moment, the log shifted, and suddenly he was right behind me, his arms coming around to move me away from the fire. For a moment, we were pressed together, his heart beating against my cheek as he held me in his arms.

"You okay?" he asked softly.

I nodded, not trusting my voice. The log was secure, but he didn't immediately step away. Neither did I.

"Keely," he said, and I realized I'd never told him my name.

"How did you know my name?“

"Your press badge." He stepped back and nodded toward the nametag on a lanyard around my neck that I'd completely forgotten about.

"Keely Morrison, freelance journalist,” I said. “And you are?"

“Silas.” He stepped even farther back. “Silas Cross."

We turned to face the fire as it crackled between us, sending sparks up into the darkening sky. Somewhere in the distance, I could hear car doors slamming and voices calling out. The rest of the volunteers were arriving.

But for this moment, it was just us. Just the fire we'd built together and the feeling that something important was beginning.

“Silas!” A voice called from across the field. "Fire looks great, man!"

I turned to watch a group of people approaching, their voices and laughter growing louder as they got closer. Soon this quiet space would be filled with crowds and chaos and all the energy of a community celebration.

But I'd always remember this—the quiet intimacy of building something beautiful together, piece by piece, flame by flame.

"Thank you," I said softly. "For teaching me."

"Thank you for destroying my kindling pile." His mouth quirked up in that almost-smile. "Best mistake anyone's made in a while."

As the first wave of volunteers reached us, chattering about setup and schedules and safety protocols, I found myself hoping this wouldn't be the last time Silas Cross taught me something new.