Page 6 of Keep Me, Knox (The Mountain Code #5)

Sage

The guest room is small but cozy, with a handmade quilt and a window that looks out over the trees.

I set my pack down and glance around, taking in the careful craftsmanship.

Knox's touch is everywhere. The nightstand, the simple wooden chair, the way the log walls fit together without a single gap.

I change into a warm hoodie he loaned me. It hangs to my knees and is cozy and warm.

When I emerge, he's in the kitchen pulling things from the refrigerator for dinner.

"Hope you like venison," he says without looking up. "It's that or canned soup."

"Venison sounds perfect." I lean against the doorframe, watching him move around the space with quiet efficiency. "You hunt?"

"Some. Mostly I trade bladework for meat with a neighbor down the ridge." He glances at me. "You squeamish about it?"

I shake my head. "I’m not a fan of killing just to kill, but I have no objection to living off the land. My dad used to hunt. I grew up cleaning fish and plucking birds.”

Something shifts in his expression. Approval, maybe. Like I just passed some kind of test.

"Good," he says simply, then nods toward the living area. "Fire's getting low. Mind feeding it while I get this started?"

I spend the next few minutes crouched by the hearth, adding logs and adjusting the damper until the flames catch properly.

There's something soothing about the ritual—the smell of burning oak and the way the fire pops and settles.

Behind me, I can hear Knox moving around the kitchen, the sizzle of meat hitting a hot pan.

"You're good at that," he says.

I glance over my shoulder. "What?"

"Building a fire. Most city people either smother it or burn the place down."

"Who says I'm from the city?"

He pauses, spatula halfway to flipping something. "Aren't you?"

"Knoxville," I admit. "But I spent summers with my grandmother in Montana. She had a cabin not too different from this one."

"That where you learned about bears?"

"That's where I learned to love the woods." I dust off my hands and stand, brushing bark chips from my jeans. "I knew I wanted a career that allowed me to be in nature, but I didn’t decide to focus on black bears until a college internship at Smoky Mountains National Park."

He nods, stirring something that smells incredible. "What made you stick with it?"

The question is casual, but I can tell he's really listening. Not just waiting for his turn to talk.

"They're misunderstood," I say, settling onto one of the kitchen stools. "People think they're these big scary monsters, but mostly they just want to be left alone. They're smart, careful, protective of their families. They mind their own business unless someone gives them a reason not to."

Knox glances at me, something unreadable in his expression. "Sounds familiar."

"Does it?"

He doesn't answer directly, just plates the venison with roasted vegetables and hands me a fork. We eat standing at the counter, and I have to bite back a moan at the first bite.

"This is incredible," I say. "Where'd you learn to cook like this?"

"Trial and error, mostly. Gets boring eating the same five things every night." He leans back against the sink, watching me eat. "What about you? You cook?"

"I can manage. Nothing fancy. I'm usually too tired when I get home from fieldwork to do much more than heat up leftovers."

"Sounds lonely."

The observation catches me off guard. Not because it's wrong, but because it's so right.

"Sometimes," I admit. "But the work is worth it. Most of the time."

"Most of the time?"

I set down my fork, considering. "There are days when I wonder if I'm making any real difference. All this data collection, all these reports, and development keeps creeping into their habitat anyway."

Knox is quiet for a moment, then says, "My uncle used to say something about that."

"Yeah?"

"He'd say, 'Sometimes the most important thing you can do is witness. Just... see what needs to be seen. Bear witness to it.' No pun intended."

I laugh softly. "Your uncle sounds wise."

"He was. Lived up here for forty years before I inherited the place. Taught me most of what I know about getting by on the mountain."

"Is that what you're doing? Just getting by?"

The question comes out more pointed than I intended, but Knox doesn't seem offended. He studies me for a moment, then says, "Used to think so. Lately, I’m not so sure."

There's something in his voice—something that makes my chest tight.

"Can I ask what happened?" I say quietly. "With your marriage?"

He's quiet for so long I think he's not going to answer. Then he says, "She wanted me to be someone I wasn't. Move to town, get a regular job, join the country club. Be the kind of man who looks good at dinner parties."

"And you didn't want that."

"I tried to want it. For a while. But trying to fit into someone else's idea of who you should be..." He shakes his head. "It'll kill you from the inside out."

I nod, understanding more than I want to admit. "Is that why you came back here?"

"This place never asked me to be anything other than what I am."

The honesty in his voice does something to me… cuts right through all the careful walls I usually keep up. I find myself saying, "I know that feeling."

"Do you?"

"There's this pressure from society for women to act a certain way and dress a certain way. I’ve always been more of a tomboy, never quite fitting the mold.” I run a finger along the edge of my plate.

“Then there’s also pressure in my job. It’s a male-dominated field, so I have to constantly prove that I’m just as tough as a man, you know?

Don't show weakness. Never ask for help. It’d be nice to have somewhere I can just be one-hundred-percent myself, without apology. ”

Knox sets down his fork and really looks at me. "I can’t help but notice that you’re not wearing a wedding ring.”

He noticed that?

I swallow thickly. “I’m single. I’ve never found a man who could accept that I might come home from work with pine needles in my hair and mud under my fingernails."

"Some men might like that,” Knox says.

The way he says it—low and rough—makes heat pool in my stomach.

"Yeah?" I manage. "What kind of men?"

He leans closer, staring into my eyes. "The kind who love wild things.”

My breath catches. The air between us thick with possibility.

"Knox..."

"Yeah?"

"Is something about to happen here?"

His hand comes up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing across my bottom lip. "I sure as hell hope so," he says quietly.

So do I.

But before either of us can close the distance, his weather radio on the counter buzzes to life. He glances at it, frowns.

"Weather alert," he says, stepping back reluctantly. “There’s a storm moving in.”