Page 1 of Mountain Man Claimed (Hard Timber Mountain Men #4)

DANE

My sneakers squeaked on the polished tile floor as I passed through town hall.

I had my paperwork in one hand and a bribe in the form of a cinnamon roll in the other.

With summer coming to an end, I was eager to get going on a project I was pulling together at The Woodshed, the fitness center I’d opened a few months ago.

Folks in town still weren’t sure I’d stick with it, and I needed this expansion to prove I wasn’t going anywhere .

I’d bounced from plenty of half-finished ideas before, and people hadn’t forgotten it, but this time was different, and I had to make them see that.

As I passed a couple of guys in suits, I glanced down at my damp T-shirt and athletic shorts.

Maybe I should have showered after running the final summer basketball clinic this morning.

Nah, Mrs. Murphy loved me. I’d just turn up the charm an extra notch.

That was usually my go-to move and worked ninety-nine percent of the time when I was trying to sweet talk a woman.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t very good at permits and paperwork, but Mrs. Murphy was. Lucky for me, she loved the cinnamon rolls from The Huckleberry Café almost as much as I did.

“Happy Hump Day, Mrs. Murphy.” I pushed the door of the Community Affairs Office open, expecting to be greeted by her warm smile. She’d been a fixture at town hall since way before I was born.

Instead, Rowan March sat behind the massive antique counter.

Her dark hair was pulled back in a neat bun, not a strand out of place.

Even with the late summer heat, she had her blouse buttoned up to her throat.

The only sign anyone else even worked there was the half-drunk iced coffee on the opposite desk, marked with a sticky note: Gillian—out on senior center visit, back later.

Gillian was the Director of Community Outreach, if I remembered right.

I stopped in the doorway, my heart sinking into my shoes. Her shrewd amber eyes narrowed like I was guilty until proven innocent.

“Mrs. Murphy will be sorry she missed you, Mr. Thorne. Is there something I can help you with?” She took in my gym shorts and sweat-damp T-shirt, and set down her pen.

All hope of getting in and out in a flash vanished.

Mrs. Murphy might have been willing to help me fill out my paperwork and put it on the fast track, but Rowan lived for following rules.

I was surprised she hadn’t laminated a copy of the municipal code so she could sleep with it under her pillow. Hell, for all I knew, maybe she had.

“Hey there, Sergeant March.” I recomposed myself and offered a lazy grin, knowing that nickname would get her all riled up. “I’m here about?—”

“Do you have an appointment?” she asked.

I looked around the empty office, then turned back to face her. “Do I really need an appointment?”

“Everyone needs an appointment.”

“When will Mrs. Murphy be back?” It didn’t look like I was going to get anywhere with Rowan. I’d be better off waiting for sweet Mrs. Murphy to return.

“She’s on medical leave,” Rowan said as she tapped her nails on the counter. “ Gillian and I are covering her caseload for now, and things are a little backed up. If you’d like to make an appointment, I’d be happy to help you with whatever you need.”

“Whatever I need?” I lowered my voice and arched my eyebrows. I couldn’t help myself. She’d left herself wide open with that remark, and if there was one thing I loved to do, it was make Rowan March uncomfortable.

A pink flush crept up her neck and covered her cheeks. “Whatever you need a permit for,” she clarified.

“So, when’s your next opening?” I rested an elbow on the ledge while I waited for her to look it up.

She typed something on her keyboard. “There’s an opening next Tuesday at four.”

“Not until next Tuesday?” I laughed. “Did Hard Timber suddenly get a rush on permits or something?”

“Why are you in such a hurry?”

“Pickleball courts.” I pulled out the sketch I’d drawn on a piece of graph paper. “I’m thinking two courts for now with the option to expand if necessary.”

Her fingers stilled. “Pickleball.”

“Yeah. That sport where you hit a whiffle ball with a paddle that looks like an oversized ping-pong?—”

“I know what pickleball is.”

I leaned over the counter, fully aware I was invading her carefully ordered space. A tiny muscle twitched near her eye.

“Then you know it’s the fastest-growing sport in America. The seniors love it, the kids love it, and The Woodshed’s back lot is perfect for courts.” I handed her the sketch. “I just need planning and zoning approval. I’ll be in and out. It shouldn’t take more than five minutes, tops.”

She stared at the forms with her nose wrinkled and her mouth set in a frown, like I was trying to hand her a sweaty gym sock. “This isn’t a joke. It’s a zoning request.”

“That’s why I filled out the forms.” I tapped the top sheet. “See? All official. Even used a pen and everything.”

“These require review. By appointment.”

I studied her for a hot second. Rowan March had worked at town hall for three years, and in that time, I’d never seen her hair down, couldn’t remember ever hearing her laugh, and had never spotted her at The Knotty Tap or hanging out with friends.

It was like she came with the building and settled in for good…

practical, competent, steady, and determined to make sure nothing slipped through the cracks.

“Look,” I said, dialing down my tone. “I’ve got seniors who could really use these courts. People with arthritis who can’t handle tennis anymore but want to stay active. Kids who need somewhere to burn energy besides the town hall parking lot. This isn’t me being impulsive.”

Something flashed in her eyes—surprise, maybe—before her expression reset to professional neutrality.

“The Butterfly needs an appointment just like everyone else,” she said, her voice soft.

My grin slipped. The Butterfly. That was the nickname I’d been given by whoever the hell had written The Ex-List. The post had called me out as a guy who flitted from one woman or wild idea to the next, never settling, never serious. Never worth trusting.

“Nice,” I said, the humor gone from my voice. “But that has nothing to do with pickleball courts.”

She had the decency to look slightly embarrassed. “I apologize. That was unprofessional.”

“Damn right it was.” I gathered my papers. “I’m trying to do something good for this town, but clearly you’ve already decided who I am based on an anonymous piece of trash blog post.”

I turned to leave, suddenly not in the mood to fight the red tape. My brothers had warned me that getting approval to put in the courts would be a headache, but I’d been sure I could charm my way through the process. I should have known better.

“Wait.”

I paused, not looking back.

Rowan sighed, and papers rustled. “Leave the forms. I’ll look them over.”

I turned. “By next Tuesday?”

“No.” She pushed her glasses back up on her nose. “ Since it’s a private commercial lot and there’s no public opposition expected, I can fast-track the review. But I’ll still need to conduct a site inspection.”

I couldn’t help but smirk. “You want to come to my gym?”

“A site visit is standard procedure, Mr. Thorne.”

“Call me Dane. Considering you’ll be inspecting my equipment and all.”

The blush that had been fading came back full force. “That’s not… I’ll be evaluating the proposed site. For compliance.”

“Of course.” I slid the papers over to her. “When can I expect you?”

She consulted her planner. “Tomorrow. Two o’clock.”

“Great. I’ll clear my schedule.”

“That won’t be necessary. It’s a routine inspection.”

I leaned closer, just enough to catch the subtle scent of her perfume… something clean and citrusy. “Nothing seems to be routine with you, Rowan.”

Those amber eyes flicked up to mine, surprised I’d used her first name, maybe. Or surprised I’d noticed her at all.

“Tomorrow. Two o’clock,” she repeated, firmer this time. “You’d better not stand me up.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I pushed off the counter. “And Rowan? You might want to wear sneakers. Pickleball’s addictive once you try it.”

“I’m not coming to play games.”

I flashed her a grin over my shoulder as I headed for the door. “Aren’t you, though? See you tomorrow, Sergeant.”

As I made my way to the exit, I couldn’t shake the image of Rowan’s face when she’d called me The Butterfly. Like she’d already filed me away under “lost causes.” Well, she was in for a surprise. This damn butterfly was about to prove he could land for good.

The afternoon sun hit me full in the face as I stepped outside town hall, like Montana itself was trying to burn away my frustration.

I paused on the steps and breathed in the heavy scent of pine.

Hard Timber sprawled in front of me in a patchwork of weathered storefronts, pickup trucks, and century-old trees.

Despite what people like Rowan March might think, I loved this place.

Loved it enough to fight for something that would make it even better.

“Well, if it isn’t Trouble himself.”

I turned to find Nellie bustling up the steps, her silver hair gleaming in the sunlight. Nellie was a living testament to what staying active could do. She moved with the energy of someone half her age. That was exactly why I needed those damn pickleball courts.

“Nellie,” I greeted her with a genuine smile. “Looking good. Are those shoulder exercises helping?”

“Don’t change the subject,” she said, her eyes crinkling with affection. “I heard you’ve been raising hell about pickleball. Planning to smooth-talk your way past Rowan, were you?”

I grimaced. “Not going so well. She called me The Butterfly.”

Nellie winced. “Don’t take it too hard. Those nicknames someone came up with for all of you boys are just a bunch of silly nonsense.”