Page 12 of Mountain Man Claimed (Hard Timber Mountain Men #4)

The music rose and then eased toward its end. I drew Rowan closer. Our eyes held . For once she didn’t look away, so I kissed her. It wasn’t a claim. It wasn’t a dare. It was a promise spoken in a language I’d never been good at until her.

The square went wild with whistles and a handful of cheers. Someone howled my name like I’d just scored a game-winning touchdown. All of it fell away. The only thing that mattered was the way Rowan leaned into me and the sureness of her kiss when she decided to meet me, not just let it happen.

When I lifted my head, her eyes were wide and bright. She didn’t step back.

The band slid into something faster, and the square filled with couples trying to keep up with the beat. Harvey and Nellie stayed in their own orbit, twirling around slowly and laughing like kids.

“Hi,” I said, brilliant as ever.

“Hi,” she said. Her fingers tightened around mine, like she was telling me not to mistake the cheers from the crowd for her answer.

I kept us in the circle but eased the pace, letting the next song flow around us. If she needed out, she’d say so. If she needed steadiness, she had it.

“Your council memo was clean,” I said, because I was me and she was her and sometimes we had to stand in the truth of that. “I appreciated it.”

That won me the thing I craved—a quick, reluctant smile. “I noticed you noticed.”

“I notice a lot about you,” I said. “And the more I notice, the more I like.”

A wave of pink washed over her cheeks, and she buried her face in my chest. I held her close, and we swayed together through two more songs.

The podcaster slid through the crowd with his mic and a smile, hunting for a moment to strike. He angled toward us with the look of a man who was willing to risk life and limb for a comment.

I turned my body just enough so that all he would see was my back. Mrs. Qualle from the Inn stepped between him and us like a someone who understood crowd control on a molecular level.

“Sir,” she said. “You’ll have to ask permission before you record people’s faces. Or you can stop by the pie booth, where people are volunteering their opinions about the huckleberry pie.”

He blinked, recalculated, and veered toward the pie tent. Mrs. Qualle stood her ground for another few beats, then disappeared into the crowd. I made a note to send her flowers next week.

“You didn’t punch him,” Rowan said, her voice tinged with surprise.

“I promised Thatcher I wouldn’t,” I said. “Also, I’d prefer not to be arrested on a night like tonight.”

The corners of her mouth tugged upward. “A wise decision.”

The next song ended. We walked off the square together and she retrieved her clipboard from where she’d left it unsupervised. She slid the band schedule under the clip, checked two boxes she’d penciled earlier, and set it on a table where she could grab it if needed.

We’d made progress, but it wasn’t enough. She needed to know I was ready to go all in. “Do you have to get back to work?” I asked.

“In five minutes.” She cut me a look. “Don’t look so wounded. Someone has to keep the axe throwing from migrating to the beer garden.”

“Fair,” I said. “I can help in a minute. I need to check on Harvey first.”

We crossed to where he stood near the rail, flushed and triumphant. Nellie was fanning herself with a napkin.

“You were perfect,” she told him, and if any man could live on a compliment for a week, it was Harvey with that one.

He cleared his throat. “I didn’t fall.”

“You didn’t,” she said. “And if you had, I would’ve gone with you.”

He preened. Damn, it looked good on him.

“I’m proud of you,” I said, clapping his shoulder.

“I’m proud of you too,” he shot back, and jerked his chin toward Rowan with a subtlety that fooled no one.

Rowan gave him a nod that held all the things she didn’t say in public. “Good work, Mr. Gates.”

“Harvey,” he corrected her, emboldened by music and how it had felt to hold a woman’s hand in his. “Ms. March, with respect, you should call me Harvey on nights like this.”

“I’ll consider it,” she said, which in Rowan-speak meant yes.

The band tuned for the next set. Holt shouted something about keeping the west barricade closed, and three teenagers sprinted to move cones.

Ridge lingered in the same patch of shadow, the line of his jaw set.

Sabrina slipped a cup into his hand without breaking stride.

He didn’t smile, but he didn’t leave either.

I looked at Rowan. She was watching her town run as if she’d built the gears and wound the spring.

I saw the way the weight of it lived on her shoulders and the way she carried it with quiet pride.

I wanted to take a piece of it if she’d let me, and I wanted to be worthy of the part she didn’t hand out.

“I still mean it,” I said. “About staying.”

She looked at me then. “I know.” It wasn’t a promise. Not yet. But it was a step in the right direction.

“Do you want me to move the barricades?” I asked. “Or keep an eye on the stage line?”

“Stage,” she said. “If the sound board fries, the festival chair will cry, and I don’t have the bandwidth for municipal tears.”

“On it.” I took my spot by the sound board and checked the connections one more time. The meters lit green. Solid. I was tired clean through but somehow felt lighter than I had in weeks.

Let them talk. Let the podcast splice our lives into clips. Let my nickname echo off brick until the winter winds took it. I knew what mattered. A square of light. A steady beat. A hand finding mine and not letting go.

When the band rolled into a song I knew I could two-step to in my sleep, I made a promise under my breath and meant it all the way down to my bones.

I was staying.