Page 3 of Mountain Man Claimed (Hard Timber Mountain Men #4)

ROWAN

“If you glare at that checklist any harder, it’s going to catch fire.

” Gillian breezed past my desk, her colorful skirt swirling around her legs, and dropped a color-coded stack of flyers into the outbox.

Her bangles jingled as she leaned on the counter.

“Try not to scare him off today. We need this project to move forward and not have Dane Thorne abandon another one out of terror.”

“I don’t scare applicants,” I said, adjusting the tabs on my folder.

“Mm-hmm.” She gave me a knowing smile. “Go be the responsible half of this department. I’ll be the fun half.”

It was the truth, and we both knew it. Gillian was warm and intuitive, the kind of person who remembered everyone’s birthday and favorite kind of muffin.

I was the one who color-coded binders and double-checked expiration dates on business licenses.

She thrived on making people feel welcome, while I made sure everything ran on time.

And if I didn’t get going, I’d be late for my appointment with Dane.

At five minutes before two, I parked in the lot of The Woodshed and set my clipboard on the passenger seat long enough to check that every tab in the folder I’d assembled matched the checklist. I’d stopped trusting first impressions a long time ago.

Preparation was safer. I had the site sketch, preliminary application, and notice template.

Along with the tape measure in my purse and the camera on my phone, I had everything I needed.

Ready to face Dane again, I locked the car and followed the path to the back lot where the proposed courts would go.

The space wasn’t terrible, just a rectangle of gravel and patchy grass.

At least the lot was fenced on two sides.

There were no utility lines overhead, and all setbacks looked feasible.

The surface needed grading and drainage, but that was an easy fix.

The only real problem was walking toward me wearing a sleeveless tank that showed off his biceps and a grin that had gotten too many people in this town to do his bidding.

“Right on time, Sergeant March.” Dane met me on the path, a paddle tucked under his arm. “I marked up where I want to put the courts. Want to see?”

“Please don’t call me Sergeant,” I said as I clicked my pen. “I’m here to conduct an inspection, not to be recruited into a hobby.”

“Not a hobby,” he said. “A community asset.”

He led me along the edge where he’d flagged the corners with bright tape. The markers were exactly where the parcel map said they should be. That wouldn’t earn him special treatment, but I noted it on the form. Accuracy mattered, but follow-through mattered more.

“You’re planning on rerouting construction access to Founders’ Way?” I asked. Along with a few neighboring retail stores, there were some senior apartments nearby. He’d need to make sure any construction wouldn’t disturb their access.

“I already checked in with the neighbors,” he said. “Mr. Gates made me promise no jackhammers during Wheel of Fortune. Other than that, everyone’s good with it.”

“Noted.” I checked the box for adjacent owner contact and wrote the condition about quiet hours. “Stormwater plan?”

“The contractor sent me the numbers this morning. You’ll have a stamped plan by Thursday.”

That was faster than I’d expected. For someone the town claimed never finished what he started, he was keeping ahead of schedule.

“How about lighting?”

“Shielded fixtures pointed downward,” he said. “Timers will shut everything off by ten.”

“Trash and recycling?”

“Two cans, anchored. I’ll be in charge of maintaining them.”

He didn’t try to charm his way through the list, which would have irritated me more than anything.

He just answered, point by point, like he’d already gone over the checklist and anticipated all of my questions.

It was disorienting. Why did he get under my skin so easily?

Maybe because he wasn’t acting like the reckless man everyone insisted he was.

I glanced toward the gravel lot. “What about winter use? Outdoor courts will be buried half the year. How do you propose to make them functional?”

Dane didn’t hesitate. “In the short term, we plow them with the sidewalks. Long term, I want to add a heated dome. That way, the courts can be used year-round, even when the snow piles up. Seniors won’t lose their routine in the winter, and kids will still have somewhere safe to burn off energy after school. ”

His answer surprised me. I wrote the note without comment, though the fact that he had considered winter conditions unsettled my assumption that this was only a summer whim.

While I checked the clipboard, footsteps approached from the back door of the gym. A cluster of seniors appeared with water bottles and baseball caps. Harvey Gates stood at the front, leaning on his cane while he shuffled his feet. His grin made it clear whose side he was on.

“Hi there, Ms. March,” he said, tipping his cap. “We appreciate you coming out. My doctor says I need to keep moving since my hip surgery. Pickleball sounds like a good way to do it.”

“I’m just here to review a site plan, Mr. Gates.” I stepped to the side to let them pass. “The purpose of this visit is solely to confirm setbacks and conditions.”

Harvey winked like I’d shared a joke. “That sounds fine. We’ll be over here, staying out of your way and not stepping on your tape measure.”

“Thank you,” I said, then bent to measure the distance from the fence to the staked line for the ADA path.

The numbers were close enough that I checked them twice.

The line of the path would need a slight dogleg to meet standards, which meant a modest change to Dane’s sketch. I made a note and kept moving.

“Do you want to look at the drainage swale line?” Dane asked.

“I see it,” I said, and traced the flagged curve with my pen. “You’ll need erosion control during construction. Silt fence, stabilized entrance, stockpile protected.”

“Already on the list,” he said. “Want to come inside for a minute? I made a board to show the court layout.”

“I’m not here for a tour,” I said, but my clipboard did include interior access as part of a holistic review, and I had no desire to argue a technicality in a gravel lot while a cheerful octogenarian club pretended not to listen. “I suppose I can take a quick look. You’ve got five minutes.”

Inside, the gym buzzed with activity. Just beyond the door, a stretching area faced a tall mirror.

Free weights were stacked along one wall, the clank of metal plates mixing with easy conversation from a couple of lifters.

Beyond that, two studio rooms were ready for classes.

The air smelled faintly of chalk and rubber mats, the kind of mix that came from hours of steady workouts.

I hadn’t been inside before, and though I didn’t want to give Dane Thorne too much credit, he’d built something impressive.

He led me to a chalkboard next to the front desk. He’d sketched out the court dimensions with notes about fence height and surfacing. There were even a few stars doodled around the edges. He didn’t look like a doodler, but I was learning Dane Thorne was full of surprises.

Dane led me toward a balance board stationed near the mirror. “I want to show you why the surface texture matters.”

“I’m already familiar with ASTM standards and ADA slip coefficients,” I said, hoping that would put an end to it. I couldn’t spend any extra time around him. Even though it was all an act… the charming smile, the slight southern drawl… he still had an effect on me. One I refused to acknowledge.

“Sure,” he said. “But you need to feel this.” He walked over to the balance board and motioned for me to follow.

Figuring it was easier to do what he asked than waste even more time arguing with him, I gave in.

Testing surface textures wasn’t in the manual, but neither was half of my job.

I set my clipboard on the front desk, put one foot on the board, then the other.

The cylinder under it shifted. My calves engaged.

The subtle wobble forced every small muscle in my legs to wake up at once.

“Bend your knees a little,” Dane said, close enough that I could hear the low warmth in his voice. “There. The seniors use it to work on their stability. New players use it for control. The finish we pick out here will feel different under a shoe than on a spec sheet.”

“I’ve got it,” I said, but the board twitched to contradict me. Dane’s hand hovered near my elbow without touching. The closeness was totally unnerving, but I refused to fall on my ass in front of him. I adjusted, found a center, and held it.

“See?” he said. “You learn balance even though you didn’t know you were missing it.”

I stepped off and retrieved my clipboard. “The surface will be specified in the packet. The brand doesn’t concern me as long as it meets standards.”

“Understood.” He smiled, but it wasn’t the exaggerated, wide, fake grin that made me want to roll my eyes. It was smaller and softer. Maybe even genuine. “Thanks for humoring me.”

I checked the time. His five minutes were up.

“I’ll email the conditions for the site plan revision.

You’ll need to provide the stamped stormwater plan, fixture cut sheets, and ADA path detail.

Include a trash maintenance schedule and proof of liability along with coverage that includes the courts.

Then post the public notice and submit the affidavit with your packet. ”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Do I get a gold star if I bring donuts when I turn it in?”

And he was back… the annoying Dane who thought he didn’t have to play by the same rules as everyone else. “Donuts don’t influence approvals,” I said. “Correct documentation does.”

He laughed. “It was worth a shot.”

Harvey limped over, bracing his weight on his cane.

“Ms. March,” he said, his tone holding an old-fashioned mix of kindness and respect.

“Recovery’s a slow process, but this place already kept me moving when I wasn’t sure I could.

Courts would keep a lot of us moving through winter.

Before I forget, here’s a list of seniors who want to sign up if the courts go through.

We figured it’d help to show how much interest there already is. ”

I took the piece of paper he handed me and scanned the names. There were more than I expected. “Thank you, though that won’t fast-track any approvals,” I said as I passed it back to him.

“We’ve been waiting a long time for something like this,” he said with quiet conviction. “It’ll keep us moving, keep us connected. That matters more than you might think.” With that, he gave me a nod and then headed over to join the others, his smile calm and sure.

Wonderful. Dane even had the entire senior population cheering for him.

On my way out, I paused at the back door and took one last look at the lot.

My job was to treat every applicant the same.

The rules existed to keep a town running, not to make anyone’s life harder.

Still, there were moments when it would be easier just to say no.

“Rowan,” Dane said as he stopped next to me. “I know I made a bad impression yesterday.”

“Not really,” I said. “You made an impression consistent with your file.”

He accepted that without flinching. “When I bring you that packet, I hope your opinion of me improves.”

I faced the lot again so he wouldn’t see my expression. “I don’t consider reputations or impressions when I review an application.”

“You’re allowed to consider outcomes, though,” he said. “Yesterday you asked for follow-through. I’m bringing it.”

He didn’t sound defensive. He sounded like someone who had decided to do the work.

I wrote a final note and tucked my clipboard under my arm. “The next meeting is a week from Thursday at five. If your packet is complete, I’ll put it on the agenda.”

“You’ll have it before then.” He held the door for me like it was the easiest thing to do. “By the way, are you going to the grand opening of Sabrina’s new coffee shop tomorrow?”

My pulse spiked, but I immediately willed my heart rate back to normal. His curiosity didn’t mean anything. “As an employee of the town, it’s expected.”

“Maybe I’ll see you there.” He gave me another dazzling smile.

Despite my resolve to be unaffected by his efforts to charm me, I braced myself as I brushed past him.

Less than thirty minutes after I’d arrived, I was back in my car.

I sat for a few seconds with my hands on the wheel, listening to the soft chatter of birds hanging out in the trees above.

My checklists hadn’t failed me. Neither had caution.

Those were the things that kept chaos from chewing holes in the life I’d managed to build.

Even so, when I closed my eyes, I saw a hand hovering at my elbow, ready to catch me if the balance shifted. I exhaled, opened my eyes, and started the engine.

Happily-ever-afters were for others, not for me. Tomorrow, I would write the conditions. By next Thursday I would know if the Butterfly could do more than coast on air.