Page 9 of Mountain Man Claimed (Hard Timber Mountain Men #4)

DANE

Morning light slid across the bedroom floor.

I stayed still, careful not to wake her, letting myself stare longer than I probably had any right to.

Her hair had come loose sometime in the night and spilled in dark waves over the pillow.

She breathed evenly, her lips parted just a little, every hard line of her face softened in sleep.

I’d seen her frown, seen her roll her eyes, seen her flush scarlet when she lost her footing on the balance board. But this? This was new.

Maybe I’d found the thing that proved I wasn’t all flash. That I could stay. That I wanted to.

I let my arm stretch across the sheet, not quite touching her. A part of me ached to close the distance. Another part knew better than to spook her. Rowan didn’t let people close easily, and last night had already been more than I thought she’d ever give me.

I drifted half back to sleep, content. When I woke again, the space next to me was empty.

The sound of the bathroom door clicking open was followed by the soft scrape of heels on the floor.

She came out dressed in black pants and a soft gray sweater, her bun sharp, her expression already buttoned up.

Every soft edge from last night was gone—tucked away, erased, replaced by the armor she seemed to wear like a second skin.

“Morning,” I said, voice rough from sleep.

“Good morning.” Her reply came out crisp and neutral, like we were colleagues passing in a hallway.

Not sure how to react, I sat up and dragged a hand through my hair. “So… about last night.”

Her gaze skated past me to the manila folder on the nightstand, latching on like it was a lifeline.

“It doesn’t change the requirements for your packet. You’ll still need liability coverage extended, cut sheets for lighting, the notice affidavit?—”

“Rowan.”

That stopped her. For a second, anyway.

“I know you’ve got doubts about me,” I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. “Hell, I’d probably doubt me too. But I’m telling you straight—I’m in this for real. The courts. You. All of it.”

Something flickered across her face—fear, maybe, or the ghost of a painful memory. She tugged her sleeve down over her wrist until only her fingers showed.

“You’ll want to get that certificate submitted by tomorrow,” she said, smooth and professional again. “Otherwise it won’t make the council agenda.”

Not rejection. Not acceptance either. Just distance.

I swung my legs off the bed and stood, close enough to smell the lemon from her shampoo. “I’ll get it in.”

She didn’t step back, but she didn’t lean closer either. We stood suspended like that, inches apart, until she finally shifted toward the door.

“I’ll see you at the meeting,” she said, her voice even.

And just like that, she was gone, leaving me alone with rumpled sheets that still smelled like sex and a hint of her perfume.

The rest of the day passed in a blur. I hit the gym, checked invoices, barked at a delivery driver who dropped a pallet in the wrong spot.

None of it shook the image of her walking away, her shoulders tight and her eyes locked down like last night had been a lapse in judgement she’d already filed away.

By noon, the town buzz had shifted from the upcoming Founders’ Festival to something new.

Some podcaster had arrived.

I spotted him outside Morning Wood Coffee, headphones on, mic clipped to his collar. He had the polished look of someone who didn’t chop wood for heat or shovel his own driveway, and he talked with the kind of grin that made me want to knock it right off his face.

“So tell me about The Ex List,” he asked a couple of women on a bench. “Have you ever heard of Dane Thorne? They call him The Butterfly?—”

My spine stiffened.

The women giggled nervously. One said, “Well, he is… friendly,” like she was afraid to say more on the record.

The podcaster chuckled, his voice carrying. “Friendly, flighty, same thing. That’s what makes a good story. Hard Timber seems to be full of them.”

He saw me and his eyes lit up like he’d found fresh meat. “That’s him, isn’t it? Perfect timing. Dane, want to tell our listeners how you earned your wings?”

I stopped. Every instinct told me to keep walking. But my feet planted, shoulders squared. “I don’t have anything to say to you.”

“Nothing at all? Not even about how you’re planning a new project?” His mic angled toward me like it could draw out words I didn’t want to give. “People say you burn bright and then move on. Is this just the next flame?”

My jaw ached from holding back. “You’ll see,” I said, and walked past.

It wasn’t enough, but it was all I could do without punching him in the fucking face.

His smirk seemed to follow me inside. I kept an eye on him while Sabrina fixed my coffee and by the time I headed back outside, he was gone.

Back at the gym, everyone seemed to be talking about him… the podcaster who’d decided to set up in Hard Timber and investigate The Ex-List. And even though it wasn’t Friday, Thatcher sent out an emergency alert to meet for Trail Supper.

Thank fuck. I could use the company right now. Once a week, no matter what, the six of us met at the old ranger camp. No phones. No outsiders. Just a fire, some venison, whiskey, and the kind of honesty I couldn’t get anywhere else.

When closing time finally rolled around, I was ready to head up the mountain.

Thatcher already had flames snapping high when I arrived.

Holt sat on a stump with a beer while Harlan and Trace wrestled a cooler into place.

Holt tossed a log like it weighed nothing.

And Ridge leaned against a pine tree, arms folded, shadows sharp across his face.

“It’s about damn time,” Ridge called out as I stepped into the clearing. “We were wondering if Rowan kept you on a leash since you missed Friday night.”

“Shut it,” I said, dropping onto a log. “I was helping out a friend.” No one needed to know I’d skipped Trail Supper to teach Harvey how to dance.

Trace grinned. “So it’s true. Dane finally found someone immune to the grin.”

I grabbed the plate Thatcher handed me and dug into my dinner before I said something I’d regret.

“She already danced with him,” Holt said. “I saw it myself at the fundraiser. The guy’s slipping. He used to keep things private.”

The others laughed. I rolled my eyes, but a smile tugged anyway.

Then Ridge’s voice cut through, low and sharp. “You think that list is funny?”

The laughter stilled. Ridge pushed off the tree and stepped closer to the fire, his face a mask of shadow and tension. “It’s trash written by people who don’t know half the story. You don’t joke about that.”

Thatcher lifted a palm. “Nobody’s saying it’s right, Ridge.”

“Then quit feeding it.” His tone was sharper than flint striking stone. “Some of us didn’t get off easy with nicknames like The Butterfly.”

The silence stretched while the fire popped and sent sparks shooting toward the sky. Ridge swallowed hard from his flask, then turned away to pace around the clearing.

Trace muttered, “Damn, somebody’s wound tight.”

“Leave him alone,” Holt said. His gaze slid to me, steady as ever. “And you—you’d better be sure about her. That woman’s not the kind you screw around with.”

“I know.” My voice surprised me with how certain it sounded. I stared into the fire, heat prickling my skin. “That’s why I’m not screwing around.”

Thatcher gave a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be damned. The Butterfly says he’s gonna land.”

Even though my oldest brother was joking, the words still stung, but I let them roll off. Ridge’s shadow lingered at the treeline, brooding, his storm waiting for its turn.

Mine wasn’t over either. Because when I’d passed Town Hall earlier, I’d caught Rowan through the window, her shoulders squared behind her desk. She just kept writing like last night had never happened. Like I was a risk she’d already decided not to take again.

But staring into that fire, I made a vow. Let the podcaster run his mouth. Let the town gossip. Let whoever wrote The Ex-List call me a butterfly until the ink faded.

I’d show them—and I’d show her. Not with words. With follow-through. With a fire that didn’t burn out. With roots that finally went deep enough to hold.