Page 10 of Mountain Man Wanted (Hard Timber Mountain Men #1)

A FEW MONTHS LATER

Joely

Our waterfall was even more beautiful in winter.

Snow dusted the rocks in powdery swirls, and ice framed the edges of the pool like delicate lace. The sound of the falls had changed too, becoming more like a murmur, like the land itself had quieted to listen.

Thatcher stood next to me on the ridge above, one hand in mine, the other resting on Bear’s head.

His flannel collar was dusted with snow, and his beard had caught a few flecks of frost. He looked like the mountain itself had decided to grow a man—stubborn, solid, and so much more than he gave himself credit for.

“You cold?” he asked, giving my hand a squeeze.

“I’m good.” I leaned into his side. “Just taking it in.” And I was.

Not just the view, though the frozen spray sparkling like diamonds made it hard to look away.

I was taking in everything . The trail that had nearly swallowed me that first weekend, the town that had charmed me against my will, the man I’d wanted to run from—but couldn’t.

This had become our place. Not just the waterfall, but all of it.

The ridge. The cabin with the creaky porch step he still hadn’t fixed.

The local gossip that somehow became my circle of support.

The dog who curled up at my feet every morning like he’d always known I belonged.

And Thatcher. My mountain man. My ghost-turned-home.

After I declined to write a story about the men behind The Ex-List, I decided not to take on any more freelance assignments.

The people in Hard Timber deserved to have their stories told.

So, writing about real life in small-town rural Montana became my passion. That meant I could write from anywhere.

So, I chose to stay.

I chose him.

Nellie had cried when I told her. Then she’d shoved a baby goat into my arms and called it a blessing.

She’d been collecting more and more strays.

One of her new rescues was a retired therapy llama with a mysterious past and no sense of personal space.

I’d somehow inherited feeding duties, but I didn’t mind.

Word had gotten around that the “Ghost of Hard Timber” had been claimed, and no one was happier about it than the town matchmaker herself.

“I still think you could’ve done better,” she’d teased, while bagging a Thatcher-sized cinnamon roll. “But I’ve been wrong once or twice in my life.”

“Only once or twice?” I’d asked, raising a brow.

“Maybe three times, if you count that bad perm I had in the 80s.” She’d winked. Then slid a huckleberry pie across the counter for free.

I smiled at the memory, then glanced at Thatcher. “Are you sure about all this?”

He looked over, one brow lifting. “All of what?”

“This,” I said, gesturing to the snowy trail behind us, the view in front of us, and everything in between. “Building a life together, sharing your cabin, making me chocolate chip pancakes every Saturday… me.”

His mouth curved into a half-smile. “You’re really questioning the pancakes?”

I fake-elbowed him in the ribs. “You know what I mean.”

Thatcher stepped in front of me and took both my hands, his expression turning more serious. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’m sure. That’s why I brought something.”

He let go with one hand and reached into his coat pocket.

I froze as he pulled out a small, hand-carved wooden box. My breath caught, hard and fast, as the air between us changed.

“You made that, didn’t you?” I asked, touching the edge of the lid. The wood grain had been sanded smooth, the design etched in carefully: wildflowers blooming around a set of pine trees.

“Yeah. Took me a while. I had to get it right. Now before you get any ideas,” he said, flipping it open to reveal a simple gold band with a single round diamond, “I’m not asking you to change your name.

I’m not asking you to give up your career.

I’m just asking you to keep choosing me. One day at a time.”

My heart cracked wide open. I’d always imagined I’d want something dramatic, something huge. A billboard proposal or a flash mob. But this? This quiet moment in the snow, at our place, with the man who had once warned me to run? This was everything.

I nodded, waiting for the words that would bind us together forever.

“Joely, will you marry me?”

“Yes,” I choked out, my voice thick with emotion.

He tugged off my glove and squeezed my hand in his.

“Nellie’s going to be telling everyone who’ll listen that we’re getting married. You’re not very good at flying under the radar these days, you know that?” I said.

He grinned. “Yeah? Must be the company I keep.”

I laughed and stepped into his arms, kissing him slow and sure. “I choose you, Thatcher Thorne. One day at a time.”

He slipped the ring onto my finger. It wasn’t flashy or fancy. Just warm metal and steady weight. A promise in a circle.

“Let’s celebrate. I brought a thermos,” he said, nudging me toward a fallen log. “And something sweet.”

“You brought snacks to your proposal?”

A slow smiled spread across his lips. “I figured I’d need backup in case you said no.”

I laughed, blinking back a tear that had nothing to do with the cold. “Smart man.”

We sat close, sharing coffee and a couple of cinnamon rolls he’d smuggled from the cafe. I let my head rest on his shoulder.

“What happens now?” I asked.

“We keep doing this. Just living life together. Choosing each other every single day until the end of time.” He paused. “But there’s one more thing I wanted to show you.”

He reached into his coat again, this time pulling out a folded sheet of paper.

I unfolded it and skimmed the top of the flyer.

Hard Timber Outdoor Education & Environmental Writing Residency

Launching Spring Session – Applications now open.

I looked up, stunned. “This is… what is this?”

“I talked to some folks,” he said. “State program, regional grants, private donors. We made room for a seasonal educator and writer-in-residence. You’d be the first.”

“You made a job for me?”

“You already made a life here. This just makes it official.”

Tears burned my eyes. I set down my coffee and threw my arms around him. “I can’t believe you did all this.”

“You shouldn’t be surprised. You taught me how to fight for what matters.”

“And this matters?” I whispered.

He nodded, solemn. “You matter.”

We stayed like that until our coffee went cold. Until the snow began to fall again and Bear barked at a rabbit and the sun started to dip low enough to turn the sky pink.

Finally, I stood and looked back at the trailhead.

“Ready to head back?” he asked.

“Not yet. One more thing.” I dug into my own pocket, pulling out a tiny spiral notebook.

He frowned. “What’s that?”

“My next article.” I flipped it open. “I want to call it What the Mountain Man Taught Me .”

He gave a rough laugh, eyes shining. “Sounds like a good one.”

“It’s got a hell of a happy ending.”

“Yeah.” He reached for my hand. “I’m sure it does. Come on, sweetpea. Let’s go home.”

He tucked me into his side, and we started down the trail together. The snow crunched under our boots, and Bear raced ahead, checking out his domain like he owned the whole forest.

The ridge behind us faded from view, the waterfall’s hush becoming background music for the next part of our story.

And I knew, with the steady weight of the ring on my finger, the warm squeeze of his hand in mine, and the whole damn town waiting to welcome us back, Thatcher wasn’t a ghost anymore. Just my mountain man, leading me home.