Page 8 of Mountain Man Wanted (Hard Timber Mountain Men #1)

JOELY

The rain had eased into a steady drizzle by the time we finished eating. A soft hush clung to the cabin, broken only by the occasional hiss of the woodstove or the clink of a fork against ceramic. I sat cross-legged in one of the kitchen chairs, trying not to over analyze Thatcher’s silence.

The time we’d spend together had been… more than I expected. And I wasn’t just talking about the sex.

It was the way he’d looked at me—like I wasn’t just some woman passing through town. The way his touch had gone from demanding to reverent. The way I’d felt safe, stripped bare, and seen.

But now?

He was quiet. Way too quiet.

He cleared the plates with methodical precision. No teasing. No smirk. Just rinsing and stacking like the fate of the world depended on a spotless kitchen.

“I wasn’t planning to tell you about the article,” I said, hoping to pop the bubble of weirdness forming between us. “But I didn’t want to lie either.”

He didn’t look up. “You didn’t lie.”

“My editor just thought about adding The Ex-List angle yesterday,” I said. “And it’s not even the focus, just a sidebar.”

Still no reaction. His back remained turned as he dried his hands on a towel.

“You’re mad.”

“No.” He finally turned around. “I’m not mad.”

“But something’s wrong.”

He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms, eyes unreadable. “It’s fine. It’s just… complicated.”

A tightness settled in my chest. “Do you think I’m going to write something that hurts people?”

“No.” He exhaled slowly. “I think you’re going to do your job. And that’s your right.”

Oof. That landed like a slap. He’d turned as cold as the creek. Like I was suddenly nothing more than a hack with a notebook and a deadline. “It’s not like I want to write fluff pieces about vacation rentals and relationships gone wrong.”

“Then why are you?”

“Because that’s the only kind of work left for journalists who are forced out of their jobs for trying to do the right thing.”

Thatcher’s eyes softened. “Is that what happened to you?”

“Yeah. Evidently city council members don’t take kindly to having a junior reporter blow their ring of corruption wide open. My boss refused to run the story, and my source got fired after I swore I’d protect her.” I wiped at my eyes, refusing to let the tears fall.

“I’m sorry,” Thatcher said.

I stood and folded my arms to match his. ““It doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve moved on. Got myself a great freelance gig that brought me to you.”

He stiffened as I reached out to touch him.

I didn’t see that coming, but I shouldn’t be surprised. We’d shared a moment, and it was over. Even though it meant a lot more than a one-night stand to me, he hadn’t made me any promises. “Do you want to just pretend that everything between us didn’t happen?”

That got his attention, and his eyes snapped to mine. “Of course not.”

“It kind of feels like it.”

He raked a hand through his hair. “I just need some time to think.”

“Think about what?” My mind spun with possibilities. Did he need to think about me? About how stupid it was to let me in? About how fast things moved? About what a mistake it had all been?

He didn’t answer. Just stared at the wall like the knots in the wood held the secret to all of life’s problems.

“I should go,” I muttered, walking past him to shove my feet into my boots.

“It’s dark out. Let me walk you back.” He finally moved though I could tell he was just being polite. His heart wasn’t into this, wasn’t into me.

“That’s not necessary.” I let myself out and started down the path back to Nellie’s.

The stubborn man followed a few yards behind until I got to the cabin and let myself in.

Once inside, I went to the window and caught sight of him walking away.

We were both better off. That’s what I kept telling myself.

Maybe I’d eventually start to believe it.

* * *

I didn’t sleep.

Not more than an hour or two, anyway. I tossed and turned through most of the night, staring at the dark ceiling of the Hideaway, replaying every second in Thatcher’s cabin.

How it felt to have his arms around me. How his expression shifted when I told him about the article.

How hurt I’d been when he didn’t stop me from leaving.

Watching him walk away through the window of the cabin felt like a goodbye. A subtle, soul-deep rejection I hadn’t seen coming. The worst part was, I should have known better.

Morning dawned clear, too cheerful for how heavy my chest felt.

I tugged on yesterday’s jeans, pulled my hair into a messy bun, and drove into town because I couldn’t sit in that quiet fairytale cabin one minute longer. Not when my chest ached and my thoughts were tangled up in an iceberg of a man who didn’t want a thing to do with me.

The smell of coffee and cinnamon brought me back to life the second I opened the door to the Huckleberry Cafe.

The cafe was already buzzing when I stepped inside.

Locals filled the booths and counter stools, sipping from mismatched mugs and chatting like everyone knew everyone, which they probably did.

It was the kind of cozy, homey chaos that should have made me feel better. Today, it just made the hollow spot in my chest feel even bigger.

Nellie spotted me the moment I walked in and nodded toward a booth in the back. She didn’t bring a menu. Just a steaming mug of coffee and a warm smile.

“Well, you look like someone with a story to tell who needs a cinnamon roll first,” she said as she slid into the seat across from me.

I gave a tired laugh. “That bad, huh?”

“You’ve got heartbreak-face, sugar. And I know heartbreak-face. Let me guess.” She narrowed her eyes. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with a certain broody mountain man with a wounded heart and a jaw carved from granite?”

I blinked. “Thatcher? How…?”

She gave me a look. “Please. Two people come back from the farmers’ market skunked to high heaven, one of them ends up staying the night at a certain cabin in the woods, and you think I wouldn’t piece it together?”

I rubbed my forehead. “We didn’t… it wasn’t like that.”

Her brow arched. “Then why do you look like you haven’t slept, and your heart just fell down a well?”

I couldn’t answer. Not right away. Because the truth sat too heavy in my throat.

“I think I messed up,” I whispered.

Nellie’s expression softened. “What happened?”

I hesitated, then said, “We were eating dinner. I told him my editor wants me to write a follow-up piece to the vacation rental article. About The Ex-List.”

The moment the words left my mouth, Nellie’s lips pressed into a tight line.

“He shut down like I’d flipped a switch.” Thinking about it again splintered my heart into even more pieces.

Nellie let out a long breath. “You don’t know, do you?”

“Don’t know what?”

She gave me a long look. One that made my stomach twist even before she said a word. “Thatcher’s on that list.”

My heart slammed against my ribs. “No, that can’t be right. I asked if he knew anything about it and he just…”

Trailed off. Went quiet. Turned cold. I stared out the window toward the mountains. He thought I was just like everyone else who’d hurt him. Thought I’d turn his story into some punchline in a damn listicle.

“Number two,” Nellie said as she reached across the table and put her hands over mine. “They called him the Ghost of Hard Timber. The women he dated never stood a chance. He couldn’t commit. Didn’t even try.”

The air in the cafe suddenly felt too warm. I pulled my hands out from under hers and wrapped them around the mug. “No wonder he looked like I’d kicked his dog when I mentioned The Ex-List.”

“You didn’t know,” Nellie said gently. “But now you do.”

Now I did. And suddenly, a lot of things made sense, like the way he flinched when I got too close, how he held me like he wanted forever but looked like it might kill him to say so.

“He thinks I’m going to write about him.”

Nellie nodded. “It hurt him to be put on that list, even if it was only meant to light a fire under his butt.”

I swallowed hard. “But he never told me. Why didn’t he just say something?”

“Because people like Thatcher don’t talk about pain. They carry it until it hardens around their heart like bark on a tree.” She paused. “You saw the scar, didn’t you? On his side?”

I nodded.

“He got that in a wildfire when he was a teenager. He was trying to hold things together at home, helping out with his brothers and sister since his mama passed and his daddy wasn’t worth a damn.

He still showed up for training with my husband that summer.

Nearly bled out before help arrived, but he made it through. Didn’t complain once. Just kept going.”

My throat ached. “He said he thought he was invincible back then.”

“He was wrong,” Nellie said, her voice soft. “And after that fire, he stopped letting people in. He grew up, graduated high school and disappeared into the woods. Now he only comes to town for supplies. Refuses to let anyone get close.”

I sat back, my eyes stinging.

He’d let me close. And the second he felt threatened, he’d shut me out again. “I wasn’t going to write anything mean. That’s not who I am.”

“I know,” Nellie said. “And way deep down, he probably does too. But fear doesn’t always listen to reason.”

I stared down at the coffee swirling in my cup. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Give him time,” she said. “But don’t wait forever, honey. Some men are worth chasing down the trail. And some need a push to come out of the woods.”

I gave her a watery smile. “You ever thought about becoming a life coach?”

“I had enough of that as a guidance counselor,” Nellie said with a wink. “Now I’d rather sling biscuits for a living. It’s a lot easier.”

I laughed, the sound a little cracked around the edges, but still real. “Can I ask you one more thing?”

“Of course, sugar.”

“Did you write it?”

Nellie chuckled and shook her head. “No. But I know who did, and I know why. That list wasn’t meant to hurt those boys. It was meant to wake them up.”

I sat with that for a long moment, something sharp and bright flickering to life inside me.

Maybe it had.

But the question now was… what was I going to do about it?

“Let me get you a refill on that coffee. I’ve got a box of cinnamon rolls with your name on it.” Nellie got up from the table, leaving me with a lot to think about.

Even though everything had gone to hell with Thatcher, even though he’d built walls around his heart as thick as the mountains surrounding his cabin, I wasn’t giving up just yet.

* * *

Back at the cabin, I lit a fire in the fireplace. It wasn’t that cold outside, but I craved the comfortable glow of the flames. I set my laptop on the table and opened a new document. My fingers hovered over the keys.

I could see the structure of the piece so clearly in my head… the hook, the witty tone. I’d normally shape the words into a sharp, sparkly read that people would click on and laugh about and share in group chats.

But every word felt like a betrayal.

Because I knew one of the men on that list now. Not as a rumor. Not as a nickname. Not as an anonymous ghost.

As Thatcher.

And he wasn’t a ghost at all. He was flesh and bone with visible scars and wounds deep down inside. He was calloused hands and hot coffee. He was hard muscle and soft kisses and whispered words against my skin in the dark.

He’d let me in, and then he’d shut me out. And I didn’t know how to write about that.

I rested my forehead on the edge of my laptop and groaned.

The cursor kept blinking, accusing me of not trying.

I opened a new document. Titled it The Truth About Ghosts and then stared at the screen again. What was I even trying to say?

That sometimes the people we label as distant are just the ones who’ve been burned the worst? That sometimes the ones who push you away are doing it because they’re terrified of what it means to let you stay?

I clicked into the document, my fingers flying over the keyboard before I could stop them.

Ghosts don’t always haunt places. Sometimes they haunt their own lives. Sometimes, they’re not even ghosts at all. They’re just men trying to keep their hearts safe. And sometimes, if you’re lucky, you get close enough to see what they’re really made of.

Tears blurred the words until I couldn’t read them anymore.

I didn’t want to write about Thatcher or any of the other Hard Timber mountain men on that damn list. I wanted to fight for him.

Even if I didn’t know how. Even if he wasn’t ready.

Even if I ended up walking away with nothing but the echo of his voice in my chest and the smell of wood smoke clinging to my clothes.

I closed the document. Saved it. Then shut my laptop with a soft click.

Tomorrow, I’d figure out what to tell my editor. Tonight, I just needed to sit in the silence and let myself feel all of it. The ache. The hope. The wild, ridiculous, painful, wonderful fact that I’d fallen for a man who’d already warned me he might disappear.

And somehow, I still wanted to believe he wouldn’t.