Page 2 of Rugged Mountain Man (Men of Ravencliff Mountain #1)

Cole

Her weight in my arms is nothing. She’s so damn small, like a bird I could crush if I’m not careful. The rain’s still coming down in sheets, the wind biting at my face, but none of that matters. Not when I’ve got her.

Her head rests against my chest. She’s exhausted, soaked to the bone, and shivering so hard her body might shake itself apart. I tighten my grip on her, holding her closer as I trudge through the mud toward my cabin.

She smells like rain and earth, with just the faintest hint of something sweet underneath. I shouldn’t notice that. Shouldn’t let my mind wander to the way her wet hair clings to her face or how her lips are parted like she’s dreaming of something soft.

Focus, Cole. Get her warm, dry, fed. That’s the priority.

But it’s impossible not to notice the way she feels in my arms. Delicate but strong. Fragile but fierce. It hits me in a way I wasn’t expecting.

Mine.

I shove the thought down and push open the cabin door, kicking it shut behind me.

The storm’s roar is muffled now, the heat from the fire I left burning earlier wrapping around us like a blanket. She stirs, her lashes fluttering as I set her down on the couch, but she doesn’t wake up fully.

Her lips move, whispering something I can’t hear.

“You’re safe,” I say.

Her eyes flicker open, and for a moment, she just stares at me. Those big brown eyes, full of exhaustion and confusion, meet mine, and something deep in my chest tightens.

“Where…?” Her voice is soft, raspy.

“My cabin,” I say, crouching beside her. “You were in bad shape out there. Had to get you inside.”

Her brow furrows, like she’s trying to piece everything together. “You carried me?”

I nod.

“Oh.” She blinks, her cheeks turning pink. “Thank you.”

It’s the first time she’s looked at me like that—soft, grateful—and it does something to me I don’t want to name.

“Let me check your ankle,” I say, needing to focus on something practical before I lose my damn mind. The way she looks at me—like I’m her last hope and maybe something more—is doing things to me I shouldn’t let happen.

She winces as I lift her leg, carefully unwrapping the blanket I’d tucked around her.

Her sock is soaked and muddy, clinging to her delicate foot, and I peel it off carefully, revealing smooth skin and a faint pink polish on her toenails.

Pretty. Too pretty for the mountains. Something about the detail feels intimate, like I’m seeing a part of her no one else does.

“It’s swollen,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. My thumb brushes lightly over her skin, checking for anything worse. Her ankle feels soft, warm, even in this mess. “Good news—it’s not broken. Probably just a bad sprain.”

She hisses at my touch, her lips parting, but she doesn’t pull away. Tough. I like that. There’s a fire in her, even when she’s at her worst.

“It’ll hurt like hell for a few days,” I add, standing and putting some distance between us before I do something stupid, like trace the curve of her calf just because I can. “But you can walk on it—carefully. I’ll bandage up the wound.”

Relief flashes across her face, and she lets out a breath like she’s been holding it for hours. “Thank God. I can’t afford to be out of commission.”

I arch a brow. “Workaholic, huh?”

She gives me a wry smile, the corner of her lips curving in a way that makes my pulse kick. “Something like that.”

Her eyes meet mine, lingering, and for a second, it’s like the storm outside doesn’t exist. There’s exhaustion in her gaze, but also trust—something raw and vulnerable that hits me square in the chest. I don’t know how to process it, so I focus on practicalities.

“You’ll need to keep it elevated and stay off it as much as you can,” I say, my tone gruff to cover the way my throat’s suddenly gone dry. “I’ll get some ice and wrap it properly.”

She nods, but her gaze doesn’t leave me, studying me like I’m some kind of puzzle she’s trying to figure out.

Her fingers absently toy with the edge of the blanket, and I have to look away before I notice too much.

The way her bosom rises and falls as she breathes.

The faint flush still lingering on her cheeks.

I wonder how she would look… No, Cole don’t go there.

“Thank you, Cole,” she says softly, and the way she says my name—like it means something—damn near undoes me.

“Don’t mention it,” I mutter, heading to the kitchen to grab supplies. I need the space to get my head on straight. She’s here, in my cabin, and I’m already thinking about her in ways I shouldn’t. Ways that don’t end with her walking out of here and back to her city life.

But when I turn back and catch her watching me again, those brown eyes full of something I can’t name, all I can think is one word.

Mine .

“You won’t be able to hike back tonight. Not with the storm and not with that swelling.”

Her lips part, protest already forming, but I cut her off. “Not negotiable. You’ll freeze before you make it halfway.”

She sighs, leaning back against the couch. “Fine. I’ll stay.”

“Where were you staying, exactly?” I ask, grabbing a clean towel and a roll of elastic bandages from a cabinet.

“Sweet Haven Cabins,” she says, watching me. “They were… fine, I guess.”

Figures. Tourists love the place. “I’ll radio in, let them know you’re here. Don’t want them thinking you’re dead in a ditch.”

She blinks, surprise flickering across her face. “You can do that?”

“Course I can,” I say gruffly, walking back to her. “But, first your ankle.”

I kneel in front of her, drying her foot with the towel and cleaning up the blood before wrapping her ankle securely.

Her skin is soft under my hands, her leg slim and delicate, and it takes every ounce of restraint I have not to let my touch linger.

The faint pink polish on her toes catches my eye again, and for a moment, I wonder what kind of life she has in the city that leaves her looking so polished yet so out of place here.

She doesn’t flinch, though. She just watches me, those big brown eyes locked on my face like I’m the only thing keeping her tethered to reality. Her lips part slightly, her breathing uneven, and it takes everything in me to focus on the damn bandages instead of the heat building between us.

“You’re good at this,” she murmurs, her voice low, almost shy.

“Years of practice,” I reply. “Sprains, scrapes, bruises. You learn to handle a lot living out here.”

Her gaze drops to my hands, and she shivers, though the fire’s warming up the cabin now. “Do you always help strangers like this?”

“No,” I say honestly, tying off the wrap. My thumbs brush her skin one last time, and I feel her tense under the contact. “You’re an exception.”

Her eyes snap back to mine, searching, and for a moment, the air between us feels charged, heavy. Too heavy. I break the tension, standing and heading to the freezer.

“You need ice,” I say, pulling out a small bag and wrapping it in a cloth. My pulse is still pounding, and I don’t trust myself near her right now, but when I turn back, she’s still watching me, biting her bottom lip like she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.

I sit down again, pressing the makeshift ice pack to her ankle. She inhales sharply, her chest rising, and my gaze flickers —just for a second—to the curve of her neckline, where her damp shirt clings to her skin. I jerk my eyes back up, but not before I catch the way her cheeks flush.

“Let me get you new clothes.”

“You have some?”

“You can wear something of mine…” She’ll swim in my shirts and sweatpants, but it’s all we’re working with.

I come back into the living room with a long sleeve shirt and grey sweatpants for her. I help her stand, and she wobbles before having to lean into my body.

“Thank you,” she says. I point to the bathroom down the hall and help her to the door.

She hesitates, like she might ask me to help her get dressed, but then she thinks better of it and shuts the door.

I run my hand through my hair and sigh. What is this girl doing to me?

I want to bust through the door just to make sure she’s okay, to help peel those cold, wet clothes off her little body.

But I don’t. I don’t know what this is or why I feel this way, but I need to cut it out.

When she comes out of the bathroom, she looks stunning, even with my clothes practically drowning her.

“This was really kind of you. It’s safe to say I’d be dead in the woods without you.”

Her words hit me square in the chest, and I force myself to focus on her ankle again as she sets on the couch. “You’re lucky it’s just a sprain,” I say. “You’ll be back on your feet tomorrow.”

“I don’t know,” she teases lightly, her voice dipping into something softer. “I might like being waited on.”

I glance up, arching a brow. “Careful. I might start charging.”

Her laugh is quiet, but it’s real, and it does something to me I wasn’t expecting. It’s been a long time since I’ve had anyone in this cabin, much less someone who can make me forget the storm raging outside with just a sound.

I stand, brushing my hands off and stepping back to give her space. “You should rest,” I say, my tone gruffer than before. “Ice it for a while. I’ll get you something to eat.”

“Do you always take charge like this?”

“Only when someone’s about to die in a rainstorm,” I reply, but the truth is, it’s more than that. She makes me want to take care of her. Protect her. Claim her.

As I turn to the kitchen, her voice stops me. “Cole?”

I pause, glancing back. Her eyes meet mine, soft but steady. “Thank you. Really.”

I nod, not trusting myself to say anything more. Because if I do, I’m not sure I’ll stop at just words.

While I heat up some leftover stew, I glance back at her. She’s rubbing her hands together, staring into the fire with a far-off look. Vulnerable, and damn cute in my oversized clothes.

I bring the bowl over, setting it on the coffee table in front of her. “Stew.”

She looks up, surprised, and takes it with both hands. “Thank you.”

“Eat,” I grunt, sitting across from her.

She takes a bite, her eyes widening. “Oh my God. This is amazing.”

“It’s stew,” I say, shrugging off her praise.

“No, really,” she insists. “It’s better than anything I’ve had in… forever.”

She looks at me like I hung the moon, and it’s doing things to me I’m not ready to unpack. “Glad you like it.”

She eats quickly, her body relaxing more with every bite. When she sets the empty bowl aside, I grab a blanket from the back of the couch and drape it over her.

“You should rest,” I say, my voice softer than I mean it to be. “Storm should pass by morning. And then I’ll get you down the mountain.”

Her lips curve into a faint smile. “You’re not as grumpy as you pretend to be.”

I snort, standing. “Don’t get used to it.”

She laughs softly, settling into the couch. “Goodnight, Cole.”

“Night.”

I watch her for a moment longer than I should, the firelight playing across her face. She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s not going anywhere—not if I have anything to say about it.

She’s mine.