Page 6 of Silent Mountain Man (Cold Mountain Nights #4)

Dawn is sleeping in my arms when the radio crackles to life.

"Road crews expect to have Silver Ridge Mountain Pass cleared by noon today. Residents are advised..."

I turn it off before the voice can wake her. Noon. Four hours from now.

Four hours before the real world intrudes on whatever this is between us.

Her body is warm against mine, her head tucked under my chin, breath soft against my chest. Last night was... I don't have words for what last night was, even in my own mind. Connection. Truth. Everything my silence has been protecting me from.

Dawn stirs, her eyes blinking open, finding mine immediately. Her smile is soft, private.

"Morning," she murmurs.

I nod, brushing hair from her face. The intimacy of the gesture surprises me, how natural it feels.

"Did I hear the radio?" she asks, more alert now.

I consider reaching for my notebook, then push past the resistance in my throat. "Roads. Noon."

Two words, but her eyes widen at hearing my voice. She doesn't comment on it, just nods. "I see."

We dress in silence, each lost in thought. The cabin feels different in the clear morning light—smaller, perhaps, or more temporary. The storm that brought us together is gone, leaving blue sky and decisions in its wake.

Dawn goes to gather her things—the camera, the yellow jacket, the few personal items scattered around the cabin. I watch her, memorizing details I hadn't realized I'd come to value.

I’ve lived so long without another person in this cabin. Three days with her. It shouldn't be enough to matter.

But it does.

I'm chopping more wood—a task that doesn't need doing but gives my hands purpose—when she comes to find me. She's wearing her own clothes again, the bright yellow jacket a splash of color against the white landscape.

"Gunnar," she says, her voice serious. "We should talk about... what happens next."

I set down the ax, turning to face her fully. The sun illuminates her hair, turning it to gold around her face. Three days, and already the thought of this cabin without her in it feels wrong.

I nod, gesturing toward the porch steps. We sit side by side, looking out at the transformed landscape, pristine snow stretching to the tree line.

"I meant what I said last night," she begins. "About not wanting to go back to what I was doing before."

I wait, giving her space to continue.

"Being here, with you, seeing how you live." She gestures to the mountains around us. "It's made me question everything. The constant noise, the need for validation, the performative aspects of my life."

She turns to look at me directly. "But I have responsibilities. Contracts. A life I built."

The unspoken question hangs between us. What is this? What could it be?

I clear my throat, searching for words that matter enough to push through the tightness. "What... do you want?" My voice is rough, unused, but the words come.

Her eyes widen slightly at hearing me speak again, but she doesn't comment on it. "I want..." She hesitates. "I want peace. And connection. Real connection, not the artificial kind I've been settling for."

She looks at me, something vulnerable in her expression. "I want to see if whatever happened between us was just the storm, or something more."

The honesty of her answer deserves equal honesty in return. I reach for her hand, holding it between both of mine.

"Before you came," I say slowly, each word deliberate, "this was enough." I gesture to the cabin, the solitude. "Now..."

Words fail me again, but for a different reason. How to explain that three days with her have shifted something fundamental? That silence no longer feels like safety but like loss?

Dawn waits, patient, her hand warm in mine.

I try again. "I want you to stay." The admission costs me, not in words but in vulnerability. "But your life is there."

"Does it have to be?" she asks softly. "I can work remotely. My camera works anywhere. The brands I partner with would love authentic mountain content."

Hope rises, unexpected and fragile. "Here?"

She nods. "Yes, here. If you want that."

I look at our joined hands, then back to her face. "It won't be easy. I'm not." I gesture to myself, to my limited speech.

"I know who you are, Gunnar," she says firmly. "I've seen you. The real you, not just the silent exterior. And I like who I am when I'm with you. More authentic. Less noise."

She squeezes my hand. "We balance each other. You've shown me the value of silence, of seeing rather than performing. Maybe I can show you that some connections are worth the effort of words."

The simplicity of it strikes me. Balance. She fills my silence; I quiet her noise. Together, we find the middle ground.

I stand, pulling her up with me. Leading her back toward the cabin door, I stop, framing her face with my hands.

"Stay," I say again, the word coming easier this time.

She smiles, reaching up to touch my face in return. "I will. Not because I'm stranded, but because I choose to."

I kiss her then, in the bright winter sunlight, with no storm to blame for our proximity, no forced circumstances to justify our connection. Just choice. Just possibility.

Inside, Dawn picks up her phone, the storm has gone and she has service again. She looks at it for a long moment, then opens an app. I watch as she types a brief message, then sets it aside.

"What did you do?" I ask, curiosity overcoming the effort of speech.

She smiles, a real smile that reaches her eyes. "Told my followers I'm going offline for a while. That I've found something authentic that needs my full attention."

I raise an eyebrow, questioning.

"You," she says simply. "Us. Whatever this becomes."

I pull her close, my arms encircling her completely. She fits against me perfectly, her head tucked under my chin. I kiss her hair.

“I love you.” The most important words I’ve ever said.

I've built this cabin with my own hands, created a sanctuary of silence and solitude. But something was missing—something I didn't know to miss until Dawn knocked on my door, bringing color and words and life.

Now, in the quiet aftermath of the storm, we'll build something new together. Something balanced between her light and my shadow, her words and my silence.

Something true.

Dawn and Gunnar's story is just one of the sizzling romances waiting to be discovered in the Cold Mountain Nights series.

From rugged lumberjacks to dedicated firefighters, each standalone story delivers the perfect blend of forced proximity, steamy encounters, and emotional healing that will leave you breathless for more.

Whether you're drawn to small-town charm, wilderness adventures, or the raw intensity of mountain men finding their perfect match, don't miss a single heart-pounding moment in this multi-author collection!