Page 49 of Snowed In with her Mountain Men

CAMRYN

I figured it would be easy, re-writing my story from scratch.

I’d already done the outline, the notes, the grunt work.

And since I’d written half the novel once already, I imagined that part would at least flow quickly and easily from my usually good memory, to the clean digital pages of my new laptop.

Except for the fact that none of this was the case.

Instead, I found myself stumbling along, struggling to recall even the simplest of details.

I’d write and then rewrite entire series of carefully constructed paragraphs, only to murder them with the delete button.

For some strange reason, I was doubting everything I’d written.

And it wasn’t until halfway through the day that I realized what was wrong:

The new story and the old one were very, very different.

For one, I’d glossed over many of the details that slowed things down.

The newer stuff I’d been writing was quicker to develop, and faster-paced.

Plus, somewhere along the line, I’d interjected romance into the story without even realizing it.

The lead character suddenly had a love interest, and a torrid one at that.

It added depth to the overall plot, while lending passion, urgency, and steamy acres of all new backstory.

And it was good. Very good.

Once I realized I was fighting this change, everything fell into place.

I embraced it, and the words began flowing again.

Entire chapters spilled out, completely unbidden, not even connected to my existing notes.

I wrote all morning long, straight through lunch, and deep into the afternoon.

It wasn’t until my stomach began growling that I realized just how deeply the shadows had been gathering outside.

I stood up for the first time in way too long, and my knees popped savagely.

“Damn.”

I felt exhilarated and accomplished — totally proud of myself. Dancing down the staircase, I zipped to the kitchen and began rifling through the cabinets for a victory snack. And that’s when I saw it, in the field, right outside the window:

A single set of bootprints, punched deep into the snow.

I froze, staring at the long line of alternating holes that extended from the house to the woods, where they disappeared into the trees. They weren’t made by an animal, I knew that immediately. No, these were made by a person.

Without realizing it, the jar of peanut butter slipped from my hand.

Shit.

When I had control again, I reached for my phone. The internet had been spotty all day. I’d gotten a text from Ryder at noon, and before that, Oakley. But right now, as with most of the day, my phone’s reception lay stuck at zero bars. Every time I dialed, I got nothing.

FUCK.

Carefully I made my way to the window and peeked outside. From this angle, I could see the prints ran around the far side of the house. The disturbed powder around them looked fresh, too. The little lumps were still jagged, and untouched by the wind outside.

I ran to the door, slipped into my boots, and grabbed two things. The first was my coat.

The second was Oakley’s Bushmaster rifle.

For a long moment I considered locking the door and hanging back. But the lock was weak. The plan was weak. For months, the men I now loved had been trying to figure out who’d been creeping around the cabin. And finally, at long last, I had the chance to find out for them.

Maybe.

You’re crazy, Camryn.

I looked at the door again, so thick and strong. Only Sarge would bolt it with a piece of shit ten-dollar brass lock, almost as if daring someone to come try their luck.

No. If someone was out there, I needed to know. We needed to know.

Just thinking about my use of the word ‘we’ warmed me up inside.

I cracked the door, checked the driveway, and found it empty of both trucks. Whoever made the prints, it wasn’t one of the guys. It was someone else. Which meant it was him.

As silently as possible, I slipped from the house and into the wind.

The cold was so biting it turned my cheeks red almost instantly.

For now though, it was bearable. Gluing my back to the cabin’s massive log walls, I crept along the entire front of the house until I’d reached its edge.

Then, very slowly, I peeked around the first corner.

A chill ran through me, straight to the bone.

There was a man standing out there.

He was deep in the snow dunes, thigh-high, staring straight back at me. Or at least I think he was. I’d whipped back around the corner so fast, all the air had been forced from my lungs.

Did he see me?

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck…”

My frozen lips formed the words, without my mind’s permission. Being silent no longer mattered anyway. My heart was already pounding away like a kettle drum.

With that in mind, I racked the rifle and clicked the safety off.

Whoever this was, I decided they’d have one chance to surrender. I had no qualms about shooting a repeat intruder, especially one who’d obviously taken advantage of the one time the boys had left me alone.

I took a deep breath, counted to three for no particular reason, then spun — rifle first — to face the side of the house.

But the man was no longer there. He’d doubled back and disappeared behind the house, according to his tracks, anyway.

And from the scattering of powder across the unblemished snow, I could tell he was moving quickly.

Screw it.

I ran, heedless of what could happen, knowing only that I needed to know who he was. I could already envision the pride in the boys’ eyes, if they came home to find me standing over their elusive intruder.

Reaching the back of the house, there were more tracks to follow.

These skirted the cabin wall, and made their way to one of the windows leading into the game room.

I took great care, stepping slowly, pinning my rifle at shoulder level until I encountered a glimmer in the snow that turned out to be glass.

The window was broken, right in the vicinity of the locking clasp. It was also thrown wide open.

I peered inside, wondering whether I should follow. I debated circling back to the front, first, to maybe hole up in the garage. I could sit there until the reception returned. I could call the guys. Get them back here quickly…

I was in the process of pulling my phone out to check for bars again, when I heard it: footfalls — low, soft and swift. Something struck me hard in the back of the head, causing a flash of intense pain and silver stars to explode behind my eyes.

Then my whole world went black, and I knew nothing more.