Page 2 of The Mountain Man’s Heat (Blue Mountain Burn: The Firefighters of Hartley Ridge #1)

Chapter Two

Iris

“ He’s just like a kitten, she says,” I mutter, lugging my aunt’s colossal mutt—what is he?

Part bear, part yowie?—down the stairs of her mountainside cottage.

If Aunt Lily wasn’t in hospital in Sydney, over sixty kilometers away, I’d dump Archie on her lap and have a chat with her about the stereotypical behavior of kittens.

“ Just scratch him behind the ears, and he’ll be putty in your hands , she says.

Just give him some roast chicken, and he’ll snuggle right up in his beanbag and watch TV with you , she says. ”

In my arms, Archie—who I do adore with my whole heart—is whimpering and trying to lick my face and crawl over my shoulder all at the same time.

He misses Aunt Lily. Has since I arrived yesterday to housesit for her while she’s undergoing her heart bypass surgery.

But no amount of scratching behind the ears or chicken or Netflix has calmed him tonight.

The second that first distant rumble of thunder—so faint I dismissed it as a gust of wind in the trees outside—filtered into Aunt Lily’s home, Archie turned into a lump of quivering fear who tried to first hide behind the toilet, then hide under my armpit, and then hide under the sofa.

Thankfully, the distant storm is going away. I think. I hope.

If I can get Archie to settle down again, maybe on the sofa he most definitely can’t fit under, I’ll be able to finish my last assignment for my Diploma of Screen and Media in Specialist Makeup Services and submit it on time. Even if I must do it one handed while I scratch behind Archie’s ears.

“How ‘bout we finish watching the movie, Arch?” I say. Well, grunt, really. I’m five foot four, and Archie is over one hundred and ten pounds.

God, I hope I don’t miss a step and fall.

I’m totally alone up here, my phone service is patchy at best, and Aunt Lily has no landline.

She’s an incredible artist but has zero time for people.

“Who doesn’t love watching Jason Statham punch bad guys? ”

Probably a lot of people, but those people aren’t my people. Jason Statham punching bad guys is my therapy of choice after losing my receptionist job—which I didn’t like but needed—when I turned down my boss’s not-at-all subtle or professional advances.

As soon as Aunt Lily is back home and able to look after herself, I’ll need to return to Melbourne and find another job. Preferably one without a handsy boss.

Outside, thunder rumbles again. Archie whines and writhes in my arms, and I grimace. It’s not going away. It’s getting closer. Damn it.

“C’mon, Arch,” I murmur, doing my best to stroke his back as I finally reach the bottom step still on my feet. Yay. “We’ve got this, mate.”

He wriggles in my arms. Licks my cheek.

“We’ve got?—”

A crack of thunder detonates above us and I scream.

Archie twists from my hold and thumps to the floor.

“Oh, Arch,” I croon, crouching down to him. “It’s okay, it’s only?—”

Another crack of thunder, louder this time. I glance up at the ceiling and frown. “Damn, that was close,” I say and look back to Archie.

My stomach drops.

He’s gone.

I jolt to my feet. “Archie?”

A flash of black movement catches my eye down the hallway leading to the back of the house. Crap. Where’s he going?

“Archie!” I run after him.

The storm, clearly deciding to be my current archnemesis, parks its angry butt overhead and releases its rage. At least, it sounds that way. The foundations shake. My stomach seems to vibrate. The lights flicker.

No, no. Don’t you dare.

Thankfully, they don’t. The last thing I need is a blackout.

I hurry after Archie, stare locked on what little glimpses I catch of him as he tries to escape the storm’s noise. He’s careening off the walls and furniture, getting closer to the back door.

It’s closed, of course. And locked. I’m not an idiot.

I’m a twenty-two-year-old female alone in an isolated—albeit luxuriously rustic—mountainside cabin.

Archie can’t get out. But he can injure himself.

He’s a big dog. A strong dog. I don’t want him breaking his head ramming into the door. “ Archie! Sit! ”

Archie doesn’t sit. Archie disappears around the corner.

“Sit!” I shout, breaking into a sprint. “ Sit! ”

The world outside turns white with a flash of lightning. A deafening crack of thunder follows straightaway. I slap my hands to my ears—holy shit, is the storm attacking the house?—and then groan as the lights die without even a flicker.

“Shit!” I ground out, squinting into the blackness enveloping me. “Shit.”

A dull whacking sound floats from the back of the house. No whimper or yelp though, just that dull thump. “Archie?” What did he hit?

The only response I get is the thunder, wind, and rain lashing the world outside.

I burst forward, waving my hands in front of me in the dark. “Damn it, Archie. You better be?—”

I slam into the door. Thankfully, my hands hit first, breaking my momentum just enough to stop my head striking the solid wood with all the force of my panic.

“Archie?” I call, rubbing my forehead. That’s going to leave a bump. “Archie?”

The lights flicker back on, and my stomach sinks as I stare at the Archie-size dog door in the back door, the flap swaying back and forth a fraction. Either from the wind or from being moved by a mastiff-size force.

My gut tells me it’s the latter.

“Shit,” I mutter, fling the door open, and run out into the storm.

I am so dead.