Page 1 of The Mountain Man’s Untamed Bride (Mountain Man Sanctuary #4)

“The Uninvited Guest”

Bodhi

I was losing a battle with a deck post that refused to die with dignity when I heard the distinctive rumble of Flint's truck crawling up my driveway. The sound was as welcome as a porcupine in a sleeping bag.

"Son of a—" I slammed the shovel into unyielding earth, my hands vibrating from the impact. Three hours of digging, and this post was still clinging to the ground like it had signed a lease.

Colonel, my prized Barred Rock rooster, cocked his head at the approaching vehicle before launching into a panicked sprint across the yard, his wings flapping with all the grace of a drunk penguin. Roosters are supposedly descended from dinosaurs, but Colonel missed that particular genetic memo.

"Traitor," I muttered as he disappeared around the corner of my cabin. Some watchdog he was turning out to be.

I straightened up, my lower back protesting after hours of manual labor.

At thirty-two, I shouldn't feel this beaten, but that's what happens when you spend most of your days wrestling with nature instead of sitting at a desk.

Living in Promise Ridge, Colorado—"Where Wi-Fi Comes To Die"—meant every luxury came with a price paid in sweat and calluses.

My cabin sat five miles beyond the "Road Maintenance Ends" sign, tucked against the mountainside like a stubborn afterthought.

Most GPS systems pretended this place didn't exist, which was exactly how I preferred it.

After eight years in Army Rangers and two tours I didn't care to remember, solitude wasn't just a preference—it was a necessity.

Flint's truck emerged from the tree line, a rusted blue F-250 that had probably witnessed the fall of Rome.

It bounced over the ruts in my excuse for a driveway, each pothole threatening to shake the vehicle apart.

Watching him approach reminded me of an incoming storm—inevitable and likely to leave damage in its wake.

The last time he'd shown up unannounced, I'd ended up with a goat. I did not need another goat.

"Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying," I called out as the truck groaned to a stop, belching a cloud of dust that would make a coal mine jealous.

Flint killed the engine and hopped out with the energy of a man half his age.

For someone pushing forty, he moved like he was fueled by pure caffeine and bad ideas.

His full beard had more ginger in it than a Christmas cookie, and his perpetual smile was the exact expression worn by men about to do something tremendously stupid.

"That's a hell of a greeting for your only friend," he said, slamming the truck door with unnecessary force. Colonel squawked indignantly from his hiding place behind the woodpile.

"My only friend would know I don't like surprise visits," I shot back, driving the shovel into the ground where it stood at attention like an exhausted soldier.

"If I waited for an invitation, I'd die of old age." Flint clapped his hands together, surveying my partially demolished deck. "Making improvements to the bachelor palace?"

"Trying to. This post is being stubborn."

"Must recognize a kindred spirit," he quipped. "Need a hand?"

I grunted noncommittally, which Flint correctly interpreted as a yes. Together, we attacked the post from both sides, digging around its base until we could rock it loose. With a final heave that threatened to rearrange my vertebrae, the post surrendered and toppled over.

"Victory," Flint declared, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Now, got any of that homebrew? Josie only lets me have beer on weekends at home."

And there it was. The real reason for the visit.

"It's barely noon," I pointed out.

"It's five o'clock in Japan," he countered, "and what Josie don’t know won't result in me sleeping on the couch."

I rolled my eyes but led him toward the cabin.

Flint had been with Josie since kindergarten—literally.

The story went that after he'd kissed her during recess, she'd slugged him first and then informed that now that he’d claimed her, they had to get married someday.

Thirty-odd years later, she was still calling the shots in their relationship, running their outfitting store with the efficiency of a seasoned CEO while Flint charmed the customers.

Six kids and counting hadn't dimmed their ridiculous devotion to each other, and from what I could tell, they were on a personal mission to single-handedly repopulate Promise Ridge.

As we crossed the yard, I had a sudden flash of memory—Flint's visit last week. The one where he'd cornered me at Mabel's general store, the one I'd been trying to forget.

The one that was about to become impossible to ignore.

***

"Bodhi? That you in there?" Flint's voice had carried easily through the thin wooden door of the outhouse behind Mabel's General Store.

I'd frozen mid-business, wondering if silence would make him go away. It did not.

"I can see your boots under the door, man. Those ridiculous steel-toed monsters would survive a nuclear blast."

"I'm busy," I'd growled. "Some privacy would be nice."

"Perfect timing, actually. Got something for you to read while you're... occupied."

Before I could protest, several sheets of paper had slid under the door, narrowly avoiding the questionable puddle that always seemed to be present no matter how well-aimed a person tried to be.

"What the hell is this?" I'd demanded, reluctantly picking up the papers.

"Application forms," Flint had answered cheerfully. "For Mountain Mates. The mail-order bride service."

I'd nearly fallen off the seat. "The WHAT?"

"Been in there long enough to read the registration forms," Flint had chuckled. "Might as well sign!"

I'd skimmed the papers in horrified fascination. Mountain Mates: Connecting Lonely Mountain Men with Women Seeking a Simpler Life. Complete with testimonials from supposedly happy couples who'd found love through arranged matrimony.

"Have you lost your mind?" I'd hissed through the door. "I'm not signing up for a mail-order bride!"

"Already did it for you, buddy. Just need your final approval on the form." Flint's voice had been entirely too pleased with himself. "That guy at Skyline Bar over in Hope Peak, Montana found his wife this way—the Mountain Mates site works!"

"You did WHAT?" I'd been so shocked I'd forgotten to keep my voice down.

"Check the second page. Your profile's all set up."

With mounting dread, I'd flipped to the second page.

Name: Bodhi Wilder Age: 32 Occupation: Skilled craftsman/woodworker Interests: Nature, sustainable living, animals, quiet evenings by the fire Seeking: Traditional woman who appreciates simple living, home cooking, and rural values

"What the actual fuck, Flint?" I'd emerged from the outhouse clutching the crumpled papers, my shopping forgotten.

Flint had been leaning against the wall, looking like the cat that ate the canary. "Just some light embellishment. I didn't mention that time you chased the mailman with an axe. It was Halloween, but still."

"That was ONE TIME, and he shouldn't have been on my property without warning," I'd defended myself. "And I'm not a 'skilled craftsman.' I build things so they don't fall apart, not for art."

"Potato, po-tah-to." Flint had waved dismissively. "Look, you're turning into a mountain troll. When was the last time you had a conversation with someone who wasn't me, Mabel, or one of your birds?"

I'd glared at him. "I like my chickens. They don't talk back or sign me up for matrimony."

"You need someone in your life, Bodhi. You can't spend the rest of your days talking to Colonel about the weather."

"Watch me."

"Josie agrees with me, by the way," he'd added smugly. "She says it's unnatural for a man your age to be so alone. Says it's not healthy."

"Tell your wife to mind her own business. I don't need her matchmaking any more than I need yours."

"Too late." Flint had grinned. "She helped me fill out your profile. Said to emphasize your 'rugged capability' and downplay the 'grumpy hermit' vibe."

***

Now, back in my cabin, Flint settled into the ancient armchair that served as my primary furniture in what generously could be called a living room. The chair creaked ominously under his weight.

"You're going to fix that when it finally gives up," I warned him, retrieving two mason jars from the kitchen and filling them with amber liquid from a growler in my fridge.

"So," Flint said, accepting the homebrew with a nod of thanks. "About your bride—"

"There is no bride," I interrupted. "I never confirmed anything."

"Funny thing about that..." Flint took a long sip, obviously stalling. "You know how the form had that little clause at the bottom? The one about automatic confirmation if no objection was received within seven days?"

My stomach dropped like a stone in a deep well. "You didn't."

"I did mention it to you," he defended. "Last Tuesday, remember? When you were replacing that window?"

I vaguely recalled him shouting something from the ground while I'd balanced on a ladder fifteen feet up, focused on not falling to my death. "While I was working on a two-story drop? That's your idea of informed consent?"

"The point is," Flint continued, entirely unrepentant, "your seven days are up, and she's been matched."

"She? There's an actual woman in this scenario?" The concept seemed absurd. What kind of woman signed up to marry a stranger in the middle of nowhere?

"Scarlett Montgomery. Twenty-four. From Atlanta." Flint pulled his phone from his pocket, tapped a few times, and held it out to me. "See for yourself."

I scowled before reluctantly taking the phone. The screen showed a photo of a young woman with hair the color of autumn leaves and a smile that looked like it belonged in a toothpaste commercial. She was pretty in a wholesome, girl-next-door way that made me immediately suspicious.