Page 11 of The Mountain Man’s Untamed Bride (Mountain Man Sanctuary #4)
“Operation: Escape the Ex”
Scarlett
Colonel watched me from the window, his beady eyes judging me as thoroughly as my mother's disapproving glances during Sunday service. Day two of cabin living, and the rooster had already established a morning routine of monitoring me.
"Still on surveillance duty, I see," I muttered, stretching my stiff back.
The army-surplus mattress hadn't done me any favors overnight, and my hair looked even worse than yesterday's electrocution victim style.
I slipped into my silk robe—still the only touch of luxury in this wilderness outpost—and checked my phone. No service, as expected.
The cabin was quiet. No sign of Bodhi. As I moved toward the kitchen, I noticed a folded note on the nightstand, my name written across it:
Scarlett,
Gone to town for security supplies after last night's discovery. Back before noon. Rifle's locked in cabinet - DON'T touch it. Stay inside.
—B
P.S. Don't let Colonel in. He's still keeping an eye on your vibrator.
The clock read 9:17 AM. Hours before Bodhi would return. My stomach rumbled, reminding me that reading notes wasn't breakfast.
I found peanut butter and bread in the kitchen and made myself a sandwich while surveying the space. Dust bunnies had colonized every corner, clearly feeling secure in their long-established territory.
"Well," I said to no one, "might as well make myself useful."
If I was hiding in a mountain man's home, I could at least clean it. I grabbed the broom from the corner—a tool I'd only ever seen in the hands of our housekeeper, never my own.
My first sweep sent dust clouds billowing, triggering a sneeze that startled Colonel from his window perch. He flapped away, looking offended.
"Oh, please. Like you could do better," I called after him.
Twenty minutes and several sneezing fits later, I'd created neat dust piles. In Atlanta, messes disappeared while I was at brunch. Here, housekeeping required actual effort.
I found a dustpan under the sink and scooped up my collections of debris. Not bad for someone whose cleaning experience ended at pressing "start" on a dishwasher.
Moving to the living area, I carefully shifted stacks of books before sweeping underneath. One leather-bound volume caught my eye—thicker than the others, with no title on its worn spine.
Inside were hand-drawn sketches of breathtaking detail. Trees with bark so realistic I could almost feel the texture. Sunsets captured in watercolor, each labeled with only a date. Birds in flight, their wingspan measurements noted underneath.
Between the drawings were handwritten passages:
Mountain silence speaks louder than city noise, Yet sometimes the quiet screams so loud I'd trade one sunset for a single human voice That isn't my own, echoing off empty walls.
I closed the journal, something tight forming in my chest. "Great," I whispered. "He's gorgeous AND talented. This isn't fair."
I'd expected a simple mountain brute—the perfect anti-Langley to take my virginity and ruin me for a proper marriage in the eyes of Daddy Dearest. Instead, I'd found a man who could dismantle threats with the mind of a trained warrior but also created art that made my throat tighten.
Back to tidying, hoping the activity would help clear the tumult of emotions washing over me. By the time I finished, the cabin looked significantly less like a bear's seasonal residence. Progress on one front at least.
The sound of tires on gravel stopped me cold.
Bodhi returning early? The clock showed 10:43 AM.
But my hopes were quickly dashed when at the window, instead of Bodhi's battered truck I saw the same black Mercedes we'd spotted in town yesterday. My stomach immediately dropped.
Langley Richardson stepped out, looking nothing like the polished attorney from Atlanta.
His expensive clothes were wrinkled and dirt-stained, his normally perfect Ken-doll blonde hair disheveled.
Dark circles shadowed his eyes. He looked like he'd spent the night hunting through the wilderness—which, based on the watch Bodhi found, he probably had.
"Scarlett, darling!" His voice carried through the walls, pleasant but with that undercurrent I knew too well. "Your father's worried sick! This little adventure has gone on long enough!"
Like he cares about anything but his reputation.
I grabbed my phone. No signal, but I remembered finding a weak connection on the northeast corner of the porch. I typed quickly: SOS PSYCHO FIANCé HERE
The message showed the spinning wheel of non-delivery. I needed to hide.
Knocking began—firm, powerful but controlled. Pure Langley.
"Scarlett, I know you're in there." His voice hardened. "Your car is here. Open the door. We need to discuss your... behavior."
Footsteps crossed the porch. The doorknob rattled.
"Scarlett," his tone shifted, "don't be childish. I've driven all this way. The least you could do is show some gratitude."
The closet was my only option. I squeezed in among Bodhi's flannel shirts and heavy coats just as a sharp crack announced the front door giving way.
Slow breaths. Quiet breaths.
Surrounded by Bodhi's clothes, I inhaled his scent. It made me feel both safer and more terrified—safe because it reminded me of his strength, terrified because he wasn't here.
"Scarlett?" Langley's voice echoed through the cabin. "What a... quaint accommodation you've found. Quite different from your father's estate."
Cabinet doors opened. Papers rustled. Drawers scraped.
"Everyone's devastated," he continued, coming closer. "Your father had to explain to the congregation why his daughter disappeared before her engagement announcement. The gossip has been... unfortunate."
Of course that's what he'd worry about.
"We've prepared a statement," his footsteps entered the bedroom. "Temporary emotional distress. Pre-wedding jitters. Nothing a few sessions with Dr. Atherton won't fix."
My phone vibrated silently—the text had gone through! No response from Bodhi, but at least the message delivered. I clutched it tightly.
"Interesting choice of men," Langley muttered nearby, his breathing quicker than normal. "Though I suppose a primitive lifestyle suits primitive tastes."
I pressed deeper into the closet. A hanger dug into my shoulder.
"Did you really think this would work?" His voice turned conversational as he moved around the bedroom. "That you could just vanish and play wilderness wife with some... what is he? A lumberjack? A survivalist?"
Something glass clinked against wood.
"What exactly was your plan? To hide out until you got bored? We both know you can't last a week without your spa appointments."
The closet door swung open.
Langley stood there, his smile cold. "Found you."
His hand grabbed my arm, yanking me forward. I stumbled, dropping my phone.
"Now, now, little lamb," he said, his fingers wrapping tightly around my arm. "Time to stop playing and return to your proper place."
I wrenched free, surprising both of us with my strength. "No, Langley. I'm not going anywhere with you."
His eyes narrowed, jaw working. "Don't be difficult. This wedding is happening. Your rebellion changes nothing."
"The engagement is off," I said, steadier than I felt. "I don't want to marry you. I don't care what our parents arranged, or what you want."
He moved closer, crowding me. A muscle twitched near his temple. "You don't get to make that decision."
"It's my life," I countered. "My choice."
His hand shot out, pinning me against the wall, his palm against my throat—not squeezing, just there. A warning.
"Your father gave me his blessing," he hissed, inches from my face. Scotch fumes washed over me. "Do you know how much I've invested in this relationship? The connections I've made with your father's ministry?"
His hand trembled. Sweat dotted his forehead despite the cool room. His pupils had expanded, nearly swallowing the blue of his irises. The constant sniffing, the twitching jaw, the frenetic energy—it all clicked.
"You're high," I said quietly.
He laughed, sharp and hollow. "So judgmental, just like your father. At least I don't hide my vices behind a pulpit."
His hand tightened slightly. "Get your things. We're leaving."
"I'm not going anywhere with you," I said, looking for anything I could use as a weapon.
"Yes, you are." His fist slammed the wall beside my head. "One way or another."
"Langley, stop it."
"Maybe fear will knock some sense into you," he snarled, facade gone. "Do you know what it took to find you? The investigator I hired? The locals I paid? Did you think my connections couldn't reach you here? No one makes a fool of me, Scarlett."
I glanced toward the door, measuring the distance.
"Don't even think about it," he warned. "There's nowhere to run. No one to help you. Your mountain man isn't coming to save you."
The rumble of Bodhi's truck engine cut through the tension.
Relief washed through me, then fear—what if Langley hurt Bodhi? Suddenly, I realized with heart-stopping clarity that somewhere between breakfast disasters and failed seductions, the man I'd planned to use had become someone I couldn't bear to lose.