Page 3 of The Mountain Man’s Untamed Bride (Mountain Man Sanctuary #4)

“Desperate Times, Mountain Measures”

Scarlett

My poor BMW wasn't built for this.

I winced as my car scraped over another rock, the chassis groaning in protest. This wasn't a road—it was a boulder collection someone had forgotten to clear. Behind me, my designer luggage slid ominously across the trunk with each bump and dip.

"Almost there," I muttered, squinting at the darkened GPS screen. It had surrendered twenty minutes ago, leaving me with nothing but the vague directions from a gas station attendant who'd looked at me like I was an alien when I'd asked about Promise Ridge.

I cranked up my playlist to drown out the concerning noises from beneath my car.

My favorite rapper's explicit lyrics filled the space, detailing exactly what she'd do to any man who tried to control her life.

I grinned, picturing my father's face. Reverend Elijah "Hellfire" Montgomery would surely burst a blood vessel if he could see his precious daughter now.

The car hit a pothole deep enough to qualify as a small canyon. My head nearly smacked the roof, and I heard the sickening crack of a nail breaking.

"Seriously?" I glanced down to see my freshly done gel manicure ruined, the red extension on my index finger snapped clean off. It had been my small rebellion—blood red with little handcuff designs that would make Daddy need smelling salts during Sunday service.

One broken nail, however, was nothing compared to the broken life waiting for me if I'd stayed back in Atlanta. That dinner was the final scene in my good-daughter performance—the moment I decided to tear up the script and write my own damn story.

***

The restaurant had been Daddy’s choice, of course—an overpriced steakhouse where the men who funded his megachurch made deals over bourbon while their wives discussed charity galas and pretended not to notice the waitresses' ages.

I'd worn my most modest dress, which still earned a disapproving glance from Mother when the fabric dared to suggest I had a figure underneath.

"Scarlett, darling," Langley Richardson announced, sliding into the seat beside me. His teeth gleamed unnaturally white beneath the crystal chandeliers. "You look lovely. Almost perfect."

The "almost" hung between us like a threat.

Daddy beamed across the table, his expression practically screaming how fortunate I was to have caught the attention of the Richardson family's heir. Mother nodded along, her smile frozen in place as always, eyes darting to nearby tables to ensure we were being properly observed by Atlanta’s social elite.

As my parents discussed wine with the waiter, Langley leaned close, his cologne not quite masking the scent of expensive scotch on his breath despite the early hour.

"I've already picked out the modest clothing catalog I've approved for you," he whispered, his hand finding my knee under the crisp white tablecloth.

"As my wife, you'll need to present yourself appropriately—in public, that is.

No more of these..." his eyes dropped to my chest, "distractions.

Those assets are for my private appreciation only. "

His phone buzzed and he checked it, smirking slightly before sliding it face-down on the table.

The same smirk I'd seen in that photo Melissa had shown me from his last "business trip" to Vegas—the one with the blurred-out women my father had dismissed as "manipulated images from jealous troublemakers. "

The way he squeezed my thigh under the table, just a little too high, a little too hard, told me everything his carefully curated Sunday persona tried to hide.

I maintained my smile even as something inside me shriveled. In that moment, staring at my untouched lobster bisque, I knew I would rather live in a cardboard box than marry this man who saw me as nothing but another acquisition for his collection.

***

The memory dissolved as my car bounced over another rock. At least I'd had the presence of mind to empty my bank account before leaving—the one my grandmother had set up that my parents couldn't access. It wasn't much, but it would buy me time to figure out my next steps.

Promise Ridge, Colorado. Population: probably fewer than my father's Sunday congregation.

I'd found Mountain Mates during a desperate late-night search for escape routes. The website looked like it hadn't been updated since dial-up was cutting edge, complete with pixelated photos of bearded men staring soulfully beside pine trees.

The questionnaire had made me laugh out loud.

What qualities do you bring to a traditional marriage? it had asked.

I took a sip of wine and typed with a sly grin: "I absolutely love cooking, cleaning, and submitting to male authority. I've never had an independent thought, and my hobbies include staring adoringly and nodding."

I'd crafted exactly the kind of fantasy woman I imagined these overgrown male hillbillies would want—the complete opposite of who I actually was.

For the "About Me" section, I laid it on even thicker:

I'm a meek, quiet girl from a good family. I love animals, children, and hope to have a big family someday. I have old-fashioned values and believe a woman's place is in the home. I can't wait to keep house for the right mountain man!

I attached a photo from my church's youth ministry page—me with minimal makeup, hair pulled back, wearing a demure blue dress with a practiced Sunday smile.

The same smile that had won me Miss Teen Atlanta three years ago, despite dropping my flaming baton twice during the talent portion.

My pageant days had ended when I'd suggested that perhaps world peace wasn't achievable through better swimwear, but Daddy still had the tiara displayed in his office to impress church donors.

Perfect bait for mountain men seeking a submissive bride—they'd never suspect that behind that angelic smile lurked a woman who'd been kicked out of finishing school for teaching the other girls how to pick locks with hairpins.

The confirmation email had arrived within hours, featuring a picture of one Bodhi Wilder from Promise Ridge.

The man looked like he ate pinecones for breakfast—wild brown hair, intense eyes, and a beard that could hide small woodland creatures.

But his location was perfect—remote enough that no one would think to look for me there.

So I'd packed my car under cover of darkness, left a vague note about "finding myself," and hit the road before dawn.

Now, after a day and a half of marathon driving fueled by gas station coffee and determination, I was beginning to question my sanity.

The trees finally thinned, revealing a clearing with what I assumed was my destination. I'd been picturing something from those mountain retreat renovation shows—rustic-luxe with exposed beams, a stone fireplace, and tastefully arranged antlers on the walls.

What I saw instead was a structure that looked like it had been built by someone who'd learned about houses from a child's drawing.

Solid, definitely, but lacking any hint of decorative intent.

This place was built to withstand the apocalypse, but unfortunately not to host an Instagram photoshoot anytime soon.

And there, on the porch, stood the man himself.

I caught my breath.

Bodhi Wilder looked like he'd walked straight out of a wilderness survival guide. He was taller than his photo suggested, with shoulders broad from actual labor rather than gym sessions. His shirt had the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms mapped with veins and sinew.

His beard was as untamed as promised, framing a mouth currently set in a thin, unimpressed line. His eyes—a warm brown that might have been inviting if they weren't narrowed suspiciously—tracked my car like I was an invading army.

I pulled to a stop and killed the engine. In the sudden silence, my heartbeat seemed unnaturally loud.

So this is the mountain man mistake I'm about to make. At least he's nice to look at.

I checked my reflection, quickly refreshing my forbidden red lipstick. I smoothed my deliberately tight white top, adjusted my girls to reveal a good helping of cleavage, and opened the car door.

My designer boots sank instantly into mud.

"You cannot be serious," I muttered, trying to extract my foot without leaving the boot behind. By the time I stood upright, Bodhi had descended from the porch and was watching me with an expression that mixed disbelief and confusion.

"Hi there!" I called with my best pageant smile, the one that had won me "Most Photogenic" despite my coach's fear it made me look too ‘aggressively approachable.’ “Bodhi Wilder?

I'm Scarlett. Your... bride, I guess?" I fanned myself dramatically, feeling sweat trickle down my back in the thick summer heat.

"Will you be a dear and grab my bags? And please tell me there's central air or at least a pool somewhere! "

His expression shifted to unmistakable alarm. He looked like I'd announced I was here to audit his taxes rather than become his wife.

"What happened to your car?" he finally asked, gesturing to my mud-splattered BMW.

"Your driveway happened," I replied, still smiling. "I think I left my suspension somewhere back there."

He stared, his gaze traveling from my face to my tight jeans to the stack of luggage visible through the car windows.

"You're Scarlett?" he questioned, sounding like he hoped he was hallucinating.

"In the flesh." I wobbled slightly in the mud. "All yours, courtesy of Mountain Mates."

His jaw tightened. "There's been a mistake."

"Wouldn't be the first one I've made." I sighed. "But here I am, and here you are, and somewhere back there—" I waved toward the winding road "—is civilization, which I've officially left behind. Maybe we could continue this inside? I could really use a nice chilled white wine after that drive."

A chicken strutted purposefully around the corner of the cabin, its feathers ruffled importantly as if on official business. It stopped at Bodhi's feet and fixed me with a suspicious stare.

"Who's your feathered friend?" I asked, eyeing the bird that was sizing me up like I was on the menu.

"Colonel," Bodhi answered flatly. "He doesn't like strangers."

"Great. Even the chicken doesn't like me."

"Rooster," he corrected with the hint of a smirk. "City girl."

Bodhi ran a hand through his hair, making it stand up even more. "Look, Miss Montgomery—"

"Scarlett," I corrected. "If we're going to argue about why I'm here, we might as well be on a first-name basis."

"We are not getting married," he stated firmly. "My friend signed me up without permission."

I blinked at him as his words sank in. "You didn't want a mail-order bride?"

"No," he declared, crossing his arms. "I don't want a wife, mail-order or otherwise."

"Oh." The syllable hung between us awkwardly.

I glanced back at my car, then at the endless forest surrounding us. My carefully crafted escape plan was unraveling faster than cheap pantyhose. I had nowhere to go. No way to face my parents or Langley after my dramatic exit.

So I improvised.

"That's unfortunate," I said, injecting brightness into my voice.

"Because I've already told everyone I'm married.

Changed my social media status. My parents threw me a going-away party.

The church is planning a welcome-back reception in six weeks.

" I delivered the lies with practiced conviction, knowing they'd create exactly the kind of social obligation that would make a decent man feel trapped.

None of this was true, but he had no way of knowing that.

His face paled beneath his tan. "You what?"

"I'll just grab my smallest bag for now," I continued, turning back to the car. "Don't worry, I'm a good roommate. You'll barely notice I'm here. Except when I'm cooking or..." I winked. "Being wifely."

The chicken made a sound suspiciously like a snort.

"This isn't happening," Bodhi muttered, more to himself than to me.

I pulled my carry-on from the trunk, its wheels immediately sinking into the mud. "Oh, it's happening, mountain man. Consider it cosmic justice for having friends with internet access."

As I dragged my luggage toward what was apparently now my temporary home, I heard him exhale deeply behind me. It was the sound of a man who'd realized there was no way out—a feeling I understood all too well.

I'd escaped one unwanted marriage only to force myself into another. The difference was, this arrangement would be on my terms, for my purposes.

And judging by the way Bodhi Wilder's eyes had darkened when they first swept over me, my plan to shed my inconvenient virginity might not be as challenging as I'd feared. One look at those capable hands told me he'd be perfect for the job—if I could just convince him to cooperate.

I squared my shoulders and marched toward the cabin, leaving perfect boot prints in the mud. Operation Mountain Man Seduction had officially begun.