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

“The Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing”

Bodhi

"What the hell?" I stared at the woman standing in my mud pit of a front yard, sweat already beading on my forehead in the July heat.

Same face as the profile photo. Same red hair. But everything else? Complete bullshit.

Flint's "sweet, wholesome girl with good values" was nothing like the profile photo.

Tight white top that made my body instantly react in ways that weren't appropriate for a first meeting.

Designer jeans that probably cost more than my monthly expenses.

Long nails and lips painted the color of warning signs.

This wasn't the meek church girl from the profile—this was a city woman who'd wandered far from her natural habitat.

"Problem?" She cocked her hip, those red lips curving into something that wasn't remotely close to the shy smile Flint had shown me. "You gonna help with these bags or just stand there looking shell-shocked?"

Colonel burst from behind the woodpile and flapped across the yard with all the grace of a drunk penguin, squawking like I'd just invited a fox into the henhouse. For once, the paranoid bastard was right on target.

"There's been a mistake," I said, my jaw clenched like I was back in Ranger training, enduring a dressing down from a drill sergeant.

"You said that already." She sighed, inspecting a broken nail as sweat dampened tendrils of red hair at her temples.

"Look, I've driven cross-country in a car that wasn't built for your apocalypse-prepper driveway.

I'm melting in this heat, I'm starving, and I've broken a two-hundred-dollar manicure.

Can we at least go inside before you toss me back to civilization? "

The tactical part of my brain—the part that had kept me alive in Kandahar—calculated rapidly. Sunset in forty minutes. Mountain roads too dangerous for a city driver after dark. Nearest motel ninety minutes away, minimum.

"One night," I growled, grabbing her designer suitcase. It weighed more than my rucksack had in the Rangers, and I'd carried everything I needed to survive for weeks in that. "We straighten this out tomorrow."

"Such a gentleman." Her voice dripped with sarcasm.

I stomped toward the cabin, grateful for my loose carpenter pants. Eight months, three weeks, and two days. That's how long since I'd last been with a woman. Not that I was counting. My body, however, was silently reminding me of every day of that drought.

Colonel scurried after us, his head bobbing with agitation, beady eyes fixed on Scarlett's boots like he was plotting their violent demise.

"Home sweet home," I muttered, shouldering open the door that still smelled faintly of the pine-scented cleaner Flint had brought yesterday. Without his help, the place would've looked even worse. Not that I gave a damn what this woman thought of my living situation.

Scarlett stepped inside and froze, her expression shifting from expectation to horror so fast I almost laughed. She surveyed my living space like an officer inspecting a particularly disappointing barracks.

"This is..." She hesitated, obviously searching for a polite word.

"Functional," I supplied.

"I was going to say 'primitive.'" She wandered further in, stiletto boots clicking against the wooden floor I'd installed with my own two hands. "Where's the rest of it?"

"The rest of what?"

"The cabin." She gestured around as if expecting hidden rooms to materialize. "The stone fireplace? The vaulted ceilings? The hot tub overlooking the mountains?"

I snorted. "You've been watching too much HGTV."

"Clearly not enough." She set her purse—something with initials on it that probably cost more than my truck—on my hand-built coffee table. "No hot tub at all? Seriously?"

"No hot tub. No vaulted ceilings. No stone fireplace." I dropped her suitcase with a thud that made Colonel jump. "This isn't a resort. It's where I live."

She ran a finger along my bookshelf, checking for dust. Thanks to Flint's cleaning frenzy, she found none. "Fascinating collection. Military history, survival guides, and..." She pulled out a dog-eared paperback. "Jane Austen?"

I snatched the book from her hand. "Belonged to my grandmother."

That was a lie. I'd bought it at a used bookstore in Promise Ridge. I'd sooner admit to handling live explosives blindfolded than confess I enjoyed nineteenth-century literature.

"Tour?" I said gruffly, desperate to move things along.

She followed me through the cabin, her perfume making it hard to focus, like trying to navigate with a faulty compass. I kept my eyes forward, avoiding the view that was proving more distracting than it should.

"Kitchen." I gestured to the open area with my hand-built cabinets—the one thing I'd actually taken time to craft properly. "Stove runs on propane. Fridge on solar."

"Charming," she said, in a tone that suggested it was anything but. She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, smudging her makeup slightly. "Is everything in here powered by prayer and wishful thinking?"

"Solar panels." I tapped the energy monitor on the wall. "Enough power for necessities. Not enough for hair dryers and air conditioning."

"It must be ninety degrees in here," she complained, fanning herself with a magazine she'd pulled from her purse.

"Eighty-four," I corrected, glancing at the thermometer mounted by the back door. "Windows open at night, closed during the day. Mountain way of beating the heat."

She rolled her eyes so hard I thought she might strain something.

"Bathroom's here," I continued, pushing open the door to the small space that had taken me three months to get right. The shower drain had been a particular nightmare. "Scared off most of the spiders this morning."

Her head snapped toward me. "Most?"

"Can't get 'em all." I couldn't help the small twitch at the corner of my mouth. "The bigger ones usually stay in the rafters, though. Unless they're hungry."

She went pale beneath her makeup. Good. Maybe fear of arachnids would send her packing faster than my charming personality.

"Hot water?" she asked weakly, peering into the shower like she expected to find a tarantula tea party.

"When the solar's charged, you'll have plenty of hot water," I said, gesturing to the copper pipes visible through the small window. "One advantage of all this summer sunshine."

"Small blessings," she said with relief.

"And here," I said, moving to the final door, "is where you'll sleep."

I pushed open the door to the spare room that, until yesterday's emergency eviction, had housed a family of raccoons. Flint had helped me clear out the nest and scrub the place down, but there was no masking the lingering scent of wild animals or the scratch marks on the windowsill.

Scarlett's nose wrinkled instantly. "What's that smell?"

"Previous tenants," I said flatly. "They checked out yesterday."

"People?"

"Technically mammals."

She stepped inside cautiously, taking in the simple bed with its army-surplus blanket, the three-legged dresser I'd propped up with a chunk of firewood, and the small window that looked out into darkness. "There's no closet."

"Hook on the back of the door."

"One hook?"

"How many do you need? It's one night."

She looked at her massive suitcase, then back at me with an expression that suggested I'd just told her we'd be dining on grubs and twigs.

My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn't eaten since the jerky I'd had for lunch while fighting with that damn deck post—a project now on indefinite hold thanks to my unexpected visitor.

"Hungry?" I asked, already turning toward the kitchen.

"Starving." Her tone softened slightly, the first genuine reaction I'd seen from her. "I haven't eaten since some questionable gas station burrito six hours ago."

"Hope you're not picky."

I considered the casserole dish Josie had sent over yesterday—the one with detailed reheating instructions taped to the lid—but decided against it. Too much effort. The mac and cheese would have to do.

While the pasta cooked, I grabbed two mason jars from the cabinet and filled them with the home-brewed beer I kept in my fridge. The cold drink would be welcome in this heat. After yesterday's cleaning session and now this unexpected guest, I'd earned it.

I set a jar in front of her. "No wine."

She eyed the cloudy amber liquid suspiciously. "What is it?"

"Local beer. My friend makes it—guy who got me into this mess in the first place."

She took a cautious sip, then a longer one. "Not bad. Stronger than I expected."

"Everything about Promise Ridge is."

I dished up the neon pasta onto two mismatched plates—one with a faded Christmas pattern I'd found at Mabel's General Store, the other plain white ceramic. Not exactly the fine dining she was probably used to, but it was calories.

"My specialty," I said dryly, sliding her plate across the table. "Mac and cheese à la box."

She poked at it with her fork. "Is this... organic at least?"

I barked out a laugh. "It cost a dollar and glows in the dark. So no, definitely not organic unless you count the chemicals as living organisms."

She took a tentative bite, then seemed surprised. "This isn't awful."

"Ringing endorsement." I shoveled a forkful into my own mouth. "Should put that on my dating profile. 'Bodhi Wilder: His cooking isn't awful.'"

That got a smile from her—a real one that made something in my chest shift uncomfortably.

We ate in silence punctuated by Colonel's occasional outraged squawks from outside.

I'd banished him after he'd spent five solid minutes following Scarlett around the kitchen, puffing his feathers, and strutting in circles whenever she moved, like a feathered security guard convinced she was planning a heist.

"So," she said finally, pushing her empty plate away. "I'm not exactly what you expected."

"You're exactly what I didn't expect," I corrected. "Your profile was bullshit."

She didn't even pretend to look ashamed. "So was yours. Skilled craftsman? Quiet evenings by the fire? You neglected to mention the spider sanctuary and raccoon timeshare program."

I leaned back in my chair, studying her. The way she held herself—confident but with something underneath, like a soldier hiding an injury. I needed to understand what was really going on here.

"Why make a fake profile to end up in the middle of nowhere with a stranger?"

Something flashed across her face—something real and raw before the confidence slipped back into place. "Maybe I needed to disappear for a while."

"Running from something?"

"Aren't we all?" She twirled a strand of red hair around her finger, the movement drawing my attention momentarily. "Atlanta to nowhere just seemed like a good escape route."

"That's not an escape. It's a breakdown."

To my surprise, she laughed—a genuine sound that didn't match her carefully constructed image. "You might be right about that."

I stood to clear the plates, needing distance from her perfume and the way her laugh made me less annoyed than I wanted to be. "Got popsicles for dessert. They were on sale."

"My hero," she said, but the sarcasm had softened.

The temperature had finally started to drop as the evening wore on. With dessert finished and dishes cleared, there wasn't much left to delay the inevitable.

Later, after showing her how the shower's temperamental valve worked ("Full left for hot, don't touch the middle setting unless you enjoy ice baths") and pointing out the battery-powered fan I kept for the hottest nights, I retreated to my bedroom, the only space still free from the invasion.

I checked my phone, surprised to see no messages from Flint. The bastard had promised to return today to "witness the magic" of Scarlett's arrival. Typical. Set off the landmine, then disappear before the explosion. When I got my hands on him tomorrow...

I lay on my bed, stripped down to boxer shorts against the lingering heat, uncomfortably aware of my body's reaction to having an attractive woman under my roof.

Through the open window came the drone of cicadas and the distant howl of a coyote.

Summer nights in the mountains—normally my favorite time.

Now ruined by the sounds of an intruder: water pipes groaning, floorboards creaking, and the occasional soft sigh that made my imagination run places it had no business going.

Just as I was drifting into uneasy sleep, her voice cut through the thin walls, sharp and horrified:

"No service? At all? Like, NONE? What the hell, is this even America?"

I jammed my pillow over my head, a technique I'd perfected in barracks with twenty other Rangers. Didn't work any better now than it had then.

Tomorrow, I'd figure out how to send this woman back to whatever she was running from.

Tomorrow, I'd reclaim my territory. Tomorrow, I'd get back to work on that deck post and forget about the way her body moved when she laughed or how gracefully she carried herself despite being completely out of her element.

And tomorrow, I'd have a very pointed conversation with Flint about his absence today.

Colonel crowed once from his roost, the feathered equivalent of "I told you so."

"Shut up," I muttered into the darkness.

But the rooster was right. I was screwed.

And not in the way that kept me awake, staring at the ceiling, acutely aware she was sleeping just one thin wall away.