Page 7 of The Mountain Man’s Untamed Bride (Mountain Man Sanctuary #4)

“The Invasive Species ”

Bodhi

"We're out of eggs."

I stared at the empty carton in my refrigerator, mentally calculating how long I could survive on jerky and canned beans before admitting defeat. Not long enough.

"Already?" Scarlett appeared in the kitchen doorway wearing a sundress so short and tight it looked painted on, her legs impossibly long and bare in the morning light.

I nearly choked on my own breath, forcing my eyes to stay on her face rather than the expanse of skin the tiny dress revealed. My hand tightened involuntarily on the refrigerator door as blood rushed to places that made rational thought difficult.

"I thought we just had eggs for breakfast yesterday," she continued, seemingly oblivious to my reaction as she stretched languidly against the doorframe.

The deliberate way she arched her back and tilted her head wasn't lost on me—this was no innocent morning stretch but a calculated move designed to draw my attention to her curves. I wasn't falling for it. Much.

"We did. You also used half a dozen in your..." I searched for a diplomatic term, "...culinary experiment."

Her lips twitched. "You mean my foam party?"

"That's one way to put it." I closed the refrigerator, resigned to the inevitable. "We need supplies. Town trip."

Her eyes lit up like I'd just announced an all-expenses-paid vacation instead of a forty-minute drive to Promise Ridge's excuse for a commercial district. "Town? As in civilization? With actual shops?"

"One shop," I corrected. "Mabel's General Store. And Hawk's Nest Outfitters if you need camping gear."

"I'd rather eat live spiders," she muttered, then brightened. "But a store means people! And probably cell service!"

"Spotty at best," I warned, but she was already rushing back to her room, leaving me to wonder how anyone could be so excited about Mabel's collection of canned goods and fishing tackle.

I grabbed my keys and wallet, mentally preparing for the ordeal ahead. Taking Scarlett to town was like bringing a tropical bird to the Arctic—nothing good could come of it.

Twenty minutes later, I was still waiting by the truck when her voice called from inside the cabin.

"Bodhi! I need help!"

I found her in the bathroom, surrounded by enough beauty products to stock a small pharmacy. The tiny counter was covered with bottles, tubes, and things I couldn't identify if my life depended on it. She was holding what looked like a metal wand connected to a cord.

"What's wrong?"

"I can't get this to work." She waved the metal instrument. "Your outlets are weird."

I stared at the device. "What is that, a weapon?"

She laughed. "It's a curling iron. For my hair?"

"Your hair looks fine," I said automatically. It was more than fine—it was like living flame cascading over her shoulders—but admitting that seemed dangerous.

"Sweet, but not helpful." She held out the curling iron. "I've tried every outlet, but nothing's working."

I took the device, examining it critically. "Too much power draw. The solar system prioritizes essentials—refrigerator, basic lighting. Hair appliances didn't make the cut."

Her face fell in a way that seemed disproportionate to the situation. "So I can't fix my hair at all?"

Something about her expression—a vulnerability I hadn't seen before—made me hesitate instead of dismissing her concern outright.

"Show me what you're trying to do."

Twenty minutes and a crash course in the mysteries of hair curling later, I found myself standing behind Scarlett, awkwardly twisting sections of her hair around my fingers to create loose waves.

Her improvised solution involved me wrapping strands around my fingers while she counted to thirty, then carefully releasing them into what she called "finger curls. "

"You're actually pretty good at this," she remarked, watching me in the mirror as I fumbled with another section of silky red hair. "Those ranger skills transferring to hair styling?"

"Rope work," I muttered, trying to ignore how intimate this felt. "Similar principle."

"Ah yes, because women's hair and tactical gear are practically the same thing."

Her scent—something floral and expensive—filled the small bathroom, making it hard to concentrate.

Each time my fingers brushed against her neck, she would inhale slightly, and I found myself deliberately letting my knuckles graze the sensitive skin more often than necessary.

Standing this close, I could see the freckles dusting her shoulders where her sundress left them exposed.

"There," I finally said, stepping back before I did something stupid. "Will that work?"

She examined herself critically in the mirror, then smiled. "Not bad, mountain man. Not bad at all."

I escaped to the truck, needing fresh air and distance. What was happening to me? I'd survived firefights with more composure than I was showing around this woman.

Just as I thought we might finally leave, she reappeared in the doorway, calling for assistance again. This time, she was holding what looked like tiny black spiders.

"I need help with my lashes," she announced.

"Your what?"

"Eyelashes. False ones." She held up the tiny strips. "I can't see properly to apply them."

"We're going to Mabel's," I reminded her. "Not a photo shoot."

Her eyebrows shot up. "A girl has to have her face on, even in the wilderness. Now help me with these lashes." She thrust a small tube toward me. "Put a tiny dot of glue on the strip, then place it on my lash line. Easy."

Nothing about this seemed easy.

Fifteen excruciating minutes later, with Scarlett directing me like a general commanding troops ("No, not there! Higher! Thinner line of glue! Careful, you'll poke my eye out!"), we had successfully applied what appeared to be caterpillars to her eyelids.

"Perfect!" She batted her newly enhanced lashes at me. "What do you think?"

"I think we've wasted an hour on cosmetic enhancements for a trip to buy eggs."

She seemed unperturbed by my grumpiness, dabbing something glossy on her full lips. "Beauty is never a waste of time, Bodhi. It's an investment."

"In what?"

"In making people underestimate you." She winked, brushing past me to the truck. "Let's go to town."

***

The drive to Promise Ridge was silent except for Scarlett's occasional gasp when we hit a particularly vicious pothole. She spent most of the journey checking her appearance in a compact mirror, adjusting things that looked perfectly fine to me.

"This is it?" she asked as we pulled into what generously could be called the town center. "This is the entire town?"

Promise Ridge's main street consisted of exactly four buildings: Mabel's General Store (which also housed the post office), Hawk's Nest Outfitters, The Ridge Diner, and a gas station with a single pump that had been displaying the "Be Right Back" sign for approximately three years.

"Welcome to metropolis," I deadpanned, parking in front of Mabel's.

"It's... quaint," she offered, which I interpreted as city-speak for "horrifyingly primitive."

Mabel Kovacs was restocking sacks of rice when we entered, the bell above the door announcing our arrival with an unnecessarily cheerful jingle.

At seventy-five, Mabel had the energy of someone half her age and the vocabulary of a sailor twice it.

Her blue-dyed hair was piled atop her head in what she called her "don't-give-a-damn updo. "

She peered over her reading glasses as we approached, her shrewd eyes cataloging Scarlett's tiny sundress, carefully applied makeup, and the diamond studs in her ears that probably cost more than Mabel's monthly inventory.

"Well, well," she drawled, setting down her price gun.

"If it isn't the Unabomber himself, gracing us with his presence.

And company!" She turned her attention fully to Scarlett.

"This the mail-order? Huh. Thought Flint ordered you someone who could milk a goat.

This one looks like she'd milk a credit card. "

I suppressed a groan. "Mabel, this is Scarlett. Scarlett, this is Mabel. She owns the store and apparently all the bad manners in the county."

"Pleasure," Scarlett replied, extending her hand like she was meeting royalty instead of a foul-mouthed shopkeeper in overalls.

Mabel shook it, eyeing her with undisguised curiosity. "You actually agreed to marry this grizzly bear? Voluntarily?"

"It's... complicated," Scarlett answered with a polite smile that revealed nothing.

"Ain't it always." Mabel cackled. "Well, consider this your welcome to Promise Ridge, honey. If you need the dirt on your new man, I've got files thicker than the Bible."

"We need eggs," I interjected before this conversation could deteriorate further. "And whatever else is on this list." I handed over the paper I'd scribbled on earlier.

"Help yourselves," Mabel gestured around the store. "I'll get the stuff from the back."

As Mabel disappeared through a swinging door, Scarlett surveyed the small store with the expression of an anthropologist discovering a new civilization.

"I'll be right back," I told her. "Try not to buy out the entire store."

"Wait, where are you—"

"Post office counter," I gestured to the small window at the back. "Need to check if any packages came in."

I left her examining a display of locally made honey with the caution one might reserve for potentially radioactive materials.

After confirming no packages had arrived (which I'd known, but needed an excuse for a moment's peace), I returned to find Scarlett wandering the aisles with increasing dismay.

"But where is the gourmet cheese section?" she was asking Mabel, who had returned with a box of supplies. "The olive bar? Or at least some artisanal bread? How do people LIVE?"

"We live just fine," Mabel replied with the patience of someone who'd fielded similar questions from tourists. "Cheese is in the cooler. White or orange, take your pick."

"That's it? Two options?" Scarlett looked genuinely distressed. "What about brie? Gouda? Aged cheddar with truffles?"