Page 8 of The Mountain Man’s Untamed Bride (Mountain Man Sanctuary #4)

"Honey, the only truffles around here are the chocolate ones near the register, and they've been there since Valentine's."

I grabbed a basket and began loading it with necessities, leaving Scarlett to her culinary crisis. By the time I'd gathered everything on my list, she'd assembled her own collection of items—mostly snacks with bright packaging and ingredients I couldn't pronounce.

"Comfort food," she explained when she caught me eyeing her selections. "A girl needs her emergency chocolate."

After paying (and enduring more of Mabel's not-so-subtle inquiries about our "arrangement"), we loaded the supplies into the truck.

"Flint's next," I announced, nodding toward Hawk's Nest Outfitters across the street. "Need to pick up a propane tank."

"The one who signed you up for Mountain Mates?" Scarlett asked. "This should be fun."

"For you, maybe."

Hawk's Nest Outfitters was housed in what used to be a hardware store before the lumber mill closed down. Flint and his wife Josie had transformed it into an outdoor enthusiast's paradise, stocking everything from high-end fishing gear to bear-proof food containers.

Josie spotted us first, her eyes widening as she took in Scarlett's carefully curated appearance. "Bodhi! And you must be Scarlett!" She rushed forward, wiping her hands on her jeans before offering one to Scarlett. "I'm Josie Hawthorne. So wonderful to meet you!"

Josie's enthusiasm was genuine if overwhelming. At thirty-eight, she had the energy of a teenager and a no-nonsense attitude that had kept Flint in line since kindergarten. Her dark hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail, and her smile was warm enough to melt permafrost.

"Flint's in the back," she told me, already guiding Scarlett toward a display of women's hiking boots. "He'll be thrilled you're here."

"Thrilled" was not the word I would have chosen for Flint's reaction when I found him arranging fishing tackle. "Gleeful" or "insufferably smug" seemed more accurate.

"She came!" he exclaimed, abandoning his task to slap me on the shoulder. "I told you it would work!"

"You told me she was a sweet, traditional girl who wanted the simple life," I hissed, keeping my voice low. "Not a high-maintenance city princess who thinks a curling iron is essential survival gear."

Flint peered around the shelving unit to where Scarlett was examining a sleeping bag with an expression of horror. "She's wearing diamond earrings and that tiny dress to shop for bear spray," he observed. "What did you DO?"

"Nothing! She came this way! Like an invasive species in heels!"

"But why is she so...?" He made a vague gesture encompassing Scarlett's entire being.

"Because her profile was as fake as yours was for me," I growled. "She's not who she claimed to be. And now I'm stuck with her, at least temporarily."

Flint studied me for a moment, then grinned. "You like her."

"I do not."

"You do. I can tell. You've got that same look you had when you found that abandoned bluejay with the broken wing. All grumpy on the outside but secretly planning to nurse it back to health."

"She's not a bluejay."

"No, she's much prettier. And probably has better personal hygiene."

I glared at him, but before I could respond, Josie called out from the front. "Bodhi! Scarlett wants to know if the mini bear spray comes in pink!"

Flint's barely suppressed laughter followed me as I went to rescue Scarlett from what appeared to be a standoff with a display of survival gear.

"It's not fashion, it's function," I explained, taking the canister from her manicured fingers. "The color is irrelevant when a 400-pound grizzly is charging."

"Everything is better in the right color," she insisted.

"It's a scientific fact." She scanned the display again, lips pursed in disappointment.

"If I'm going to face certain death by bear, the least you could do is let me look cute while doing it.

Pink would complement my complexion when they find my remains. "

I couldn't tell if she was joking or completely serious. The worrying part was, I suspected it was the latter.

Despite myself, I felt the corner of my mouth twitch. Her absurdity was oddly refreshing after years of stoic military logic.

We left with the propane tank, two rolls of duct tape, and a bright red emergency whistle that Josie insisted was "perfect for Scarlett."

As we loaded the supplies into the truck, I noticed Scarlett checking her phone again, despite my warning about the lack of service. She'd been doing it repeatedly—a nervous tic that suggested more than simple social media withdrawal.

"What are you running from?" I asked bluntly as we pulled away from the outfitters.

Her fingers stilled on the screen, but her expression remained carefully neutral. "Just the tyranny of good Wi-Fi and indoor plumbing," she deflected with a flip of her hair.

I raised an eyebrow, not buying it for a second. "You check that phone every five minutes like you're expecting bad news, even though there's no service."

"It's a habit," she shrugged. "Like how you probably check the sky before deciding what to wear."

I let it drop, recognizing a defensive wall when I saw one. Whatever she was hiding, she wasn't ready to share it yet.

As we approached the town's only intersection, I noticed an unfamiliar vehicle parked near the gas station—a sleek black Mercedes with tinted windows that stood out like a penguin at a chicken convention.

The driver appeared to be taking photos of the street with a professional camera fitted with a long-range lens.

"Tourist," Scarlett suggested when she noticed my attention. "Probably documenting authentic small-town America for their Instagram."

But something about the car made my instincts buzz with warning. In my experience, people who could afford vehicles like that didn't "discover" places like Promise Ridge by accident.

As we passed, the driver lowered the camera just enough for me to glimpse dark sunglasses and the edge of what appeared to be an expensive suit.

I made a mental note of the license plate, filing away the detail with the same automatic response I'd developed in Afghanistan—potential threat, monitor situation, gather intelligence.

"What's wrong?" Scarlett asked, noticing my tension.

"Nothing," I lied, not wanting to alarm her without confirmation. "Just thinking about what to make for dinner with our new goods."

She seemed to accept this, returning to her contemplation of the passing trees. But my mind was working through scenarios, calculating risks and responses.

If she really was running from something—or someone—my peaceful mountain existence was about to become significantly more complicated.

And I wasn't entirely sure how I felt about the fact that my first instinct wasn't irritation, but fierce protectiveness.