Page 1 of Wild About the Mountain Guide (Maplewood Springs #2)

Peyton

I’ve been cursing my editor’s whole get out of your comfort zone idea since getting on this bus, but the driver’s expression as I step off onto the gravel in Maplewood Springs seals the deal.

His look clearly says city girl’s about to die .

I hope he’s wrong, though. Just because I write thrillers for a living doesn’t mean I want to end up dead.

I squint in the morning light and take in the quaint mountain town’s Main Street, lined with log cabin storefronts and hanging flower baskets.

In the distance, the mountains rise like a wall of green and granite.

Pine trees tower overhead and carry the scent of…

well, the outdoors. Lots of people pay good money to travel to a place like this.

They probably hit the trails the minute they step off the bus, bouncing along with pockets full of trail mix and electrolyte packets.

Not me. I’m not exactly the outdoorsy type.

I glance at the glossy brochure in my hands, even though I’ve read the thing front to back over ten times already.

The words Spirit of the Wild: W ilderness Retreat are written across a picture of towering pines and misty peaks.

My publisher’s voice still echoes in my head from that dreadful phone call three weeks ago.

“Peyton, darling,” Melissa said, her tone dripping with that particular brand of sweetness that always preceded bad news. “I’ve been thinking about your creative block, and I have the most brilliant solution.”

I should’ve hung up then and there, but the six-figure advance sitting in my bank account stopped me from doing that, and Melissa knew it well enough.

“You desperately need inspiration for your next thriller, don’t you? And given the rather substantial advance we provided…” She let that hang in the air like a threat. “Well, I think some fresh mountain air is exactly what you need to get those creative juices flowing again.”

I almost choked on my coffee. “Mountain air? Melissa, I don’t think—”

“Oh, but I do think, sweetie. In fact, I know . You need to get completely off-grid. No distractions, no excuses, no electronics. Just you, nature, and that brilliant mind of yours.” Her laugh sounded like she was auditioning for the role of the evil stepmother in Snow White.

“Instead of staring at blank chapter headings, you can focus on trail markers. And those dark mountain nights? Perfect for getting into that deliciously creepy headspace your thriller requires.”

It wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order, disguised as a self-care retreat. Just thinking about going off the grid made my palms sweat.

“The retreat starts Monday,” she continued breezily. “I’ve already handled the registration and flights. It’s held in a small mountain town called Maplewood Springs. Absolutely adorable and perfect for beating your writer’s block. Our treat! Consider it an investment in your artistic development.”

An investment. Right. More like literary exile with a scenic view.

The worst part? Melissa was probably right.

I desperately need inspiration, but I didn’t think hiking boots and bug spray would do the trick.

Why couldn’t she have sent me on a luxurious wellness retreat instead?

Somewhere tropical with over-water bungalows and room service that didn’t involve foraging for berries.

Hot saunas, infinity pools, and massages would’ve been a better choice to get me writing again.

But no, I landed in a town that probably has more bears than coffee shops, and I’m about to spend a week pretending I’m the kind of person who enjoys sleeping in a tent and eating food cooked over an open fire.

And I’ll have to summit a mountain. Gosh, I need my caffeine fix before I can even think about the outdoorsy things waiting for me.

I glance down Main Street and spot a cute-looking bakery called Summit Sweets, complete with window boxes overflowing with wildflowers. The bell above the door chimes as I enter, and I’m immediately hit with the smell of fresh-baked cookies and cinnamon.

“Welcome to Summit Sweets!” a woman behind the counter greets me. “You must be here for the retreat.”

I self-consciously run a hand through my hair.

“Is it that obvious?” I ask as I approach the counter.

“Well, you’re carrying the Spirit of the Wild brochure like it’s a lifeline, and you’ve got that deer-in-headlights look. Sorry.” She gives me a smile. “I’m Amelia. What can I get you?”

“The largest coffee you have and something with enough sugar to help me survive the next week.”

“Coming right up. You know, I’ve had a few people stop by today carrying those same brochures. The woman over there has been raving about the retreat for the past ten minutes. You could join her if you wanted to.”

I follow Amelia’s gaze to a corner table where a woman in flowing hemp pants and approximately seventeen crystal necklaces is practically vibrating with excitement. She has a serene smile that suggests she finds deep meaning in homegrown tomatoes and cuddles trees for fun.

“—and Spirit of the Wild just speaks to my soul, you know?” she says to her phone screen. “It’s like the universe is calling us to reconnect with our primal selves. To strip away the artifice of modern life and commune with the raw, untamed essence of nature.”

Okay, she sounds a bit out there, but kudos to her for knowing the word artifice.

“Her name’s Harmony,” Amelia whispers conspiratorially as she hands me my coffee and a delicious-looking cinnamon roll. “She’s been here since sunrise, meditating with her crystals and talking about chakras. Sweet as pie, but she’s got enough spiritual energy to power a small generator.”

Unfortunately, Harmony notices me staring at her and waves enthusiastically. “Babe! Are you here for the transformative journey too?”

Babe?

I raise my coffee in what I hope passes for a friendly gesture. “That’s me. Ready to transform.”

She claps her hands. “Oh, the synchronicity! I just know this retreat is going to awaken something profound in all of us. The moment I saw the brochure, I knew it would be life-changing. Don’t you love how the name captures the mystical essence of our connection to Mother Earth?”

I take a large gulp of coffee to avoid answering immediately.

The truth is, I think Spirit of the Wild sounds like a New Age yoga class had a baby with a camping supply store.

What kind of mountain guide comes up with a name like that?

I’m picturing someone who probably has strong opinions about organic granola and refers to hiking as “earth kissing.”

“It’s… evocative,” I finally manage.

“Exactly! My creative chakras are aligning just thinking about it. What about you? Are you a spiritual facilitator like me?”

“No, I write psychological thrillers,” I say, watching her face light up like I’ve told her I commune with spirits for a living.

“Oh, my goodness, yes, babe! The darkness and light, the tension between civilization and our wild nature…” She smiles.

“You’re going to have such incredible breakthroughs out there.

In fact, I’m working on a manuscript about crystal healing and past-life regression myself. Maybe we could exchange writing tips?”

I nod and smile, but inside, I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into. If this is my fellow retreat-goer, what will the guide be like? Some bearded guy in Birkenstocks who wants us to hug trees and write haikus about our feelings? I suddenly feel a bit sick.

“Do you know where I can find the bus timetable?” I ask Amelia, ready to get out of here.

I’ll come up with an excuse later. Something dramatic like a bee attack. Maybe I could even fake a sprained ankle. Heck, I write thrillers for a living, so I should be able to come up with a convincing medical emergency.

But as I’m about to bolt, my phone buzzes with a text from Melissa:

Hope you’re settling in! Can’t wait to hear about your wilderness inspiration. Remember, we need that manuscript in eight weeks, or else…

Eight weeks. I clutch my coffee tighter and look out the window at the towering mountains. Guess I can kiss the whole bolting idea goodbye. It’s no use anyway. Melissa would be fuming and still wouldn’t have a finished manuscript.

The bell above the door chimes. I look up, expecting another weirdo who signed up for this retreat, but a tall, bearded, muscular man walks in. I instinctively step aside to make room for him.

“Morning, Amelia,” he says as he approaches the counter. “Can I get an extra-large coffee to go and a couple of your signature cinnamon rolls?”

She smiles. “Sure. Tough day ahead?”

“More like a tough week. The guys and I all picked straws to decide who would lead the Spirit of the Wild retreat. Except for Sawyer. He got a pass because he’s about to become a father. I’m the unlucky guy who drew the short straw. Again.”

I almost choke on my coffee. This guy is going to lead the retreat?

He looks nothing like the tree-hugging hippie I imagined.

On the contrary. He looks tough with a side of grumpy and moves with a confidence that makes me suspect he’s brilliant with an axe—and I don’t mean that in the thriller novel, murdering kind of way.

“It’s only one week, Knox. You’ll be fine.”

“Fine? I’ve got a group of city folks who think they’re going to find their ‘authentic selves’ by sleeping under the stars for a week.

Half of them have probably never been more than ten feet from a Starbucks.

Some of them even love the name. Spirit of the Wild…

” He pronounces it as if it physically hurts him to do so.

“We came up with it as a silly marketing ploy, and it stuck. Unfortunately.”

I take another gulp of coffee and try to shrink further into a corner, but Harmony has other plans.

“Excuse me,” she calls out, walking over to us. “Are you our guide? I’m Harmony, and this is—” She gestures toward me with the enthusiasm of someone introducing a celebrity.

“Peyton Reed,” I stammer.

Knox turns to us, and I get my first good look at him. Dark hair with even darker eyes, and a jawline that could probably cut glass. He also looks like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world than here talking to us.

I tell myself I’m intimidated by his vibe. That the flustered sensation in my chest has nothing to do with the way his eyes flick to mine and linger longer than necessary.

“You two here for the Spirit of the Wild retreat? If so, then yes, I’m your guide,” he confirms.

“Oh, this is so exciting!” Harmony claps her hands, making her seventeen crystal necklaces jingle like wind chimes. “I can already sense your connection to the earth’s energy. You have such a grounded aura.”

Knox’s expression suggests he doesn’t believe in auras, but he manages a tight smile. “Right. Well, we’ll be meeting at the Hartley Peak Adventures Outpost in an hour. I hope you both brought appropriate gear.”

I catch him looking at my designer jeans and leather ankle boots.

“Define appropriate,” I squeak.

The briefest flash of what might be amusement crosses his face before it’s replaced by professional resignation. “Hiking boots would be a start. Weather-appropriate clothing is a must. And basic survival instincts are a plus.”

“I brought crystals for protection!” Harmony offers.

“Great,” Knox mutters. “I suggest you ladies drop by Maple’s Outfitters before we start. I’m not joking about the appropriate gear. The mountains are unforgiving.”

“Unforgiving of fashion mistakes?” Harmony asks in a surprised voice.

Knox grits his teeth. “No, of human life.”

He grabs his coffee and heads for the door, pausing long enough to look back at us with a frown. Then he’s gone.

Okay, so… I’m about to spend a week in the wilderness with a man who looks like he could bench press a bear and clearly thinks I’m about as useful as a chocolate teapot. Maybe I can quickly break a leg and get out of here after all.

“Isn’t he magnetic?” Harmony sighs dreamily. “All that masculine, earthy energy. I bet he’s a Scorpio.”

Magnetic. Right. More like magnetically repelling what little outdoorsy confidence I had left.