Page 1 of Mountain Grump Protector

Chapter One

Willow

The envelope in my pocket has exactly $200 in it. It's not enough. I already know it's not enough, but I put my car in park outside of the Rusty Nail anyway.

Because I’m out of options.

I hope like hell it works.

I take a deep breath and toss my hair over my shoulder, wishing I’d brought an elastic to tie it back. It’s a hot July night, and I can’t stop sweating. Either that, or it’s the stress of what I’m about to walk into, getting to me.

No one ever expects it to get hot in the mountains, especially this high up, but the truth is, we get our fair share of heat.

Even in Iron Peak.

Summers were nicer when we lived on the other side of the valley in Rock Creek. Everything was nicer then.

But there’s no point dwelling on that particular life change.

Especially not now.

I need to focus.

The Rusty Nail isn’t the type of place to let your guard down. I set my jaw, hoping I look tougher than I feel, and pull the heavy door open, stepping inside to the dark, dank bar.

Instantly, I feel every eye in the place on me. Chairs scrape, someone coughs, and I know without looking that I’ve become the focus of every man in the place.

I work hard to keep my face neutral, bored even as I slowly scan the dimly lit room for my target. There’s only a handful of people inside, and unfortunately, I know most of them. Or I know of them.

Iron Peak is a small town. Everyone knows everyone, whether they want to or not, and the men in this bar…I definitely don’t want to know them.

Unfortunately for me, they are the reason I’m here this evening. Well, them and my deadbeat younger brother, who has a habit of creating trouble right before he runs from it.

Leaving me to do the cleanup.

Every time.

My eyes land briefly on the man sitting at the bar, a glass of whiskey in front of him. I’ve seen him before, but not often. He’s one of them.

A man of the mountain.

It’s a stupid name, but it’s how the locals refer to the ex-military men who more or less bought up all the land on the mountain decades ago and live up there by themselves.

Well, mostly by themselves. Lately, there have been rumors that some of the men of the mountain have managed to attract wives.

I can see why.

Even seated, I can tell he’s a massive wall of muscle, and even from my distance with the dim lighting, I can see he’s sexy as hell.

If mountain men almost twice your age are your kind of thing.

And they most definitely are not mine.

I shake off the distraction and return my attention to the entire reason I’ve set foot inside this dingy hole.

I spot my target near the back. Ronnie Hatch.

He’s the kind of man who takes up more space than he’s earned. Heavyset, with greasy hair and a permanent scowl on his pockmarked face.