Page 5 of Mountain Man

“Hank,” he muttered. “Hank Smith.”

Hank. It suited him. “Thank you, Hank. For this.” I motioned to my foot. “And for carrying me to safety. If it wasn’t for you I’d be…” Dead. This man might not like strangers, might prefer his own company, but my weariness was fast evaporating with each passing minute. He’d done nothing to make me think he intended to hurt me, and it wasn’t like he hadn’t had opportunity. For the time being I was stuck there, and Hank was the only thing protecting me from what lay beyond that cabin door. “Anyway, I’m Birdie. Birdie Winters. Thank you for saving my life. What you did was amazing, and I owe you.”

“It was nothing,” he said, looking uncomfortable.

“It wasn’t nothing. God, how far did you have to carry me?”

He shrugged his big shoulders. “Four, maybe five miles.”

My mouth dropped open. “Five miles?”

He shrugged again.

“How did you…I mean, I’m no lightweight…how did you carry me that far?”

He frowned, an expression that said he thought what I was saying made no sense. “I’ve carried deer more than twice the size of you.” Then he turned away again—like what he said was a full explanation, and his feat of immense strength was nothing—and stirred his stew. Which was starting to smell amazing, its rich aroma filling the small cabin.

“What kind of name is Birdie?” he asked suddenly, back still to me, his deep voice making my lower belly quiver.

“Well, it’s a family name. My grandmother was named Birdie.”

He grunted again.

I opened my mouth to say something and my stomach growled. Loudly.

His head swiveled on his thick neck, eyes coming back to me, and I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I saw his lips twitch behind that thick beard. No, I was sure of it, because his eyes lit up as well.

And the effect was breathtaking.

2

Hank

I was trying to ignore her, but it wasn’t working.

Throughout my life, I’d turned ignoring people into a fine art. Now no one bothered me, accept for my twin brother, Beau.

But the woman behind me…

Images of her near-naked body fired through my mind. I felt my face heat again and willed my body to calm the hell down. What kind of sick asshole got hard over an unconscious woman? A woman who would probably be dead if I’d found her even fifteen minutes later.

I had.

I’d tried not to look as I’d stripped her bare, as I’d pulled off her wet clothes as quickly as I could, and put her in my bed. I’d done the only thing I knew to warm her up. I used my body. But as soon as her soft, full curves had pressed against mine, the fucker between my legs had swelled and stiffened until I was in pain.

Guilt had socked me in the gut. Disgusted with myself over my reaction to a defenseless woman.

Thank the Lord she hadn’t woken up when I was in that state. She was scared enough of me as it was. Most women were. Not that I’d encountered many. My face heated again when I thought about the one time I had. The fumbling overeager rutting that was over too fast with the only woman I’d touched intimately. Fifteen minutes of humiliation, arranged by my grandfather on my nineteenth birthday.

I shoved that thought away, grabbed a bowl, and ladled in some stew. I might suck at conversation—hell, at everything when I wasn’t solo—but I could at least feed her and keep her warm. I had plenty of meat and vegetables, flour, eggs. Enough supplies to last a few weeks if we were snowed in that long.

The thought had me fumbling with the spoon I’d just picked up.

Another gut punch, only this time it wasn’t guilt that caused it, it was something else, something I had no right even thinking about, but when I turned to her, dressed in my shirt, sitting in my bed, it was all I could think about.

Birdie was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen.

I dumped the spoon in the bowl, strode over, and handed it to her.