Page 9 of Mountain Man

I’d been on my own for a long time. Even when my mom had been alive I’d spent most of my time alone while she worked. There had been many occasions in my life when I’d felt unsafe or scared.

When was the last time someone held me? I couldn’t remember.

I didn’t have many friends. Well, you couldn’t really call the people I spent time with friends so much as coworkers. I’d never had a best friend—we’d never stayed in one place long enough. We’d moved a lot when I was a kid, never put down roots.

I’d lost my mom eighteen months ago, and it turned out I was as restless a soul as she’d been. I was still living that life, sticking to myself, never staying in one place too long, and as nice as hugs and friends were, that was how I liked it.

That didn’t mean I didn’t want to feel close to someone, to feel a connection to another human being from time to time.

It had definitely been a while between times, though.

When I moved to Eaglewood six months ago, I’d busied myself with work, with the small garden at the house I rented, and my hobbies. I hadn’t tried to meet anyone. I was also used to taking care of myself.

But I could admit that having Hank do that for me felt nice.

Really nice.

Heat radiated from his big body, and I was plastered to his side, but it wasn’t enough. “Can you…w-will you p-put your arms around me?” I asked, teeth still chattering a little.

He said not one thing, just grunted and unfolded his arms. I immediately took advantage and slid in closer. A shudder moved though me when I was finally surrounded with his intense warmth.

Slowly, the heat of his body soaked in, warming me in a way that was bone deep. My eyes got heavy and my limbs relaxed. I didn’t have the strength to move away, my muscles feeling sluggish after being so tense from cold. My eyelids drifted shut.

I’d move soon.

3

Birdie

A loud, repetitive sound dragged me from my sleep, and I lay there for several seconds trying to work out what it was. A kind of whack/thump combo that made me jump every time I heard it. I sat up, shoved my hair off my face, and looked around the cabin.

I was alone.

Which meant the sound I heard was being made by Hank, since no one was getting on or off this mountain with the amount of snow currently outside. Pushing the covers back, I climbed out of bed and winced when my bare feet hit the worn rug by the bed. Even with the fire roaring, cold seeped through, plus my ankle was still smarting. I looked down. It was still quite swollen and bruised, but better than the day before.

My clothes were still on the rack above the fire, and since I had no clue how to work the thing and get it down, I limped to the dresser where Hank had gotten me socks last night and pulled open the top drawer. After a quick search, I discovered sweaters, pants, thermals, hats, and gloves. The cabin was well stocked.

There was no way I’d fit any of the pants, but I fished out a pair of thermal bottoms and tugged them on. They were way too big, so I bunched up the excess fabric, pulled my hair tie from my wrist, and secured it. Next, I dragged on a big green jumper over the shirt I’d already borrowed, followed by a pair of thick socks.

The sweater smelled like Hank mixed with that unmistakable scent of wool. Real wool, not that synthetic stuff, and was obviously hand knitted. It was well worn, had several spots that had been patched over the years, and was snuggly and warm. I pulled on a hat and headed for the door.

Yep, my ankle had definitely improved because I managed to slide both feet into my boots. I unhooked one of Hank’s huge jackets by the door and tugged it on. It swamped me even more than the jumper.

I headed outside. It was snowing again. Maybe it hadn’t stopped—I had no idea—though it was lighter than last night. I headed to the outhouse, quickly did my business, and then followed the whack/thud sound to the back of the cabin.

I found Hank.

He was chopping wood.

Oh my.

My mouth went dry.

He was wearing those outdoorsy-type pants that were cargo but also waterproof, and they fit him like a glove. He was also wearing a white thermal top with a blue and black checkered shirt over the top. Both had the sleeves rolled up revealing muscular, corded forearms. His longish hair was poking out the sides of a faded red woolen hat.

I watched as he picked up a chunk of wood, placed it on a large stump, then swung his axe. He brought it down hard with one mighty hit, rending the wood in two like it was a twig, not a massive branch. He bent forward, picked one piece up, and flung it onto the pile he’d already chopped.

I couldn’t take my eyes off him. I mean I knew he was strong—he’d carried me five freaking miles—but still. The man amazed me.