This cabin was supposed to be my second chance. My clean slate. The silver lining in the mess of my uncle’s death and the failure of my marriage. I couldn’t get distracted by a mountain man fond of breaking and entering.
While he got dressed, I jogged back to my car and popped the trunk. It was only a fraction of what I owned; the rest still sat in storage miles away. I’d packed my clothes and toiletries, plus my laptop since I worked remotely. I hauled my leopard-print suitcase out of the trunk with ease, thanks to a lifetime of physical activity. Uncle Walt had instilled a habit of hard work and physical labor in me early.
The crisp mountain air felt good in my lungs, but I didn’t take the time to enjoy it. I could do that later, for now, I needed to stake my claim.
By the time I carried the last bag to the door, the man had returned, mercifully wearing clothes. His feet were bare on the hardwood. He wore his jeans slung low on his hips and a gray t-shirt that did nothing to hide the definition underneath.
He watched me drag a suitcase over the threshold. “What are you doing?”
“Moving my stuff into my cabin,” I said, planting my feet.
He exhaled through his nose, his dark hazel eyes looking even darker. “Walt left this place to me. I can prove it.” He set a piece of paper on the counter. I stepped forward cautiously and leaned over to read it.
To Whom It May Concern,
I, Walter Dorsey, residing in Iron Peak, Colorado, being of sound mind and acting of my own free will, state the following:
The letter continued in tidy, typed paragraphs, naming the property and leaving it to Grant Callahan. The signature was there. As was the notary stamp and a bunch of legalese.
My jaw tightened. “I’m assuming Grant Callahan is you.”
He nodded. “And you are?”
“Kara,” I said, absently playing with the end of my ponytail.
He nodded. “He mentioned you all the time. Not that you were prone to breaking and entering, though.”
I ignored that. “This is notarized.”
“Well yeah. He didn’t promise it to me by blowing on a dandelion.”
I stared at the document, mind racing. “Your notary letter has a date on it. So does the will. I’ll contact my uncle’s lawyer. Whichever is more recent is the one that counts.”
“Sounds reasonable,” he said easily. “Let me know what you find out.”
He started herding me toward the door, his bigger body blocking mine from getting further into the room.
I bristled. “Hold on. I’m not going anywhere.”
He crossed those thick arms again. “What do you think I’m going to do? Steal the cabin and run off with it?”
“I don’t know anything about you,” I countered. “You live out here in the woods alone. You could be a thief or a serial killer for all I know.”
“You want to live in a cabin in the middle of nowhere too,” he pointed out.
“Yeah, well, maybe I’m a serial killer. Better move out before anything happens.”
He huffed a laugh. “I saw you wield a can of pepper spray. I think I’ll be fine.”
“I’m not leaving,” I said simply.
I had compromised too many times trying to save a failing marriage, then compromised again to keep a painful divorce from dragging on until menopause. I wasn’t compromising on this.
“Neither am I,” he said.
“I could call the cops and—”
“And what?” He gestured to the notarized paper. “I have proof this place is mine. All you have is a key and a story.”
