Herding city folk through the woods for a living was never part of the plan. I’m a lumberjack by trade, and I’d go back to it in a heartbeat if I could. But my shoulder injury put an end to that. Haven’t been able to swing an axe since it happened.
Might never be able to again.
In the meantime, I still need to earn money, and guided hikes are a pretty reliable source of income out here. Crave County draws tourists all year round, and now that June is approaching, there’s no shortage of work. Things could be worse. Hell, I still get to spend my days in the forest, and most of the hikers do as they’re told and follow my lead without question. But every group has that one cocky asshole who thinks they know better.
This group is no exception.
I clocked him as soon as the hike began: a gangly, greasy-looking college kid who spent the first five minutes trying to walk level with me, like he had something to prove. When he couldn’t keep up any longer, he started complaining loudly to his girlfriend, asking why she’d insisted on a guided hike when he could have found the way himself.
I spy him now in my peripheral vision as we near the lake. He’s running ahead through the trees, clambering over the rocks to my left. He scales them awkwardly, then stops in front of the creek, bending as if he’s about to jump.
“Hey!” I bark. “Stick to the trail.”
The kid looks around with a sneer. “I’m taking ashortcut, man.”
“That’s no shortcut. The other side of that bank is all marsh. Will swallow you up like quicksand, and I sure as hell won’t be jumping in after you.”
For a second, I think he might jump anyway out of sheer spite. But eventually, he turns around and begins the walk of shame back to the group, his face bright red as he rejoins his girlfriend.
“You could have hired a guide who’s less of an asshole,” he mutters to her, loud enough for me to hear.
I don’t dignify the whiny brat with a response. My job isn’t to be nice or stroke egos; my job is shepherding the group through the forest and getting them out again in one piece. People always underestimate the wilderness. When the sun’s out and the forest is lush and green, they feel safe. But all it takes is one wrong move. One mistake. Doesn’t matter how experienced you are—the mountain can still chew you up and spit you back out.
Hell, I should know that better than anyone.
The chatter behind me dies down as we reach the lakeside. I hear a few delighted gasps, and even the college kid whistles like he’s impressed. The water is bright turquoise, so vivid it doesn’t even look real, and several hikers reach for their phones, snapping photos. But I’ve never seen a photo that does this place justice.
“You can rest here for ten minutes,” I grunt, doing a quick head count.
They do as I say, lounging on the rocks and pulling out water bottles and snacks. I keep my distance, trying to avoid being dragged into their conversations as I look out across the water. Locals call this place Lover’s Lake. It’s an old superstition—if you enter Lover’s Lake and wait, your true love will appear on the shore. Bullshit, obviously, but I’m well-versed in the folklore of Cherry Mountain, even if it’s all made up.
“Five more minutes,” I call to the group. “Then we move.”
As the time ticks down, I suddenly feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My skin tightens, adrenaline spiking as I realize I’m being watched. I can feel it. Living in the woodssharpens your senses, your instincts, and right now, mine are screaming at me that there’s something lurking in the trees behind the lake.
Crack.
My head snaps toward the sound. A twig breaking underfoot. Faint but unmistakable. I keep my gaze fixed on the trees, straining my ears for another sound, but I can’t hear anything over the group’s loud chatter.
“Quiet,” I order, raising a hand. “Stop talking.”
They must hear the warning in my voice because they shut up instantly. I don’t look back at them. Instead, I step toward the tree line, scanning the bushy pines for signs of movement. My hand drifts to my bear spray.
“Someone out there?” I call.
There’s a beat of silence. Then I hear movement in the pines.
A footstep.
Definitely human.
I catch a flash of bright pink fabric, then suddenly, a woman steps out of the shadowy forest and onto the sunlit lakefront. I stare at her, and the world turns slow and heavy around me, blurring at the edges.
Holy shit.
She’s beautiful. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Her eyes are as blue as Lover’s Lake, bright and glinting, and my heart thumps as I stare into them. She’s flushed, cheeks red, her pouty pink lips parting as she holds my gaze for several beats too long. I can’t resist taking in the rest of her—the thick curves of her body, filling out her leggings and tank top in a way that makes my blood run hot and fast.
Where the hell did this angel come from?
