Page 2 of Her Mountain Man Protector

The first shot slaps a chunk of bark off the pine two feet from my ear. “Holy fucking shit,” I scream. I don’t know what happens to me when I’m scared, but apparently my vocabulary goes straight to hell. It’s a problem. Seriously.

I barely make it behind the boulder before Colt Hawthorne grabs my jacket and yanks me down beside him. My camera digs into my ribs on the way down. Ouch. Fog curls around the ridge, swallowing everything in sight. Then another shot cracks through the air.

“Stay down,” he says.

“I’m already down. Duh.” I mean, does he think I’m crouching over here for the scenery?

He doesn't laugh. He checks the tree line like the fog owes him an explanation. He's bigger up close than he looked when I ran into him. Dark flannel. Scuffed boots. A face that treats smiling like a security risk. The kind of mountain man you'd put on a calendar if the calendar also came with a warning label.

"Two shooters," he says. "Maybe three. They're working the trail I used."

"Cool. Love that for us. Do you get shot at often, or is this a special occasion?"

"Quiet."

"I talk when I'm being used for target practice. It's a coping mechanism."

He glances at me like I'm a problem he didn't budget for. "You got a death wish, sunshine?"

"Oakley. We covered this. And no. I wanted fog pictures. Moody water. Maybe a decent bagel later. Nobody mentioned the local welcome committee comes with ammunition."

A third shot punches dirt near the boulder. Colt shifts, putting more of himself between me and the slope. His shoulder is a wall. He smells like woodsmoke and cold air.

"When I say move, you move," he says. "Don't stop for the camera. Don't stop to argue. Don't look back."

"That's a lot of rules for a guy I met four minutes ago."

"Then keep the next four minutes and live."

He doesn't wait for a yes. He grabs my wrist and we go.

We cut along the ridge, staying low. Wet leaves slick under my boots, which I now understand were a fashion choice and a terrible hiking strategy. My pack bounces. Fog keeps ripping holes in the trees and sewing them shut again.

Colt moves like the mountain like he’s done this before. No wasted steps. He pauses at a downed log, listens, then tugs me over it.

"Left," he says.

"Where?"

"The way that isn't toward the guys with guns."

"Helpful."

We slide down a short bank. My boot catches a root and I go sideways. He hauls me upright without slowing down, one arm banded around my waist like I weigh about as much as his bad mood.

"You always crash into strangers in the woods?" he asks.

"Only the ones who look like they live here year round and eat their feelings in silence."

"I don't eat my feelings."

"Sure. You bury them under flannel."

He makes a sound that might be a growl. Another shot cracks behind us, farther off this time. They're still coming.

We hit a deer path. Fog thins enough that I catch the gray smear of town roofs way below, then it closes again. My camera strap keeps sliding. I shove it back and keep running.

"Why were you even up here?" I ask.