Something About a Mountain Man

by Em Petrova

  God, this man was so contrary. Grumbling over what he’d done for her and his country, what he was about to do for her here, when he had a choice not to do anything at all.

  With a nod, she went outside and took a seat on the stool before the fire. For hours today, she’d been nursing the flames, gathering kindling and feeding it logs. The wood chopping alone would be a part-time job. Hunting seemed to be full-time, not to mention caring for the animals. No wonder the cabin had been in such a state when she’d arrived.

  When she heard Ryan close the cabin door, a prickle of awareness came over her, making the hair on her nape stand on end. He had to be staring at her. She ached to turn and glimpse his face, but she couldn’t lay all her cards on the table at once, could she?

  She worked on the fire while he sank to his haunches with a cookpot and some of the previous day’s salted rabbit.

  “I hope you aren’t going to boil it as you suggested yesterday. I like my teeth and am miles from a dentist.”

  He arched a brow at her, lips hard and firm and so yummy she barely kept from hurling herself across the flames at him. He didn’t respond to her sassy statement but wielded a big sharp knife and began cutting chunks of meat and dropping them into the pot.

  When he had all the meat cut, he set the pot close to the flames but not on the flat piece of iron he used to cook over the fire. Then he got up and disappeared again. Seconds later, he came back with his hands full. A jar of tomatoes and two shriveled-looking carrots.

  “Where’d you rustle those up?” she asked.

  He grunted. “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “Didn’t your momma ever tell you there are no stupid questions? How do you think I’ve learned so much about living rough? I’ve talked to villagers, fishermen, Marines…”

  His gaze snapped to hers and held. For a breathless moment, her insides fluttered. Would their time together the previous night morph into something more?

  Like a relationship?

  Ryan lowered his gaze to the pot and ignored her conversation once more.

  Fine. If he didn’t want to talk, he could listen. She crossed her legs and oh, that got a reaction from him. The man followed the move and seemed to stare directly at the spot between her thighs. For a second, she considered making a show of spreading her legs wide and making him abandon his chef duties for the night.

  But she was hungry. Besides, he was right—she’d done a lot around here. It was time for him to step up to the cookfire. Fair was fair.

  She settled in for a long, one-sided talk.

  “I once spoke at length with this woman in Vancouver who said there are ways of growing vegetables out of season in regions that get a lot of snowfall.”

  He stared at her, unspeaking as she’d known he would be.

  “She said if you build a long box and put it on your warmest side of your house, with a thick cover that still allows some light to penetrate, say a white tarp, that you can grow things like spinach, greens, broad beans—”

  “What the hell’s a broad bean?”

  She shrugged. “Not sure. But you should consider making such a winter greenhouse for the next season.”

  He didn’t reply, just sliced up the carrots without peeling them.

  “Oh, we’re having rustic stew.”

  “What the hell’d you think I was making? Something gourmet? Maybe French?”

  “Actually, the French love using rustic foods in cooking.”

  He shook his head. “Seems like you’d know.”

  “I do know. I’ve been all over the world with my job. Couldn’t be luckier either.”

  He considered her as if wanting to say something.

  She cocked her head to study him. “What is it?”

  “You never want to settle in one place?”

  She pushed out her lips in thought. The chickens were clucking softly and one of the goats gave a low answering bleat.

  “If I settle in one place, I’d eventually run out of things to photograph.”

  Was it her imagination or did his shoulders just droop?

  He dumped the canned tomatoes into the pot and set it on the iron grate on the edge of the flames.

  She leaned forward. “That’s it? No seasoning?”

  He glared at her, twisted off a bit of grass and dropped it into the pot.

  A giggle erupted from her throat and then she threw her head back to laugh hard at what he’d just done. For some reason his solemn expression set her off even more and pretty soon she had to lean forward or risk falling off the stool. She held onto her knees as she cackled like an old hen.

  Ryan made a disgusted noise in his throat in typical Ryan fashion. “You about done?”

  “I don’t… think,” she burst, tears streaming down her face. All of this was so absurd. The man was so resistant to human comforts like a clean bed or well-seasoned food. Hell, he didn’t even bother to dry himself off after a bath. Yet he’d seemed to enjoy the comforts she’d offered him by spending hours in that bed and gobbling her food the previous night, not to mention the fact that she’d seen his eyes close at the feel of the towel moving over his shoulders.

  Her only thought was he believed he didn’t deserve the small comforts that brought joy to life and was resisting her every effort.

  Finally, she gained control of her laughing fit and swiped at the tears collected beneath her eyes. He watched her closely. She took a deep breath and straightened herself on the stool again.

  “You good, Livvy?”

  The question shouldn’t make her giggle, but one leaked out. Then another. Soon she was entering her second impersonation of a hyena and Ryan got up and left the yard.

  While he was gone, she ran into the cabin and got the salt and pepper shakers, almost completely full, confirming he never used them, and dumped some into the pot. She was just stashing them back into the lone crooked cupboard when he returned with several chicken eggs in each hand.

  Her laughter died out as she focused on those big, capable hands. God, she wanted to photograph them. At work, at rest. Even the missing fingers gave her a thrill because it was a badge of his honor.

  “Ryan,” she said hesitantly.

  “Hm?”

  She was glad to hear him adding new ways to groan and grunt to his repertoire.

  “What would you say about me getting my camera out?”

  “As long as it isn’t aimed at me, I won’t stop you.”

  She hopped up and went for her pack. While inside, she changed her top as well. In a flash, she had her camera looped around her neck and was back. Then she twiddled with some lens settings before zooming in on the cookpot.

  He peered in. “What are those black specks?” He looked up at her. “Did you season this?”

  She only smiled and gave him a taste of his own silent treatment as she worked a couple angles, capturing the bright red of the tomatoes against the orange-yellow flames licking the sides of the pot.

  “Are you shooting for a cooking magazine now? I don’t know why this would be so interesting.”

  She raised her camera enough that his boot, shin and knee came into the frame, his wounded hand resting just over his knee inches from the cookpot. Thank God for silent digital equipment—those old cameras would never allow her to be stealthy enough to shoot him without his knowledge.

  She felt a little guilty about not getting his consent, but nobody would see these photographs. When she left the mountain—and the mountain man—she’d only have these images and her memories.

  The thought made her chest ache in a way that was undeniable. Before the blast that had separated them for more than a year, she’d been half in love with Ryan Stone. After one night in his bed, she’d fallen head over hiking boots.

  The revelation had her dropping back to the stool and staring into space for several minutes. She missed Ryan using a stick to draw the pot from the flames without getting burned and only when she heard a cracking noise did she look up.

  “What ar
e you doing?”

  “Cracking eggs into the pan.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll see.”

  The yokes and gooey whites floated in the sea of thickening tomato and carrot rue. Then he poked the pot back into the fire and sat back on his haunches again.

  Hell, she was in love with the man. What was she going to do about it? Walking away would gut her, but she had little choice. She had work calling in Alaska and he was… well, here living it up mountain man style.

  But damn, he looked fine. Back in Afghanistan, she’d seen the man hunch like this for hours on end as he listened to other guys and spoke with his buddies as they lounged during their down-time.

  In bed with Ryan, she’d skimmed her fingers over his thighs and found the wide divot of muscle that had been torn from his body from that grenade. Now that she knew the extent of his injury, it shocked her that he hadn’t bled out, the big artery in his thigh ruined in the blast.

  The only indication it bothered him at all was that he extended it a bit farther than the other. Almost as if he was getting on one knee to—

  She pressed her hands to her heating cheeks and hoped to God she wasn’t about to burst into one of her blushes again. One look at his cocked brow told her she was. Perspiration broke out on her hairline.

  Distraction. She needed something to focus on other than her newfound feelings for the man and how damn hot he’d made her all night long. Would this night be the same? Neither of them had gotten much sleep and he had to be tired after hunting all day.

  “I wish to hell I knew what was going on in your mind, Livvy.” He looked into the pot and she did too, seeing the eggs cooking nicely inside the broth.

  “Oh, it’s Shakshuka,” she exclaimed.

  His brow crinkled. “Um, bless you?”

  His joke delivered in his gritty, unused voice nearly sent her into a laughing fit again.

  “Did you serve in Morocco or visit there?” she asked.

  “We’re talking about Morocco now?”

  “Yes. Wait.” She snapped a few more pics of the dinner that now looked and smelled delicious. When she was finished, she found him staring at her in a way that had her stomach plummeting low and tingles spreading lower.

  He waited patiently while she recovered from the breathless moment.

  She explained, “It’s a Moroccan dish. But minus the rabbit. Though I can see why you’d add both proteins because you need the energy up here just to stay warm.”

  “Are you cold?” He stood abruptly and went into the cabin before she could wrap her head around what he was doing. Freckles followed at his heels as if he’d miss something. Ryan returned with the blanket off his bed—the one that smelled like both of them—and draped it over her shoulders.

  Hmm, for a man who won’t admit he likes taking care of people, he sure does a good job.

  “Thank you.” She pulled the ends to the middle of her chest and cuddled into the warmth it offered. “I can’t believe how cool it gets up here as soon as the sun starts going down.”

  “Hard for the sun to get through the pines in places and the snow never melts,” he said.

  He’d also gotten a couple dishes and spoons while in the cabin. He set these before the fire and removed the pot from the flames once more. She watched him dish out the food, resisting the urge to snap photos.

  He handed her a dish and she cradled it in both hands, breathing in the aroma. Floating in the center were two eggs, perfectly cooked.

  “Do you receive company up here very often?” she asked.

  He started. “Company? Hell no.”

  “Then why do you have two dishes and spoons?”

  “So I don’t have to wash them every day.”

  She chuckled and dipped the spoon into the broth. “Makes sense.”

  Silence descended, easy and filled with warmth as they both ate.

  “You’ve been to Morroco?” he asked between bites. He dropped a piece of rabbit to the ground in front of Freckles, who swallowed it in one gulp.

  “Mm-hmm. Beautiful architecture. The textiles too… I wanted to bring home a whole truckload.”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  “I have a small apartment. I don’t have room to store a truckload of Moroccan fabric.” She raised a shoulder and let it fall. The blanket started to slip, and Ryan reached out and drew it back into place.

  She melted a little more, her insides mushier than the tomatoes in her bowl. If she wasn’t so hungry, she’d get up right now and wrap him in the blanket with her. As soon as her spoon scraped the bottom of the bowl, she was making her movie. Hell, she didn’t care if they even made it to the bed. She was having her way with Ryan for one more night.

  Their gazes locked. Freckles whined but neither looked away to give the dog attention. Livvy’s pulse quickened.

  “Is that your apartment in Virginia?”

  She inhaled with surprise. “You remember me telling you that?”

  He didn’t answer her question but asked another of his own. “Is that where you stay between shoots?” His eyes were liquid brown, gold and green. She couldn’t decide whether to stare into his eyes or at his hard, beautiful—talented—lips.

  “Yes, that’s where I stay, though I don’t have more than a bed, a few pieces of thrifted furniture and a darkroom there.”

  “Where do you keep all your stuff?”

  “What stuff?”

  “A woman has to have stuff. You know, clothes, makeup, perfume. Knickknacks.”

  She smiled. “Not all women have that stuff. I live out of a pack or suitcase more often than not, my clothes wearing out before I replace them. I don’t own dresses, hose or a single pair of heels because I don’t need them.”

  He stared at her unwaveringly, as if seeing her for the first time. Or maybe in a different light.

  She gave a soft laugh but there was no humor in it. “You didn’t think I belonged in Afghanistan.”

  “Hell no. It was no place for someone who wasn’t trained in combat.”

  “You didn’t think I belonged because you saw me as every woman you’ve ever known or at least those you’ve stereotyped—as someone frilly and pampered. But look at me, Ryan.” She used one hand to part the blanket so he could see her shirt that had seen her through the jungle and that she’d donned again after recovering from the fever. The rest of her clothing had traveled through two continents with her and so had her leather boots. How many miles had she put on those?

  His gaze roamed over her, heating her from the inside out more than the stew ever could. Hunger forgotten, she set her bowl aside. He did too. Freckles pounced on the offerings as she and Ryan moved toward each other.

  When she opened the blanket to him, he slid inside with her and wrapped her against his chest as he crushed his mouth over hers. In seconds, the passion spiked to need and soon he was groping her breasts and she was sliding her hands down his muscled abs to the bulge in his jeans.

  He broke away to stare down into her eyes. “Let’s take this inside,” he rumbled.

  Oh yes, she was getting one more night in his arms. Maybe by dawn she’d figure out how to get closer to him or how to walk away.

  * * * * *

  As Ryan carried her through the cabin door, he smacked his shoulder off the doorframe. Pain ran down to his elbow but he kept on going, never removing his mouth from the succulent curve of Livvy’s lips.

  What he wouldn’t give to have a proper countertop to set her on and ravish her. A table to clear with a swipe of his arm. Or a damn bed as fluffy and covered in pillows as a beautiful woman deserved.

  The cabin was cooler than he wanted for her but taking the time to stoke the woodstove would mean precious seconds lost kissing her.

  He flipped his tongue over hers and heard her answering moan. God, her body fit perfectly against him, molded tight to his chest. His cock throbbed with anticipation.

  When he stopped before the bed, she dropped the blanket. It drifted to the floor and pu
ddled at his feet. Without thought, he followed it down, sinking to his knees with her still cradled in his arms. He laid her down slowly, spreading her out on the blanket.

  The way she looked up at him… Fuck, it was a blow to the heart. His chest burned with unsaid words.

  Words he couldn’t say.

  “Ryan.” Her murmur was a lick over his body. He felt it deep in his groin. Balls clenched tight, he leaned over her and kissed her. She pushed up for more, passion leading them both straight to insanity.

  He ran his fingertips over her collarbone down to the buttons on her top. They were too small for him to navigate easily with his big, fumbling fingers, so she helped him until her pale bra was exposed. The fading light streaming in from the skylight allowed him to see every freckle spattered across her upper chest and the crests of her breasts.

  He bowed his head, set on kissing each one. When he flicked his tongue under the cup of her bra, she wiggled with her arms beneath her to pop the clasp. He ripped the bra off with his teeth and a growl.

  “Oh God, Ryan,” she panted. “I need you so bad. I’m burning up.”

  “Good,” he said roughly.

  She threaded her fingers into his hair and guided him from breast to breast and lower to her stomach. He lapped a circle around her navel while she tugged at the strands under her fingers.

  The scent of her skin and arousal drove him on. He got her boots off, followed by her jeans. She seemed to get tangled in her panties as he drew them off her legs, and his instinct was to shred them off her body, but she probably didn’t have more than these and that lacy pair drying outside.

  He leaned back long enough to draw them off and discarded them to the side. Then he reached between his shoulder blades and tugged off his shirt.

  Her eyes dilated, and her chest rose and fell faster. “You’re so damn big and beautiful,” she murmured, her gaze flitting over his chest and lower.

  Fuck, he wanted to go slow, but the way she was looking at him had him shedding the rest of his clothes and stretching atop her.

  “Give me your mouth,” he growled.