Page 18 of Guarded By the Mountain Man

She wasn’t wrong.

My wedding dress is a christening gown now. Nora’s daughter Mayla brought her baby up from High Vale for a fitting last month, and the church sewing circle spent three weeks arguing over who was responsible for which piece of lace.

I didn’t mind seeing it. That surprised me. Maybe because when I look at that dress now, I don’t remember Corbin. I remember headlights and rain and a huge man climbing out of a truck. Silver eyes looking at me like I was something precious before he even knew my last name.

I remember Holt.

Which brings me to this morning and the absolutely terrible lie my mountain man thinks he's getting away with.

“It’s a supply check,” he says.

I look up from lacing my boot. “A supply check?”

“The overlook cache needs restocking before summer.”

He shoulders his pack without looking at me.

What Holt doesn’t know is that I’m aware there is no supply cache at the scenic overlook. I know this because I have been there five times, including once when Holt carried me halfway home because I got a blister and he reacted as though my foot might require amputation.

Also, there’s been something small and square in his jacket pocket for approximately a month. Every morning, he moves it from yesterday’s jacket to today’s jacket, when he thinks I’m not looking.

Another giveaway is that Six has been wearing his good leather collar since breakfast, which now has a tiny leather pouch attached. But I haven’t said a word. Because I have all the time in the world for this wonderful man.

He’s kept me warm through the winter; I wake up wrapped around him, his huge hand finding mine under the blankets. My morning coffee appears beside me exactly the way I like it. He gives me foot rubs after long shifts at Latte Da! and kisses against the back of my neck while I bake.

He never decides for me. He asks; always.

So I want this moment to be his. Some choices are yours, and others you give to the person you trust to hold them. I lace my boots and follow the man I fell in love with almost before I knew him up to the lookout point.

The trail that once looked scary doesn’t anymore. Maybe I’m stronger. Or perhaps it’s because everything is easier when Holt’s broad back is ten feet ahead of me and every few minutes he turns around to make sure I’m okay.

The morning is beautiful, one of those perfect May mornings when the mountain seems to be apologizing for winter. Everything is green and sunlight filters through the trees. Six races ahead, then doubles back to check on us.

Holt reaches for my hand on the steepest part. He always does. His fingers close around mine, and there it is. That stupid little leap inside my chest.

“You good?” he asks.

I smile up at him. “Perfect.”

His eyes stay on mine for a second too long before he leans down and kisses my forehead.

God, I love this man.

At the lookout, the trees suddenly fall away and the whole valley opens beneath us, Wildwood tucked among the trees, with the lake a sheet of blue between the mountains.

I turn to Holt. He’s making absolutely no attempt to check his imaginary supply cache. Instead, he stands very still.

“Holt?”

He whistles.

Six trots toward me and sits directly in front of my boots, chest out, tail thumping against the dirt. I look at the pouch, then at Holt.

My heart starts hammering.

“No.”

His mouth twitches.