Page 2 of Beastly Mountain Man

“I’m Deb Nolan, Guest Services Manager. You’re in one of our detached rentals, so you’ll have a little more privacy than the lodge rooms. It’s less than five minutes from here.”

“That sounds perfect.”

Deb reached beneath the counter and brought out a slim welcome folder. She opened it rather than simply handing me a stack of paper and hoping I enjoyed scavenger hunts.

“Your key is here. This is the resort map. Dining and room-service hours are on this page, and the provisions shop stays open until nine tonight. Guest Services is staffed around the clock. Property contacts are in the back.”

I glanced over the list as she turned the folder toward me.

One name caught my attention.

Lucius Ramsey — Property Manager.

Lucius.

That was a name with expectations attached to it.

A Lucius should have been at least seventy, possibly wearing suspenders, and deeply invested in the proper stacking of firewood. Alternatively, he could have been a blond wizard with an inheritance dispute and a suspiciously dramatic cape.

“Lucius Ramsey handles the detached rentals and the upper grounds,” Deb continued. “His direct number is there if you have a property issue. For anything general, you can always call us here at the lodge.”

“Good to know.”

“There’s no snow yet, but the temperature drops quickly once the sun is down. The upper roads are maintained, so you shouldn’t have any trouble tonight.”

I appreciated the phrasing. Information without treating me like I’d arrived in Montana fifteen minutes ago and planned to challenge winter personally.

“Thank you. And room service delivers to the upper cabins?”

“It does. The salmon is excellent.”

“Then you may have just saved me from pretending I intend to use the kitchen.”

Deb’s smile warmed. “The kitchens photograph beautifully. We don’t require guests to prove anything in them.”

I liked her immediately.

Armed with the folder, my key, and the knowledge that dinner could travel uphill without my participation, I returned to the Audi.

The drive to Upper Ridge took less than five minutes, winding away from the lodge through taller pines and pockets of frost that had survived all day in the shade. Lights set low along the road marked each curve without ruining the darkness gathering between the trees.

My rental sat at the end of a short private drive with another premium cabin barely visible through the woods farther down the ridge. It was modern timber and stone, with a deep roofline, covered entry, and large panes of glass facing the mountains—the kind of place designed to convince wealthy people they had escaped civilization while providing heated floors.

I approved.

The cold followed me inside for about three seconds before the warmth took over.

I dropped my handbag on the kitchen island and walked through the main level, checking things almost without thinking: great room, large stone hearth, kitchen with enough polished equipment to support a cooking show I had no intention of producing, dining table positioned near an outlet, strong lighting, and wide windows overlooking a darkening stretch of forest and the distant ridgeline.

The bedroom was equally impressive: enormous bed, high-end linens, deep wool rug, private bath with stone tile, heated floor, and enough counter space to justify bringing every skin-care product I owned.

Most importantly, my phone showed full Wi-Fi. I ran a speed test anyway—there were standards—and got an excellent result.

I carried my suitcase into the bedroom, opened it across the luggage bench, hung my coat in the closet, then returned to the great room and built my temporary office at the dining table. I arranged everything exactly where I wanted it: laptop centered, tablet to the right, charger secured, phone within reach, welcome folder beside it, headphones and notebook ready.

Within minutes I was inside the secure workspace, comparing the revised call sheet against the latest approvals and checking the media review queue.

The team had kept moving, which was good—obviously it was good.