Page 3 of Beastly Mountain Man

I worked through one set of notes, sent two answers, then remembered the small zippered work bag still sitting on the passenger floor of the Audi.

The sky outside had gone from blue-gray to almost black, and the porch light reflected off the pale frost forming along the edge of the drive.

I slipped my coat back on but didn’t bother buttoning it for twenty feet of exposure. The front door stayed open behind me while I crossed to the car, retrieved the bag, and turned back toward the cabin.

A streak of gold shot past my knees.

I stopped so fast the bag swung into my leg.

Four enormous paws skidded across the entry floor, followed by a plume of golden fur and a wildly enthusiastic tail.

“What the—”

The dog disappeared deeper into the cabin.

A man came around the curve of the drive at a fast walk.

“I’m sorry.”

He reached the porch and stopped at the open doorway rather than following the dog inside. He was tall enough that the porch suddenly seemed built on a smaller scale than I remembered. Broad shoulders filled a dark work jacket over a charcoal henley, and he wore canvas work pants and scuffed insulated boots. Medium-brown hair was pushed back from his forehead as if he’d been running his hand through it, and a short beard framed a face with green eyes that landed on me with immediate concern rather than irritation.

“Bear slipped away from me while I was finishing a check down the ridge,” he said. His voice was low, warm, and surprisingly easy. “He just ran into your cabin. May I come get him?”

For one completely unproductive second, I forgot the dog.

Then I remembered language.

“Please. Before he decides the security deposit is a challenge.”

His mouth curved.

“Thank you.”

He stepped inside, and I had to tip my head back farther than I enjoyed to meet his eyes.

The effect was inconvenient.

I was five feet tall. I had accepted this about myself years ago. I owned step stools, excellent tailoring, and shoes that corrected the issue when circumstances allowed.

None of those things prepared me for a broad, bearded mountain man standing inside my rental cabin and towering well over a foot above me.

“Bear,” he called, not loudly. “Come back out here.”

Something thumped in the bedroom.

We both looked down the hallway.

The man closed his eyes briefly.

“That wasn’t encouraging,” I said.

“No. It really wasn’t.”

He started toward the hallway, then paused when he noticed my open laptop and tablet at the dining table.

“Sorry. I’m interrupting work.”

“It’ll survive. I produce television. Interruptions are the native climate.”