Page 3 of Challenged By the Mountain Man

"The listing lied."

I feel my jaw tighten. "So, what, I'm just supposed to—"

"Figure it out," he says, interrupting me. "Or leave."

For a moment, I don't say anything. I just look at him, at this scarred, unfriendly mountain of a man who clearly wants me gone and isn't bothering to pretend otherwise.

I should leave. I should get back in my car, drive down this mountain, find a hotel in Wildwood, and demand a refund.

But I don't.

Because I'm tired of running. I'm tired of being scared. I'm tired of the feeling that the world is too big and too loud and too full of things I can't control.

I came here for quiet. For space. For the chance to feel like I'm the one calling the shots.

And I'm not letting some man, no matter how broad his shoulders are or how unimpressed his face is, tell me I can't.

"I'm staying," I say.

His expression doesn't change. "Suit yourself."

"I will."

"Good."

"Great."

We're still staring at each other.

The dog makes a soft noise behind him, something between a whine and a huff, and the man glances back at it, then back at me.

"Anything else?" he asks.

"Is there somewhere I can get supplies?"

"Wildwood. Forty minutes down the mountain."

"Do they have a hardware store?"

"They have everything you need if you know what you're doing."

The implication is clear: *You don't*.

I smile, all teeth and no warmth. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

He doesn't smile back. "You should go before it gets dark."

"I'll manage."

"I'm sure."

I turn before he can say anything else, before I do something stupid like ask his name or tell him mine. I don't need to know his name. I don't need anything from him except to be left alone, which seems to be exactly what he wants too.

I make it halfway back across the clearing before he calls out.

"There's a bear that comes through here sometimes."

I stop. Turn. "A bear."