Loving the Mountain Man (Love at Last Book 3) Read online

  Loving the Mountain Man

  Adriana Anders

  Copyright © 2019 by Adriana Anderson

  All rights reserved.

  Cover design by Judi Perkins of Concierge Literary Designs & Photography, LLC.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All brand names and product names in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. The author is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Created with Vellum

  A woman on the edge…

  Christa Evans is having a rough night. She’s lied to and harassed, then she loses her job. And that’s before the crash that sends her car careening to the bottom of a cliff.

  She’d be dead if not for the big, bearded recluse who pulls her from the wreckage and carries her back to his cabin in the woods.

  The quintessential loner…

  Wounded hero Micah Graham has no time for visitors. So, when he brings home the woman who nearly died on his mountain, he’ll take her in, but he doesn’t plan to let her stay. Then the storm hits.

  Heating up the Holiday.

  While the snow piles up, trapping the two strangers together in the middle of nowhere, Christa and Micah find common ground in the attraction burning between them, proving that not only do opposites attract, they combust. The only question is, as things come to a head: What happens once the ice melts?

  Contents

  1. Christa

  2. Micah

  3. Christa

  4. Micah

  5. Christa

  6. Micah

  7. Christa

  8. Micah

  9. Christa

  10. Micah

  11. Christa

  12. Micah

  13. Christa

  14. Micah

  15. Christa

  16. Micah

  17. Christa

  18. Micah

  19. Christa

  20. Micah

  21. Christa

  22. Micah

  23. Christa

  24. Micah

  25. Christa

  26. Micah

  27. Christa

  28. Micah

  29. Christa

  30. Micah

  31. Christa

  32. Micah

  33. Christa

  34. Micah

  35. Christa

  36. Micah

  37. Christa

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Adriana Anders

  About Adriana Anders

  To Le Husband:

  Je t’aime.

  1

  Christa

  I’d thought my boss peeing off the deck at our annual Christmas party was the worst thing that would happen that day.

  Boy, was I wrong.

  Something had felt off the moment I’d arrived at Jonathan’s massive cabin in the middle of nowhere. I was all nervous, gussied up for my first work event, hoping to make an impression. After a harrowing ten minutes spent navigating his steep, twisty drive, my wipers working double time to clear what I hoped was just a light rain, I’d pulled up and stared at the two the lone car parked in front of the house.

  Where was everyone?

  I spent the next three minutes listing all the reasons I shouldn’t turn around and drive home, change out of this suffocating dress, put on my reindeer pajamas, and watch Elf for the millionth time. I’d make hot cocoa, stir it with a candy cane, and counter all that sugar with super salty popcorn.

  I sighed. I’d spent hours shopping for the right dress and shoes for this shindig. Gran would kill me if I ran home with my tail between my legs.

  Okay. So, fine, I’d come all the way out here. I’d go in, have one drink and a couple mini-quiches, and chat with my colleagues about… I shut my eyes tightly. Weather. Sports. Work. Hobbies.

  I could do this.

  I stepped out of the car into—dear God—icy cold, at least ten degrees cooler than down in the valley. Cursing myself for grabbing my dressy coat, instead of the warm one, I teetered up the pea gravel walkway to the massive wood and stone house, and rang the doorbell.

  I’d just about given up when my boss, Jonathan, answered the door.

  “Well, if it isn’t the new girl.” He stumbled, turned it into a dance, and reached for my coat. “Hey, New Girl. Let’s get this off you.”

  “Oh. Oh, hi. Thank you.” I shuffled back, avoiding his hands, and shoved the bottle of wine I’d brought at him. “This is for you. Where can I…”

  “Bring it in, New Girl!” He grabbed the wine and coat and led the way into a big, open room, where he proceeded to serve me a bourbon (I asked for wine), and invited me to sit.

  We were alone—him, me, and a massive, reflective wall of windows at the opposite end of the sparsely modern space. And he was drunk.

  I looked around, nervous. “So, where is everyone?”

  “Yeah, not sure.”

  Time to get out of here.

  I set down my drink and shuffled toward the door. “Look, I should go. This is—”

  “Nah, nah. Come here, New Girl.” He moved toward the windows. “Let me show you something.”

  By then, my fight-or-flight instincts were screaming at me to get out of there, while my keep-the-job-it-took-me-months-to-find instincts kept me frozen.

  Should have listened to the first voice and run.

  “You’ve gotta see this view.”

  “When are the others getting here, again?” I took a final, mad look around before he grabbed my arm and hauled me toward the French doors, which led out onto a huge deck. It was freezing.

  “Party’s cancelled. Didn’t I tell you?” He threw out an arm and spun toward the big, black expanse beyond the circle of light pouring from inside. “Check out my incredible view while I...”

  As soon as I recognized the sound of his fly unzipping, my awkward misgivings became outright fear.

  Jonathan groaned. “Shit, man!” he said, as if I were his frat boy peanut gallery. “Too cold to piss out here.”

  Oh, good God. My boss was trying to pee all over his view. In front of me. No freaking way. I was out of there.

  Back inside, I spent a frantic couple of minutes by the front door, searching for my coat. Crap, where did he put it? At least I had my purse, still over my shoulder. But I loved that coat.

  “Hey, New Girl. Christa, Christa, Christa…hang on, come on back, hun.” He was suddenly there, in my space, hands on my shoulders, as if he had a right to touch me. “Let’s figure out—” I yanked my arm from his hold and his expression morphed from good-natured to something sly. I stepped away. A shiver went through me as I followed the direction of his gaze. “Oh, look. Mistletoe.”

  That’s when he put his hand on my boob and tried to kiss me.

  I’d always asked myself how I’d react if someone attacked me. Well, now I knew.

  I lost it. My chest rose and fell on wordless grunts, as my hands flailed, slapping his face and chest. I shoved him into the corner, kicked him hard between the legs, threw open the front door, and took off down the walk, over the stupid little rocks—it was a wonder I didn’t break an ankle, or a heel—and into my car. The Jetta started on the first try, a total miracle given how freaking cold it was out here. Shuddering like crazy, I barreled down the precarious drive, fast.

  Don’t follow me, I begged the whole time, eyes flicking to the rearview. Please don’t chase me.

  It wasn’t until I left the gravel and hit the pavement of the main road that my car swerved. It took about ten seconds for the words black ice to enter my brain but by then, I’d lost control. Everything spun, dark shapes sped by, something squealed.

  My tires? No. No, the sound was coming from me.

  I pushed my foot hard to the brake pedal and in a flash remembered some lesson from a driving class about pumping, not stomping. I did it, somehow; tapped that pedal over and over again, worked it like a jackhammer.

  In eerie slow-motion, I skidded for what felt like ages, straight toward the cliff’s edge, pivoted left and…

  Stopped.

  Oh, thank God.

  My hands wouldn’t come off the steering wheel, as if, no matter how hard my brain told them it was safe, they couldn’t quite believe it.

  “That’s okay. It’s okay.” I said the words aloud, trying to calm myself, I guess. To still my jittery hands.

  But man, this was a lot for one night.

  The shivering took over, clacking my teeth together as fast and wooden as Pinocchio on speed. Okay, that was a weird analogy, even for me.

  I should probably calm down, wait here for a few seconds, catch my breath, regroup, maybe call Gran to explain what had happened, that I was scared, that this whole night was a clust—

  The car shifted, tilted, screeched so loud I flattened my hands to my ears.

  Sudden quiet. Stillness.

  Oh, God, my chest. Why can’t I breathe?

  Something w
as very wrong.

  I blinked, opened my eyes, focused on my hands. I’d moved them again, apparently. One gripped the gear shift, the other had a tight hold on the door handle.

  Okay. Okay. Focus.

  Oh…shit.

  Slowly, like a spotlight illuminating a dark set, engulfing one new detail at a time, my brain took in the situation.

  I was hanging, my body listing to the right, held in place by the seatbelt. I’d wedged my legs into the space under the wheel. The entire world tilted at a crazy angle. The high-beams tunneled through air. Nothing but air.

  Slowly, barely shifting at all, I looked left, first with my eyeballs, then craning my neck. Was I imagining that light or was it real? Was someone coming? Let it be someone coming.

  When it disappeared, despair melted through me, turning my limbs to lead. Not a light. The night sky, glowing pink, like just before a snow.

  I whimpered, shoved down my desire to thrash like a bug in a web, and swallowed hard.

  Okay. Okay, this wasn’t so bad. I could call someone. I unpeeled my right hand from the stick, reached out, patted the console, gingerly.

  No phone. Further to the right, over the passenger seat, I let my fingers travel, more and more certain that I was screwed until…

  Oh, holy mother of God, yes. I was in a high-stakes game of Operation—only instead of avoiding the edges, the object was not to rock the car—I slid my hand into my purse, grasped my phone and, slowly pulled it close enough to peer at the screen.

  No service.

  Please, no. Oh, please please please, God.

  Eyes squeezed shut, I swallowed back a fresh bout of hysteria. Don’t shake, don’t move a muscle. Think, dammit!

  Okay. I opened my eyes again, blinked.

  No bars right here, but if I could get out of the car and walk—never mind these stupid shoes—I could find shelter. Or one measly little bar. Enough to get a text out. Or an emergency call. Something.

  Sucking in a big, shaky breath, I reached for the handle, pulled, and pushed. Wouldn’t budge.

  Oh, hell.

  Fueled by desperation, I hit the unlock button, jolted at the sound, and tried again.

  Nothing.

  I can’t die. There’s too much I haven’t done. Too many promises I’ve made myself.

  And what about Gran? She couldn’t handle another shock. Oh, God, please someone, help.

  Eyes wide now, the inevitability of it turning everything crystal clear, I stared up. Granny Evans would spend Christmas alone, worrying about me.

  Something shifted above and I shut my eyes only to be assaulted by images of my body, smashed and ruined, at the bottom of this ravine. Wherever the hell this place was. I couldn’t even picture it on a map. And for some reason, not knowing where I was about to die made it all worse.

  A scuffing noise, gritty like dirt on a road, made me open my eyes.

  Was that a person up there?

  2

  Micah

  I eyed the car, wedged between a four-foot rock ledge and a young lodgepole pine. Christ, the asshole was lucky.

  It was tempting to let him fend for himself, considering where he’d built his stupid McCabin. Damned thing was an eyesore.

  I took a few steps closer, over ice-slicked asphalt, before looking over the side. Shit. Didn’t look stable. I’d need to climb down.

  Yanking off my gloves, I eyed the night-dark rock face. I could get down this, no problem. Getting another person up, however…

  No point worrying right now.

  I let my legs drop over the side, hands gripping the edge, found a quick foothold, and shifted my weight. Another shift, another foothold, one hand, then the other. Piece of cake.

  We’d see how it’d be with whoever was in that car.

  Couldn’t be the new neighbor. Rich dudes didn’t drive Volkswagens. Probably line 4 in their stupid handbook, with an asterisk pointing to allowed vehicles: Audis and Suburbans and Kawasaki motorcycles. Fucking Jeeps.

  Something moved below, with a sound of grinding metal. Damn thing was about to go.

  I picked up my pace. My foot hit the first tuft of grass and I dropped, then quickly walked the last few feet to the car.

  “You okay in there?” I called out, my voice over-loud in the ice-shrouded quiet.

  A woman’s voice sounded from inside, the words unclear.

  “Get the door open?” I squinted through the fogged-up glass to see her shake her head. Shit.

  “Window?”

  Another shake.

  I stepped back, looking at the big picture. It wasn’t just the ledge and tree—a chain-link fence held the car in place. Good.

  “You got a coat or something?”

  The woman didn’t react at first.

  “Got a scarf or a blanket? Put it over your head.” I reached for my Leatherman. “Gonna break the window.”

  I watched as she pulled something from around her neck and covered her body.

  “Ready?”

  I gave her a couple seconds and tapped the glass, hard. In an instant, it cracked, blurring the space between us even more.

  “Push it out with the scarf.”

  Once she’d shoved the glass outside, I reached in and tried the door. No luck. “Sure it’s unlocked?”

  “Yeah.” The woman’s voice was breathless, almost a whisper.

  “Can you unbuckle?”

  “Kinda…hanging from the belt.” She sounded breathless. Scared as hell.

  “Can you hold yourself up? Use the other seat if you have to.” I put out a hand and paused. “Okay if I hold your arm?”

  A pause and then another nod.

  It took her a few seconds, which was understandable. Finally, holding up her weight so she wouldn’t fall against the passenger door and knock the whole damned car down, she unbuckled.

  “You get your arms around me?”

  “But…” Her voice was high and strained, like she could barely get the words out. “I’m…holding myself up.”

  “Use your legs to stay steady.”

  “Right. Okay.” Her eyes met mine. They were huge; so deep they looked black. “I can’t fit through the window.”

  “You’ll fit.” That was one of the funny things about survival. Didn’t matter what size she was. She’d fit through a damn porthole if she wanted it bad enough. “Grab me on three.”

  With a grimace, she shifted her weight, steadied herself, and put a hand out.

  The car moved. Felt like a fucking earthquake. Or a missile strike.

  I didn’t think. No time. Just grasped her under the arms and pulled. Not fast enough. She caught on something.

  “Push off! Use your legs.” I yelled, picturing the carnage if I couldn’t get her out. “Push!”

  Everything happened at once—the car sliding, the woman tightening her hold on my waist, while one hand grasped mine. Then, slow as a tree falling, the car slid, slowly at first, then picking up speed as it smashed a pinball path to the bottom of the ravine. I threw us back against the dry, grassy bank, where we landed in a rough heap.

  We lay still long after the last echo from below.

  I caught my breath enough to ask, “You okay?”

  “Think so.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

  “In one piece?” She shook a little and I tightened my hold. Shit. She didn’t have a coat on. “Can you move?”

  She nodded against my chest.

  “Come on.”

  The trip back up was tougher—as I’d known it would be. A dozen steps through dry, tufted grass, to the bottom of the rock face.

  “You climb?”

  She shook her head. Shit.

  “Okay. You go first. Put a foot here.”