Page 18 of The Mountain Man Lumberjack’s Claimed Bride

"He told me to move my suitcases to his room."

"I'm already crying. My coworker thinks someone died."

The laugh comes out loose and easy, the kind that only happens with someone who has known you long enough to hold the full weight of your history. Dani saw me through the engagement. Through the breakup. Through the slow, grinding process of rebuilding a life that my ex, Kevin, had spent three years shrinking to fit his specifications.

"Is he good to you?" Dani's voice drops. Serious now.

Through the trees, Hunter sets down the water bottle. Picks up the hand plane. Goes back to work on whatever he's building, shoulders rolling with each stroke, focused and steady.

"He's careful with me. Not cautious. Careful. There's—" The worddifferenceforms and dies before it reaches my mouth. "He pays attention to what I need without asking me to name it. Put a glass of water on the nightstand. Showed me where the first aid kit is in case I cut myself on the fence. Adjusted the woodstove in the middle of the night because the temperature dropped and he didn't want me to get cold."

"That's not careful, Nora. That's a man who already knows."

"Knows what?"

"That you're it. You're his. Whatever term mountain men use for the woman they've decided to keep, that's you. He's just figuring out how to say it without scaring you off."

The fence wire pulls tight under my hands. Secure. Anchored. Holding the line between his property and everything beyond it.

"He said I'm his. Last night."

"Oh, honey. You never stood a chance, did you?"

No. The truth settles like October light across the meadow. Warm. Clear. Unhurried. From the moment he made coffee for a woman he didn't ask for, the outcome was already written.

"Tell your coworker nobody died."

"Tell your mountain man I said if he hurts you, I'll burn the whole forest down."

"He'd probably appreciate the sustainable regrowth opportunity."

Dani's laugh carries across two thousand miles. "You're going to be fine, Nora. Better than fine. Call me Wednesday. I want pie updates."

The phone goes back in my pocket. The fence wire gets one more pull, testing the tension. Solid. Done right.

Through the trees, Hunter looks up from his work. Our eyes meet across fifty yards of Montana wilderness, golden lightfalling between us through the canopy, and he holds the look for three full seconds before turning back to his project.

Three seconds. For a man who spent eight years looking away, three seconds is a declaration.

My suitcases are in his closet. His coffee is in two mugs. Tomorrow is Wednesday, and Maggie's cherry pie is waiting, and somewhere on a mountain ridge there's a spot between two granite outcrops where a garden could grow.

This life is a choice, not a default. The best one I've ever made.

CHAPTER SEVEN

HUNTER

Bette's truck rolls up the access road on a Wednesday morning while I'm stacking the woodpile. She steps out holding two cream-colored envelopes, official letterhead, one addressed to me and one addressed to Nora at my address.

"These came to my house." She holds them out. "From the agency. I figured you should have them. Probably just paperwork." She peers past me toward the kitchen, where Nora's sourdough starter is rising on the counter. "Is that her cinnamon bread I smell? Save me a loaf. Love you, bye."

She's back in her truck before I can respond, already on her phone, probably calling Maggie to report that the cabin smells like baking and her brother hasn't scared Nora off yet.

The envelopes go on the kitchen table. My name on the front, typed, with a case number in the upper right corner that I've never seen before. The second one addressed to Nora Chambers at my address. Same agency letterhead. Same case number.

Nora is on the south ridge checking the fence line she restrung last week. The cabin is empty except for me and two cream-colored envelopes that feel heavier than paper should.

Nora's envelope isn't my business. My envelope is my business. The distinction should be clear. Simple. A man opens his own mail and leaves other people's mail alone.