Page 23 of The Mountain Man Lumberjack’s Claimed Bride

The truck arrives twelve minutes after Bette's warning.

The sound is unmistakable. Deep engine. Heavy tires on gravel. The particular rumble of a diesel that's been running mountain roads for a decade. Through Bette's front window, his headlights sweep across the house, then cut. The driver's door opens.

Hunter steps out.

Not empty-handed.

He's carrying something. Large. Flat. Covered in a canvas tarp, resting across both arms. His shoulders strain against the flannel. His jaw is set in that particular way that means he's committed to whatever comes next and doesn't plan on being talked out of it.

Bette appears at my elbow. "I'm going upstairs. You have the living room. Don't break anything that belonged to our grandmother." She squeezes my arm once, then disappears.

The front door opens before he knocks. He's standing on the porch, canvas-covered object propped against his hip, and the look on his face when he sees me stops my breath.

Not the scowl. Not the controlled assessment. Not the careful distance he maintained for six days before it shattered. This is something else. Raw. Unguarded. A man standing on a porch with everything he is written across his face because he's decided that hiding it is worse than showing it.

"Can I come in?"

My arms fold. Not defensive. Protective. Of myself. Of whatever is happening in my chest right now, which is too big and too fragile for a front porch in October. "That depends on whether you're here to think some more or whether you're done."

"I'm done."

"Done thinking or done with me?"

"Nora." My name in his mouth. Low. Rough. Cracked at the edges. "Let me in."

The door opens wider. He steps through, the canvas object coming with him, and sets it against the wall of Bette's entryway before turning to face me.

The living room is small. Bette's furniture is comfortable, overstuffed, nothing like the clean intentional lines of Hunter's cabin. He takes up too much space here. Broad and tall and completely out of his element, a man built for mountains standing in a room with lavender curtains and a crocheted throw pillow.

"The letter is gone." His voice is steady. Deliberate. "Burned it. Case number 4471 doesn't exist in my house anymore."

"Burning a letter doesn't change what you said."

"No. It doesn't." He takes one step closer. "What I said was wrong. Comparing you to Beth was wrong. You stood in my kitchen for ten days making my life better in ways I didn't know it could get better, and when I got scared, I reached for the easiest weapon I had. That's not who I want to be. Not with you."

"You said you didn't know what was real."

"I lied." Another step. Close now. Close enough that the smell of him reaches me. Pine. Coffee. Wood shavings. The scent that's been on his pillow, on his flannel, in every corner of a cabin that became home in ten days. "I know exactly what's real. You're real. Every morning, every question, every loaf of bread. You said that, and you were right, and I spent twenty-six hours in a cabin that smelled like your bread and your shampoo and your goddamn flour, and I have never been more certain of anything in my life."

"Then why did it take twenty-six hours?"

"Because I was building something." He reaches for the canvas-covered object. Pulls it forward. Sets it between us, resting on the hardwood floor of his sister's living room. "Something I should have finished before I let you walk out the door."

The canvas pulls away.

A sign. Hand-carved. Dark timber, sanded smooth, the grain running in patterns that catch the light. Burned lettering, deep and permanent, done with a woodburning tool wielded by hands that don't make mistakes because three generations of precision run through them.

MARSH TIMBER Est. 1952 Hunter & Nora Marsh

My vision blurs. The letters swim, then sharpen. His name. My name. Together. Burned into timber that will last longer than both of us.

"The workshop project," I whisper. "You've been working on this since?—"

"Since day four. Since you walked my ridge and showed me where the garden goes. Since you picked up my chainsaw and used it with better form than half my crew." His hand finds my chin. Tilts my face up. Those hazel eyes, gold and green and burning. "I knew, Nora. Before the agency letter. Before last night. Before the ridge. I knew the morning you stood in my kitchen at five forty-five making bread, and my whole house smelled like something I thought I'd lost forever."

A tear tracks down my cheek. His thumb catches it. The same thumb that wiped flour from my face on a mountain. Rough. Gentle. Certain.

"I love you." His voice breaks on the word. Cracks open in a way that Hunter Marsh's voice is not supposed to crack, because this man is granite and timber and controlled precision, and love is the one force that doesn't follow his rules. "I love you, and I don't care how you got here. Agency. Bette. Case number. Letter. None of it matters. You're mine. You've been mine since you stood in my driveway and didn't flinch."