Page 4 of The Mountain Man Lumberjack’s Claimed Bride

"Didn't know a woman was coming to your property today."

His jaw tightens. "Found out about thirty minutes ago."

Thirty minutes. This man found out thirty minutes ago that a stranger was arriving to potentially become his wife, and he's standing here in his driveway covered in sawdust having what is, all things considered, a remarkably civil conversation about it.

The profile may not have been his, but whoever wrote it wasn't lying. Quiet. Hardworking. Values self-sufficiency. Those parts are all clearly accurate.

"Okay." The letter goes back into my jacket pocket. "That's a problem."

"It is."

"But I'm here. I drove eleven hours from Billings after flying in from Ohio yesterday. My rental car has a scratch that's going to cost me my deposit. My apartment lease ended two weeks ago because I gave notice when the agency confirmed the match, which means I currently don't have a home to go back to." A breath. Steady. "So before you send me away, maybe we could start with coffee."

The silence stretches. Behind me, the rental car ticks as the engine cools.

Hunter Marsh looks at me the way a man looks at a problem he wasn't prepared for and can't immediately solve. Then his gaze drops, briefly, to my mouth. It's fast. Involuntary. The kind of glance that a person makes before their brain catches up with their eyes and yanks them back to safer territory.

He noticed it happened. So did I. Neither of us mentions it.

"Coffee," he says.

"Please."

A beat. Then he turns toward the cabin without another word, leaving me standing in the gravel with two suitcases, an expired lease, and the growing awareness that whatever I thought this was going to be, it's going to be something else entirely.

The cabin is immaculate.

That's the first thing. Not rustic-charming in the way the profile implied, all rough edges and bachelor chaos. This place is clean. Organized. The kitchen counters are wiped down, the floors are swept, and the woodstove in the corner is throwing steady heat that wraps around me the second the door closes.

Handmade furniture fills the open main floor. A dining table built from what looks like reclaimed timber, sanded smooth, the grain running in patterns that catch the light. Bookshelves against one wall, packed tight. A leather chair by the woodstove with a reading lamp positioned at exactly the right angle, the seat cushion worn in the shape of one man's body.

Everything has a place. Everything serves a purpose. There isn't a single decorative object in the room, but somehow it doesn't feel sparse. Just intentional. Built by someone who thinks carefully about what he keeps and what he doesn't.

Hunter moves through the kitchen with the efficiency of a man who has performed this ritual a thousand times. Coffee grinder. Pour-over. Water heated to just below boiling, not at a full roll, because he apparently has opinions about extraction temperature. The beans smell expensive, dark and complex, which tracks with what his sister said about him driving forty-five minutes for the right roast.

The profile mentioned none of this. The profile made him sound like a caveman with an axe.

Instead, he's making me the best-smelling coffee I've encountered in my life while pointedly not making eye contact.

"Cream?"

"Black, please."

One eyebrow lifts. Just slightly. The first crack in the stone wall of his expression.

The mug he sets in front of me is handmade ceramic, heavy, glazed in a deep blue that could be the Montana sky at dusk. One mug. He doesn't pour one for himself, which means either he's already had his or he's making a point about how long he expects this visit to last.

Both are possible. Probably both are true.

"Thank you." My hands wrap around the ceramic. The warmth seeps into my palms, into my fingers that are still stiff from gripping the steering wheel through mountain switchbacks. "This is a beautiful home."

Nothing. He leans against the counter across from me with his arms crossed, watching me drink coffee at his table with the focused attention of a man cataloging every detail for later analysis.

"You can ask me," I offer.

"Ask you what."

"Whatever you're thinking. You've been staring at me for two minutes. You clearly have questions."