Thorne
Thechainsawroarsinmy hands, vibrating up my arms as I cut through the fallen pine. Rain's coming. I can smell it in the air—that metallic tang that precedes a storm in these mountains. I've spent enough time in these woods to read the signs better than any weather app.
I finish the cut and power down the chainsaw. The sudden silence rings in my ears. Around me, the forest darkens as clouds roll in from the west. Faster than expected. I frown at the sky. This wasn't supposed to hit until tonight.
A crack of thunder confirms my suspicions. The storm's moved up its schedule, and I'm a good four miles from my truck. Damn inconvenient.
I pack up my gear methodically. No point rushing and getting sloppy. Another boom of thunder, closer this time. I pull on my heavy waterproof jacket just as the first fat raindrops hit the forest canopy.
By the time I start hiking back, the rain is coming down in sheets. The path, normally clear to my eyes even in twilight, turns to mud under my boots. The weather report had called this one wrong. It's not the first time, and it won't be the last. City people put too much faith in their technology. Up here, the mountains make their own rules.
Lightning flashes, illuminating the forest in stark white. In that instant, I see something that doesn't belong—a splash of bright yellow moving through the trees up ahead. I freeze, counting seconds until the thunder. Three seconds. Storm's right overhead.
No one should be out here in this. Tourists occasionally wander off the marked trails, but not in this weather. Must be someone lost.
I change course, heading toward where I spotted the color. The rain hammers down harder, soaking through my jacket at the seams. The wind picks up, driving the rain sideways. Visibility drops to almost nothing between lightning flashes.
Another crack of lightning, and I see it again—definitely a person in a yellow raincoat, moving up the ridge instead of down toward town. Heading deeper into trouble.
"Damn fool," I mutter, quickening my pace.
The figure disappears over a rise. I follow, emerging into a small clearing that offers a view of Silver Ridge below when the lightning flashes again. And there she is.
A woman. Small, especially from where I'm standing. The yellow raincoat's hood has blown back, revealing a shock of red hair plastered to her face by the rain. Even from here, I can see she's shivering.
She turns, and our eyes meet across the clearing.
The world rushes around me. Nothing but her matters now.
I've never believed in that nonsense about love at first sight. That's for romance novels and movies, not for men like mewho work with their hands and keep to themselves. But this is something else entirely.Primal. Immediate. Undeniable.
She's beautiful, yes, but it's more than that. Something about the way she stands there lost but defiant, scared but holding her ground. I want to cross this clearing and pull her against me. Keep her safe. Keep her.
The thought shocks me into movement.
I approach slowly, not wanting to frighten her more than she already is. Up close, she's even more striking. Pale skin with a dusting of freckles across her nose. Wide green eyes that watch me warily. Her hair is like fire even when wet. She's small enough that the top of her head wouldn’t even reach my chin.
Mine.The word flashes through my mind unbidden, possessive and fierce. I shove it aside, unsettled by its intensity.
"You're lost," I say. Not a question. My voice sounds rougher than usual, even to my own ears.
She lifts her chin. "Just taking the scenic route back to town."
A smart mouth on her. Unexpected.
"That scenic route leads straight up the mountain. Nothing up there but wilderness for fifty miles." I gesture toward the ridge behind her. "Storm's getting worse. You need shelter."
As if to punctuate my point, lightning strikes a tree not four hundred yards away. The crack of splitting wood echoes through the forest. She jumps, eyes widening.
"Okay, you've convinced me," she says, her attempt at bravado betrayed by the tremor in her voice. "Where exactly is this shelter?"
"My cabin. Half mile east." I hesitate, then add, "Thorne Harrington."
"Dahlia Pierce." She pushes dripping red hair from her face. "Nice to meet you, though I wish it were under drier circumstances."
Dahlia. Like the flower. It suits her—bright, colorful, standing out against the green wilderness.
I nod toward the tree line. "This way."
