Chapter 3

Jack

I’ve lived in the wilderness for more than a decade now. That means I’ve done my share of heavy lifting.

Hauling a goddamn log to the edge of a river, standing it on end and shoving it over to the other bank to form a makeshift bridge? I’ve done it a thousand times. Moving freshly fallen trees to my chopping stump to turn into firewood? Daily fucking occurrence.

Picking a tree—and I’m talking an entire fucking tree—off a burning, twisted car? No, this is a first.

But that doesn’t mean it’ll be any trouble.

I can still see that pretty little number in the front seat, knocked out cold. I thought maybe I’d get used to her beauty after I got over all that love at first sight bullshit, but every time I lay eyes on her it still takes the wind out of my chest.

I’m doing this for her. And if it’s for her, this will be no trouble for me at all.

I stomp my big, heavy boots down into the snow, planting them firmly. Sounds stupid, but once I’ve got my stance set, I open my mouth and let out a yell that echoes down the whole fucking mountain, fists beating against my chest.

Sounds stupid, but it gets your blood pumping. And right now, my blood is pumping just right. My cock is rock-hard, my muscles are rippling in anticipation of a challenge, and I’m ready. I’m going to tear this massive-ass tree off this little lady’s car and get her somewhere safe.

My meaty fingers curl around the old oaken bark. The smell of fresh splintered wood fills my nostrils. This is a hearty, healthy tree—or at least, it was until this hot little piece’s car came crashing into it.

I squat down under its trunk and push up high. I can smell the fucking pheromones pouring off me in my sweat. The scent only charges me further. I lift that sucker up and toss it straight to the side. It feels like it shakes the very ground I stand on when it hits.

I take a step back and clap my hands against each other to dust off the bark. Piece of cake. My muscles are aching with the exertion, but it’s a good kind of ache. The best kind.

Now for the car.

Thick black smoke is pouring up from beneath the hood. It mars the freshness of the winter air with its oily, cloying scent. Black smoke doesn’t bode well for this runaway bride’s future—or mine, if I don’t get us both out of here and away in time.

I climb on top of the hood of the car and squat down, leaning myself in through the freshly busted windshield. It’s all bent out to hell from that fucking tree.

I spit on my hands and rub them together. If I was a smarter man, I’d have my gloves on me, but time is of the essence—and she’s worth the risk of picking a little glass out of my palms later. I find a couple spots where the glass is completely knocked out and I pry the rest of the windshield open, enough to grab her by the arms.

I pull her out slowly, careful not to jostle her head too much. Even as I do it, I feel the hood of the car go hot with flames beneath me. I’m being torn between my need to make sure I don’t hurt her more than she’s already been hurt and the reality of the situation: if I don’t hurry the fuck up, we’re both going to end up dead.

I pull her against me, cradling her body to my chest to keep her away from the ragged bits of metal and shattered pieces of glass.

Unconscious still. Not a good sign. Beautiful as ever—I have to keep myself from staring at that lovely face just to keep myself in the right state of mind—and barefoot. Barefoot in this weather, with no fucking coat.

Her wedding dress is ripped down the front, and it doesn’t look like any car crash did that. No sir—that tear looks man-made. Makes my blood fucking boil at the thought of some man putting his grimy hands on this beautiful little angel and ripping her ridiculous little dress.

But this isn’t the time to get all pissed off at whatever hypothetical aggressor she might have been fleeing from. This is a time for action.

Don’t think. Act.

I take my coat off my own back and wrap it around her, sliding us both off the smoking car.

As I bundle her up in my arms, I hear something crackle nastily, then the smell of burning oil fills my nose.

That’s the point at which I just fucking run.

This little angel is covered in oil and gasoline, plus enough hairspray in that pretty blonde hair of hers that she’s not much more than a lovely little matchstick in my arms.

When this fucker blows, I need to have her as far away from it as possible.

We take flight back up the mountain, my big boots finding purchase on even the smallest of footholds. Seconds into our trek, the car erupts in flames. I turn back and see the bright yellow and orange embers escaping the sides and the big black cloud of smoke at the top.

That hot air traveling up with us feels good. It has me sweating harder and is making my smell stronger. I take in a big breath of it, easing my shoulders back with the satisfaction of a mission successfully completed... then, we really take off.

As fast as she tumbled down this mountain, my feet fly us back up the side. I traipse us through thorns and brambles that rip at the shins of my coveralls to do it. They could tear clear through and slice up my skin and I wouldn’t care.

The snow has started to fall down around us in tiny little ice crystals. They gather on her long, dark eyelashes and flutter down into her pale hair.

Up this way, once the snow starts falling, it doesn’t fucking stop. My brain is dead set on getting us back to my cabin as fast as possible, before the pretty little princess bride in my arms catches cold or before we find ourselves stranded in a fucking blizzard for the next five days.

The girl’s weight adds virtually nothing to me. I’ve carried deer heavier than this back up to my cabin. Suddenly I’m reminded of my fish I left cooking—the smell of it is still in my beard, although the snow has probably smothered out the fire and started to bury it by now.

It fuels me even harder to get back home. Once this fallen angel is somewhere safe and warm…dammit, I’m going back to get that fucking thing. A man does not waste a fish, especially not one caught with his bare hands.

It’s not long before my cabin is in sight. Not too far off the main road, but tucked away down a side path lined by evergreens that most people easily miss. First thing I hear is my dog, Buck, barking happily at my return.

Dumb mutt has been sitting right there on the porch where I left him this whole time, pouting. Would have taken him with me, but the big bastard would’ve eaten every damn fish that I caught and then some.

Buck is big, black and just as shaggy as I am. Scares some people, which is fine by me. I found him as a stray when I first came up here—skinny, dirty, half-starved, chasing squirrels for his supper, but too hungry to have the energy to catch them.

Now, Buck eats what I do. If I’m being honest, he’s turned into a bit of a porker, but that doesn’t bother me none. I figure he’s earned it, after the life he’s had. Sheriff in town thinks he might be part wolf—wouldn’t surprise me a bit if he was.

As I clomp up the porch steps, Buck perks up and pants excitedly. Silly mutt is usually pretty excited to see me, seeing as I usually have the courtesy to bring him back a consolation fish. But when he sees the woman in my arms, I watch his ears stiffen and his nose twitch with curiosity.

Don’t I know it, boy. We don’t often get visitors up here, least of all, beautiful unconscious brides-to-be.

Buck sniffs at the foot of the angel with his big wet doggy nose and I cluck at him with my tongue.

“Down, boy,” I say. “This ain’t no fish.”

Tentatively, Buck licks at her toes anyway. Can’t even say I blame him. If I was a dog, I’d want to lick this beauty too.

Even as a man, it’s a tempting prospect.

But I need to shove those thoughts out of my head and get this poor girl warmed up and cared for. She’s been through a lot tonight. Last thing she needs right now is some grizzly old bachelor nosing between her legs.

I lay her down on the couch and am pleased to discover she’s still breathing. Well, that’s something, at least. Buck curls up on the floor in front of her, occasionally casting glances up at her beautiful face.

“Behave,” I tell him, not that I need to. Buck is a good dog. A nosy old mutt, but a good dog. And I can tell he’s already just as protective of this girl as I am.

Blankets. She’ll need blankets, enough to lose herself in. When she comes to—if she does—we’ll sort out what to do with her next then.

I cast a tentative glance to the window, watching the snow pour down harder than I’ve ever seen it.

I just hope her plans don’t involve going anywhere—because this shit won’t be letting up any time soon.