Healing the Mountain Man

I came to Granite Junction to start over.
New town. New life. No more men who take more than they give.
I didn’t plan on becoming someone’s target.
And I definitely didn’t plan on Beckett Malone.
He’s gruff. Intense. The kind of man who watches everything and says almost nothing. The kind of man I should avoid.
But when things go wrong—really wrong—he’s the one who steps in.
The one who won’t leave me alone.
The one who won’t let me pretend I’m fine.
The one who makes me feel… safe.
That should scare me more than anything.
Because I don’t need saving.
And I definitely don’t need a mountain man who’s decided I’m his.
…do I?

I shivered and hunched my shoulders against the wind cutting through the parking lot of Granite Junction’s only grocery store. I’d loved the idea of a small town, where everyone knew your name and people looked out for each other. I hadn’t thought much about the downsides.
Shopping options were limited, and internet access was patchy at best, which mattered when freelance graphic design paid my rent. And some of those people? Some of them weren’t the friendly type—or they were overly friendly, just not in the way I’d like.
Out of habit, I scanned the lot in the early evening light. Spring in Montana meant the sun still set early, and snow wasn’t unusual—another detail I hadn’t fully considered when I’d thrown a dart at a map and chosen Granite Junction for my fresh start. I should have aimed lower. More sun. Less winter.
The mountains were gorgeous, though. They reminded me of growing up in Denver, staring at peaks through the window while my mom stayed firmly indoors or went out with whatever man had wandered through that month.
The lot was mostly empty. Granite Junction was the kind of place where the sidewalks rolled up when the sun went down. I’d gotten absorbed in a website redesign and hadn’t noticed the time until my stomach made its case and I opened the fridge to nothing.
After a fast loop through the store, I headed toward my Subaru, tracking the lot the way I always did. A couple of SUVs. A few pickup trucks. One of them a black Ford I recognized without meaning to.
My steps slowed.
I’d been in Granite Junction three weeks. Long enough to notice which vehicles appeared on the lane above mine before sunrise, long enough to have a mental catalog of the truck that parked at the hardware store every Tuesday and the diner every other Thursday. Long enough to know whose it was, even if we’d never spoken.
Beckett Malone. The town called him the quiet one on the ridge. Former forest firefighter from Missoula, now a wilderness survival instructor and a part-time volunteer deputy who nobody seemed to push around. He’d come up here five years ago after something went wrong on a fire—a woman who hadn’t made it out. He didn’t talk about it. He didn’t talk much at all, from what I could tell.
What I could tell was mostly gathered in stolen glances, which was embarrassing, and I chose not to examine it closely.
He was a man you noticed whether you meant to or not. The first time I’d seen him was across the diner, maybe a week after I’d arrived. He’d been at the counter with coffee, not talking to anyone, and I’d looked up from my laptop and found him already watching me. He hadn’t looked away. Neither had I, for a beat too long, before I’d dropped my eyes to my screen and told myself it meant nothing.
After that, it was the feed store, where he’d held the door without being asked and said nothing while I passed through. The gas station, where he’d offered to pump my gas before going back to his truck. Then in the fields just beyond my cabin, where he hiked with his flannel shirt stretched tight across his broad chest, his jeans cupping his muscular thighs, and his eyes quietly assessing everything. I watched him for far too long, almost running after him to join him on the nature walk before reminding myself that I was on a dating hiatus.
I’d told myself firmly, on multiple occasions, that I was not interested. That I had specifically moved across two states to get away from men and focus on my work. I knew how men with dominant personalities could take over your life. I had a whole internal argument prepared.
I hadn’t needed it yet because we hadn’t really had a full conversation.
His truck sat three spots down from mine, empty. Which meant he was still inside. Which meant nothing. I picked up my pace, keys threaded between my fingers, and nearly reached my car when I heard it—boots on asphalt, a sharp crack of a can crushed underfoot. My body knew before my brain caught up.
Out of the shadows stepped the man I didn’t want to see.
Wayne. The local drunk with too many opinions about women and not enough decency to keep them to himself. He’d decided we’d had a moment at the feed store last week when I’d gone in for cat food and he’d offered to carry the bag. I’d said no. He’d been showing up wherever I was ever since.
Tonight he swayed on his feet, eyes glassy, one hand jammed into his jacket pocket.
“Evenin’, sweetheart,” he drawled.
“I’m not your sweetheart.”
He chuckled as if we were sharing a joke. “Just bein’ neighborly.” He took a step closer.
Every instinct told me to back up. My feet stayed put.
“You out here all alone?” His gaze moved over me in a way that made my skin feel dirty. “Pretty girl like you should have someone lookin’ out for her.”
“I can take care of myself. Excuse me.”
I tried to step around him. He shifted, blocking my path.
“Move,” I said.
His smile dropped. “I’m just talkin’. You should be nicer.”
His hand shot out and wrapped around my wrist. Not a squeeze. But a claim. My whole body recoiled.
“Let go of me.”
“You don’t gotta be so cold,” he muttered, breath sour with cheap beer. “We’re all friendly around here.”
“I said let go.” I yanked my arm.
One second Wayne was in front of me. The next he was gone—hauled sideways and slammed against the side of my car with a grunt that emptied his lungs. I stumbled back, suddenly free.
Beck had Wayne pinned by the front of his jacket, one forearm across his throat, the way you’d hold something in place while you decided what to do with it. Wayne’s boots scraped uselessly at the pavement. Beck wasn’t even breathing hard.
He hadn’t made a sound getting there.
Up close he was bigger than the diner counter had suggested. His jaw was set, that deep chocolate gaze fixed on Wayne with barely controlled menace. One of his forearms was braced at Wayne’s sternum. The other hung loose at his side. He looked like he could hold this position for an hour and not break a sweat.
Overwhelming relief flooded me.
“Touch her again,” Beck said, voice low and even, “and I’ll break your wrist.”
Wayne wheezed something I couldn’t understand.
Beck leaned in until they were nearly nose to nose. “Understand?”