Teaching the Mountain Man (Paperback)

It was a breathtaking day—one of those rare, golden moments that felt like a gift. The sun blazed high in a cloudless sky, warm and bold, casting a honeyed glow over the earth. Birds filled the air with melodic chatter, flitting through branches as if the long Montana winter had never touched them. A crisp breeze carried the scent of pine and damp earth, slicing through the sun’s heat just enough to make the warmth feel earned. She tilted her face to the sky, closing her eyes and letting the rays sink into her skin, soaking in the comfort like a balm. After months of snowbanks taller than she was and the constant threat of icy roads and sudden storms, it felt like a small miracle to be outside with nothing heavier than a light jacket on her shoulders.
But miracles never lasted long.
She was being watched.
The sensation coiled in her gut like a snake, tightening with every breath. It had started days ago, subtle and slippery—a shadow just out of reach, a brush of movement in her peripheral vision. But now it was a steady hum in her bones, a presence she couldn’t shake. She knew the feeling too well. Knew it like the familiar ache of old wounds. Ever since she’d fled Massachusetts, dragging her fractured life across state lines and through countless new identities, the feeling had haunted her. It had taken up residence in her spine, whispering reminders that she was never truly safe. That he would always find her.
He always did.
He was relentless, single-minded—better than any bloodhound, more tenacious than a badger locked onto its prey. And if she didn’t leave soon, he might succeed this time. Might kill her.
But damn it, she didn’t want to run again. Not this time. Not when she had finally found a sliver of peace, a place to belong. She loved her students—bright, curious, rough-around-the-edges kids who soaked up knowledge like the dry earth soaked spring rain. She was helping them. Changing them. And that mattered. Maybe, just maybe, she could hold out until the end of the school year. Maybe she could give them that much before disappearing again.
Maybe it was all in her head. Just paranoia.
It could be a grizzly. They were waking up from hibernation—restless, hungry, territorial. It wasn’t unreasonable to be on edge out here. Maybe it was just nerves, an overactive imagination born from too many nights staring out dark windows and flinching at creaking floors.
Still, she scanned the slope of the mountain where she stood, letting her eyes travel across the tall grasses swaying gently in the breeze. Years on the run had trained her to spot the tiniest details—a glint of glass, the faint imprint of tires in dirt, a bent blade of grass too fresh to be natural. But nothing stood out. No lens. No vehicle. No broken twigs or heavy footfalls. The birds still sang. The forest was vibrant, alive. When she’d first entered the clearing, the animals had gone quiet—on alert, uncertain. But now they chirped and rustled again, signaling peace.
She should trust them. Wildlife had better instincts than she ever had.
They wouldn’t have been lured in by the flash of a charming grin, the polished mask of a handsome face and steady paycheck. They would have sensed the rot beneath the surface, the predator behind the practiced smile. They would have fled.
She hadn’t.
She could learn from them. That’s why she was out here today—not to court danger, but to reconnect. To observe. To document. She wasn’t foolish enough to bring a bear or mountain lion into her classroom, but photos of local flora and fauna would help her teach her students about the world that surrounded them. Here, in Granite Junction, Montana, the kids spent more time in the fields and mountains than in front of screens. They needed to understand their environment—what could nourish them, what could harm them. She owed it to them to be prepared, even if she wasn’t.
She’d studied all winter, devouring field guides and botany books by the firelight, but theory wasn’t enough. Practice was humbling. She still felt out of her depth.
A shadow passed over the sun, and her gaze lifted instinctively. Thick, fast-moving clouds were rolling in, gray and ominous. A sudden shiver danced along her skin, the temperature dropping so quickly it stole her breath.
Time to go.
She’d ignored the tight itch between her shoulder blades for hours now, chalking it up to tension, to fear. But now? Now it roared in her blood.
Danger.
The world had gone quiet.
Utterly, unnaturally silent.
No birdsong. No rustling leaves. Just the faint rush of her pulse in her ears. The kind of silence that screamed.
A chill skittered up her spine like a spider. The air felt too still, too damp, the kind of air that presses against your skin like a warning.
She stuffed her field guide and phone into her bag, zipping it with shaking fingers and slinging it over her shoulder in one swift motion. One last glance over her shoulder—and then she turned to descend the trail.
That’s when she saw it.
The flash.
A glint of metal, sun bouncing off something cold and precise.
A lens?
Or something worse.
Crack!
The gunshot tore through the silence. She screamed as the dirt exploded inches from her foot, a vicious spray that stung her skin.
She ran.
Her heart slammed against her ribs as she launched herself downhill, legs pumping, lungs burning. She zigzagged instinctively—something she’d heard once on TV, or maybe it was in a self-defense class. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but speed and survival.
Another shot rang out. More dirt burst near her heel.
She choked on a sob, every breath scraping her throat raw.
Then her foot struck a hidden rock, and her ankle twisted violently. Pain screamed up her leg and she went down hard, tumbling, rolling, crashing through bramble and brush until her body finally came to rest in a gulley beside a cold, shallow creek.
She lay there, gasping, head pounding, pain radiating from her ankle and shoulder. Curled tight in a defensive ball, her arms cradling her head.
And then—nothing.
Darkness wrapped around her like a shroud, and she let go.