A Bride For The Mountain Man

Had she been ill? Her stomach rocked with another bout of nausea. Seasick, she determined. While the softly bobbing boat spoke of calm waters now, it must have been rough going earlier. And this man with his delicious voice had seen her through the worst of it. So, yes, he loved her.

Did she love him? She couldn’t see his face, recall his name or even how they had met, but for her to feel so absolutely safe and cared for, love had to exist on both sides.

She continued to sleep, continued to dream. Lost to reality. There was nothing to worry about, not a reason on earth to force herself awake.

Slipping deeper into this magnificent dream world, her subconscious manufactured the type of love only found in the most romantic of movies, with her and the man behind the gentle touches and seductive voice as the leads. She still couldn’t remember his face, which was odd, yes, but somehow, this lack of knowledge didn’t cause her a moment’s concern. He was hers. She was his. That was enough.

But suddenly, she saw his eyes. And oh, were they gorgeous. Sensual and vivid and striking. Distinctive. Irises rimmed in dark olive green that gradually lightened to the color of moss near his pupils, glinted with shots of burnished gold and warm brown. Eyes she knew.

They belonged to the man she loved.

And with this man at her side, her brain continued to weave a story for her alone to experience. There was laughter and passion. Long talks and handheld walks. A proposal and then a wedding. Children, a boy and a girl named Max and Maggie.

Years upon years passed while she slept, years filled with the purest form of happiness she’d ever known. Satiating, complete, fulfilling and robust. Ever changing, ever growing, ever stronger...day in and day out.

This fantasy was so intense, so real, so exhilarating and breathtaking, so beautiful a life her mind had created, that even as she started to come around, to realize she was merely dreaming, she staunchly resisted the pull of awareness. She wanted, yearned for more of this.

Precisely, this life. And she wasn’t ready to leave it behind.

The sad truth was that even with Rico, before learning that all of his words had been bald-faced lies, she hadn’t known such depths of emotion existed. So, she stubbornly held on to her dream world and tried—oh, how she tried—to quiet her thoughts, relax her body, to return to the fantasy. But with conscious thought of Rico, her fog-filled brain cleared and the rest of the facts from the past several weeks engulfed her in a rush.

Her job. The argument with her father. Deciding to visit Rachel and flying to Colorado. Her decision to rent a car and then losing her way in the mountains. The storm. The accident. Her loneliness and consuming fear, the acceptance that she would die...and then, those dogs.

Those astounding dogs who’d found her and led her to shelter. Had led her...here.

No. She did not want to think about any of that, had no desire to do anything other than fall back into a coma-like sleep and return to that oh-so-beautiful life. Pretend or not, it didn’t matter. She yearned to be there again, even if every speck of it was only her imagination.

But the voice that had started it all was becoming more insistent that she wake. Now. That she’d been sleeping for too long and enough was enough. That she open her mouth and drink, because she needed more than a spoonful or two of tea every hour. He was tired. He was worried.

“Open your eyes, Goldi,” he said, his voice loud and commanding. “Now!”

She did not obey his command. Eventually, she would have to, but at the moment, she didn’t need to look into this man’s eyes and see they weren’t green with golden flecks. They were probably brown. And while she did not have a thing in the world against brown eyes, she wasn’t ready to give up her fantasy. This man’s voice—his deliciously rich voice—was, in her mind, a matching set to the green eyes she’d imagined.

To see otherwise would only make it more difficult to jump into her dream life when she was able to sleep again, and she believed she’d be able to soon. If only he would stop talking.

“Goldilocks, you’re killing me here,” the man said in a lower volume. “Wake. Up.”

She still would not have responded except for the identifiable set of canine whines that followed his plea. Her dogs.

Sighing, unwilling to ignore her angels, she capitulated enough to say, “I’m awake.” A tail thumped near her leg as she spoke. A warm nose pressed against her cheek, giving her a lavish lick. “Kind of.”

Ouch. His voice might be a melody fit for a concert, but hers sounded rough and raspy. Thick. Nothing like normal. As if she hadn’t spoken aloud in days.

“Thank God,” he half whispered. Then, “Great! I knew you could do it. How about opening your eyes and trying to sit up? Move slowly, though. You’ve been out for a while.”

Those words acted as a catalyst, and suddenly, she realized how heavy and cumbersome her body—as in, every inch of it—felt. Tipping her head in the opposite direction of the man’s voice, because no, she still wasn’t ready to see him, she did as he asked and waited for her blurry vision to sharpen. She stared at the back of a couch, at the thick stripes of deep burgundy, gold and forest green on the cushion. She remembered how she’d stumbled across the room on unwieldy legs, frozen and exhausted, with this piece of furniture as her singular goal.

She had almost died. Almost.

“You said I have been out for a while,” she said. “How long is that, exactly?”

“I don’t know the precise moment you found your way here and collapsed.” Muted frustration, perhaps some concern, echoed in his speech. “When I came home, you were already down for the count, but we’re going on close to twenty-four hours since then.”

How was that possible? In reality, an entire night and another day had elapsed, yet in her dreams, that same amount of time had equaled years. She thought about the picture she must have presented to this man, a stranger, as he’d walked into his living room with her passed out on his couch. She was lucky. So very lucky. He could’ve been a monster.

“I’m sorry about letting myself in and...well, I mean, I knocked first and I tried to stay awake, but...I should’ve tried harder.” Though, even as she said the words, she knew there wasn’t any trying harder. She’d barely made it this far. “So, um, I’m sorry.”

With each word, her voice grew in strength, became more sure, but still held that rough and raspy edge. Thirsty. Lord, she was thirsty. And she had to pee, too. Badly, though not as desperately as one would think after sleeping for a full twenty-four hours.

He snorted. “You’re forgiven for saving your life. I’d have done the same.”

“You...took care of me, too.” She knew he’d stripped off her clothes, redressed her in something else, had dribbled tea into her mouth. It was a lot to do for a stranger. “Thank you.”

“Didn’t have much choice,” he said in a brusque but not unkind manner. “There’s no way to get help out here until the storm is over and the roads are cleared. From the looks of it, we’ll be stuck together for another handful of days. Maybe a week. But you’re welcome.”

“A week?”

“Unlikely, but possible. So, if you hadn’t found your way here, well...”

Right. She would have died. She’d already figured that one out. Pretending she felt better than she did, she said, “If we’re going to be stuck together, I’d like to know your name.”

“Oh, sorry. It’s Liam. And it will be fine. Number one priority is your health.”

So far, he hadn’t pushed her to do anything now that she was awake and talking. He had to be exhausted, but he was giving her the opportunity to orient herself. To figure out how she felt and how to find some comfort in this strange situation. Unless, of course, he often had strangers stumbling to his house in the middle of a storm and passing out on his sofa.

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