The Mountain Man's Muse Page 2

  The line goes quiet. "You're serious?"

  "I don't joke about anything, you should know that by now."

  "But you, River Ryder, married? I just can't picture the kind of woman who would put up with you."

  I run a hand over my thick beard. Truth is, I can't exactly picture her either. When Isabella Rosalind called telling me she made a match, she refused to send a photo. She said marriage matches never work when you can picture them ahead of time. But she told me my bride would be carrying a single rose.

  "Well, I'll Snapchat you a picture after the wedding."

  He guffaws. "You're on Snapchat? Where is River and what have you done to him?"

  I give him a dry laugh. "Of course, I'm not on fucking Snapchat. I'm a mountain man, not a millennial."

  I get in my Range Rover and head straight to the airport where my bride will be arriving. After I get her, I plan on taking her straight to the courthouse. I don't trust myself not to back out if we don't just go and do the damn thing straight away.

  When I pull into the parking lot, I head over to the landing strip and wait on the tarmac as a large plane lands. It's bringing both my bride and supplies for other people in town who are here for pick-ups. It's unloading now, and I try not to get too in my head.

  There are a thousand reasons why this idea is my worst one yet, but then again, it could be my best. When I was broke and out of work, stuck between and a rock and a hard place, that's when I landed my agent--who quickly sold my first novel to a publisher who offered me a six-figure advance.

  When I was desperate, needed it to work, is when I had the best luck in my life.

  I'm hoping the same will be true with this experience.

  A few rugged men I recognize from the only bar in town, disembark the plane. So does the pilot and co-pilot; both are men I despise. They're constantly making demeaning jokes and hitting on anything with a pulse. Up here in Alaska, everyone looks carved from the earth and bush pilots are no different. What is different, is that they're laughing, in good spirits, and looking over their shoulder with grins on their faces.

  They're usually the kind of men who throw back a six pack over lunch, scratch their beer bellies and fall asleep at the bar. They are lewd and raunchy. I don't trust these men, and I hate that they were the ones flying my bride here today.

  It takes one second to see what has these burly mountain men in such a good mood.

  Behind them, coming down the steps, is a woman in a soft pink jacket, with long black hair that’s whipping in the wind, and she is holding a single white rose.

  I frown, not liking the way their hands brush against her. She has no idea what their intentions might be, but I do.

  When her eyes meet mine, she does a double take, nearly losing her balance. I move toward her, but the pilot catches her first and helps her down. I see his hand on her back and my blood starts to boil.

  She came here for me, after all. I ordered her--not that man. And when she turns and flashes him the brightest, whitest, most goddamn perfect smile, I'm ready to punch him.

  I've never met her, but with one look, I already know she is mine.

  My jaw clenches. I'm not usually some Tarzan who goes apeshit and territorial. But this feels different. She's my bride; it should be me taking her by the hand and leading her where she needs to go.

  Finally, she's down the flight of stairs and I'm walking toward her, trying my damnedest to wipe the scowl from my face.

  Her bright blue eyes knit with worry when she sees me.

  "Are you River?" she asks.

  I grunt in assent, and she offers me her rose.

  "I'm Rose," she says softly. "I'm here for you."

  "You need to get in the car," I tell her, not wanting these untamed men to get any more ideas in their heads about her.

  "Let me just get my things and say goodbye to the pilots. Oh, you should come to meet them, they're --"

  I cut her off. "It looks like you've already had plenty of time to talk."

  She twists her lips and I feel my fucking cock twitch. She's gorgeous, like a goddamn nymph from some Shakespearean sonnet. Pale skin and red lips and dark hair and eyes so blue, so damn crystal clear, I'm scared to look in in them knowing they'd reveal my reflection. And right now, I'm guessing my face only registers annoyance.

  "I was only trying to be polite," she says, the irritation in her voice unmistakable.

  "You can't be polite to men out here," I tell her. "Men who live this far north aren't exactly known for their manners."

  She rolls her eyes, answering me dryly, "Really? I didn't notice."

  I furrow my brows, grab her suitcases, and carry them to my SUV.

  "So, this is how we're starting off?" she asks, shaking her head in disbelief. We're standing outside the car, and she’s biting her bottom lip. It's only then that I notice she's trembling.

  "Why do you mean?" I ask, lifting an eyebrow at her, trying to work how exactly Isabella crawled inside my brain and delivered to me the most impeccably beautiful woman I could have ever dreamed up.

  "I mean not even a hello? A hug. A smile?" She presses her fingertips to her mouth, shaking her head.

  "A smile would make this better?" I ask, not quite believing her. "Because it's all pretty insane, marrying a stranger. So, if you want out-- you should go now. A smile shouldn't be the deal breaker."

  "Are you always so cold and detached?"

  I rake a hand through my hair. "This is cold?" I ask, genuinely confused.

  "Yeah, you're acting all, intense and... yeah. Well, really intense."

  "This is not me being intense," I tell her. "This is me getting you in the car and away from those assholes."

  "The pilots? Rick and JimmyBob? They aren't assholes. They invited me back to their cabin in case you weren't here."

  "I bet they did."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "It means you can't just trust anyone. You can't assume the best in people. You do that, and you get hurt."

  She licks her lips, studying me. "Is that what happened to you, River? You've been burned one too many times to count?"

  I shake my head. "I'm not doing this right now."

  "Doing what? Being honest with your fiancée?"

  I scoff. Is she for real? Getting all up in my business the first time we meet? Wanting to know what made me the way I am?

  "You want the truth?" I ask her, suddenly not so sure that she is in it for the long haul.

  She nods.

  "Truth is, you're the prettiest thing this state has ever seen." I step closer to her, wanting her next to me, close enough to touch. I breathe her in: she's sunshine and rose petals; she's fucking blooming with innocence.

  She steps closer too, and she may not say it with words, but I know she's taking me in. I know she likes what she sees.

  "I saw those men looking at you," I tell her, my whole body itching to have her in my arms. "Looking at you like a fresh piece of meat and it made me scared."

  "Scared of what?" she asks, eyes wide as she absorbs my words.

  "Scared that I might lose what I just found."

  Her shoulder fall, relaxing as I speak from the heart. I let my ego get in the way the moment I laid eyes on my bride. I owe her a do-over.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” I tell her, running a hand over my beard. “I let my protective streak take over there, and I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  A tiny smile spreads on her pink little lips. “That’s better. And I do want a husband who can look out for my best interest, just not one who is going to bulldoze me into submission.”

  I nod tightly. “This is all new for me, I’m not use to ….”

  She lifts her eyebrows. “Being gentle?”

  I clear my throat. “Exactly. I’m a lone ranger up here and that’s why I wanted a wife.”

  She takes a deep breathe, exhaling slowly. She motions with her hands, encouraging me to do the same, and shockingly enough, I find myself following her lead. Breat
hing in and out, calming myself down from the initial intensity I gave her.

  “There we go,” she says lightly, a glimmer of light in her eyes that makes me want to make her happy. “Now we can start over.”

  I step toward her, wanting my bride-to-be in my arms. “So, you wanted a proper hello?" I ask as her lips part, her hands at her sides.

  She nods.

  "Well then, hello Rose," I say, and I wrap my arms around her. "It would be rude not to kiss the bride, right?"

  She draws in a breath as I pull her mouth to mine.

  Then I kiss her, my mail-order bride.

  Chapter Three

  Rose

  His mouth is soft, possessive. His tongue pushes past my lips and circles mine, causing my body to become jelly, and his firm hand on my back is the only thing keeping me from melting into his arms

  When he pulls away from the kiss, my heart is pounding in my chest. He may look like a man who recently swallowed a bitter pill before the kiss, but after, there is a light in his eyes I hadn't expected to see. He was so angry, so protective of me the moment we met. And, to be honest, I appreciate his discretion. JimmyBob and Rick may have been sweet to me, but I do realize they could have been looking at me with less than pure intentions.

  I felt Rick look me up and down, felt the way JimmyBob held onto my arm just a little too tight.

  But as River holds onto my waist, the kiss lingering between us, his hold on me is just right. I breathe him in, and his body smells better than a stick of allspice. His cologne is woodsy and deep, and it takes me a second to realize that it isn't a purchased scent.

  No, this is all him; all man. He smells like typewriter ink and rich leather, like pine branches and glacial water. I want to bring his mouth to mine again, run my hands over his arms, but I know I’m getting carried away.

  "Damn," he says whistling under his breath as he looks at me. "That was some kiss."

  I smile, pleasure running over me. "That is what I was hoping for when I asked for a proper hello," I say, my words light, and relief floods over me. When we first met, I panicked, thinking maybe this was a terrible idea. I don't get the impression that River is exactly sweet and cozy.

  But I don't need that. If he can treat me well and kiss me like that, I trust that Isabella knew what she was doing when she made this match.

  "What did Isabella tell you about me?" he asks, taking my suitcase and putting it in the back of his Range Rover. As he moves, I can't help but notice his strong expansive shoulders, his muscular biceps, and of course, when he looks back at me, his thick beard has me practically drooling.

  He has soft brown hair and warm hazel eyes. High cheekbones and a well-kept beard. He's in a flannel shirt and tight blue jeans and work boots, nothing showy or flashy, but considering he's driving an $80,000 vehicle, it's clear he has money.

  Everything about him, tells me he is well-off: a rich leather belt threaded through his jeans, an expensive watch, and confidence that comes when you know who you are.

  "Cat got your tongue?" he asks.

  "Sorry, what was the question?" I ask.

  "I asked if you're still pissed at me? I was hoping the kiss might lighten the mood."

  Sighing in relief that he isn't upset anymore, I nod. "It was a really nice kiss."

  He cocks an eyebrow my direction. "Nice?"

  "What? Not the adjective you were hoping for?" I ask as he opens my door. I slide into the leather seat and pull the seat buckle on as he closes the door and walks around to the driver side.

  "Nice isn't exactly the word I'd use to describe your mouth against mine."

  "Yeah? What are you, a wordsmith?"

  "You could say that," he says, turning on the car and pulling out of the parking lot. We leave the plane and the pilots in the past behind and we drive toward a future I know nothing about.

  There are ice-capped mountains and a clear blue sky and so much green it's like a river of trees.

  "It's so beautiful here," I say, looking at the scenery and already imaging the yoga videos I can record here for my YouTube channel. I was looking for solitude and serenity--it looks like I found it.

  I catch his gaze and I notice that he is staring at me. "That's the goddamn truth," he says. "You're fucking beautiful."

  "For a wordsmith, you sure like to swear." I twist my lips, interested to see how easily we will be able to banter, to have fun with one another. It's not a deal breaker, but I'd like to enjoy the company of the man I'm going to be living with.

  "Yeah," he says, giving me a slow grin. "I suppose I could improve on that. Truth is, the longer I've been out here all on my own, the rougher I've become. I'll try to soften it up a bit for you."

  His consideration goes a long way. I'm not a prude, but I am old-fashioned I suppose. I've never even had sex.

  "Is that why you ordered wife?" I ask. "Are you lonely?"

  His hands are firm on the steering driving and he doesn't turn to look at me again. I wonder if I said too much, spoke too soon. I've never been one to hold my tongue.

  Finally, after driving in silence for a few excruciatingly long moments, he answers, "Yes, I was lonely."

  "Well," I say, exhaling, feeling a sense of camaraderie with my husband-to-be. "That makes two of us."

  At that, he does look over at me, his eyes softening as he takes me in and I look down at my hands my lap, the intense look he gives me causing a flutter in my belly.

  "So, where we headed? Your house?"

  He furrows his eyebrows. "Hell no, we're going to the courthouse."

  "Oh," I manage, shocked. "So soon?"

  "What did you think, we'd go play house for a little bit before I made you my bride?"

  "I don't know... I guess... Isabella said the wedding could take place anytime between one day and one week after we met. I guess I just..."

  "What? Do you want to take some to decide? Because I thought I was pretty clear with Isabella. I want a wife who is serious. I don't need the drama of a wife backing out."

  His tone ruffles me. There is no backup plan for me. This is it, the life I've chosen. "Of course, I'm serious. Are you?"

  "Yes. Why? You don't think I'm serious?"

  "I don't know," I say honestly. "I’ve never done this before. I've never been married. I've never even had sex."

  That has him gripping his steering wheel so damn tightly I think his knuckles might burst through his skin.

  "You okay?" I ask, but I know exactly why he has gotten so spun up.

  "You're a virgin?" he asks carefully, his eyes on the road.

  "Yes."

  "And you really want to do this? Marry me?"

  "Why? Does my being a virgin make you reconsider? Am I too inexperienced for you?"

  "I'm not that kind of guy."

  "And what kind are you?" I ask him.

  "A man who knows what he wants."

  "And what do you want, River?"

  "I want to make you my wife."

  The ceremony is quick. I don't even know if I'd call it a ceremony at all, to be honest. As we took our vows, slipped simple gold bands on one another's fingers, and signed the documents, I kept thinking about the Fiametta and Ricardo.

  She showed me her wedding pictures after I agreed to be a mail-order bride. She wore white and had a delicate white veil. She said that it was her mother's. I felt a twinge of sadness at the thought. I was a foster kid growing up and never had any family. Suffice to say, there were no heirlooms passed down to me on my wedding day.

  But she did give me a small blue broach, and I pinned it to my sweater this morning as I dressed. I wear it now and rub my fingers over the blue stone set in a sterling silver.

  I told Fiametta it would be my something borrowed and something blue.

  She shook her head and told me to keep it. Something to remember her by.

  "Be brave my little bellisima." She kissed both my cheeks when I left the apartment for the last time.

  "I now pronounce you man and wife," the ci
vil judge announces, jolting me back to reality.

  "Thanks for your time," River says, shaking the judge's hand. Thanks for your time? I shake my head. River may be handsome and he may know what he wants, but he isn't exactly aware of what a woman might want her wedding.

  After we got out of his car, at the courthouse, I insisted he go to a grocery store and buy me flowers for a wedding bouquet. He looked surprised and I shook my head at his lack of awareness. I told him I would be in the restroom freshening up, and he gave me an embarrassed apology, seeming to realize the error of his way.

  And after the ceremony he hands his phone to the judge, asking if he could take a photo of us. I smile, thinking maybe River just needs to be put in check a bit about how to treat a lady.

  And that’s alright with me. I can't have any expectations about River. I came here on a crazy whim because I was between a rock and hard place and this was my way out.

  More than a way out. It's an adventure.

  So, I can't think about a wedding with cake and presents. Those are childish dreams anyways. Now I am a legally married woman. I signed a prenup and a marriage license and am now River Ryder's wife.

  "It was my pleasure," the judge says as he shakes my husband’s hand. "And by the way, River, my wife and I are huge fans. We have copies of all your books."

  He thanks the judge with a tight smile before putting his arm around my waist and leading me out of the courtroom.

  "What did he mean, a huge fan? All your books?" I ask him as he leads me back out into the frigid Alaskan air. It may be summer, but it isn't exactly warm; there is a sharpness to the air that I figure I should get used to.

  "I'm a writer."

  "Ryder the writer? That's funny."

  "Hilarious," he says coolly.

  I bite my bottom lip, suppressing a smile. He may have a penchant for dry humor, but I have to admit it's a little sexy. And by a little, I mean a lot.

  Truth is, I find River undeniably attractive. Which is a good thing, considering he's my husband.

  And the knowledge that I'm his wife... it sends a shiver of pleasure along my spine.