with me forever.
One
Miranda Colby coaxed her Mercedes off the road, knowing the valiant little car wouldn’t go another inch.
The rough mountain trail looked like an ad for Adventurers magazine. Potholes and muddy patches lined the road like stains on a wedding-ring quilt, making what had once probably been a passable road into a quagmire.
She knew the cabin had to be close by. Determined to reach its shelter before the storm broke, she stepped out of the car and felt the world sink.
Clutching the roof of her car, she pried her left foot out of the muck. She balanced herself on a patch of grass and pulled her right foot out of the mud. The mate to her nowugly shoe hadn’t made the journey.
Miranda bit back a sigh of disgust, rummaging around in the back seat of the car until she found her worn canvas boat shoes. As she slid them on, she glanced at the sky.
Ominous black clouds threatened, and a roll of thunder echoed through the valley. A chance to learn how to survive in the “real” world was what she needed.
But even a city girl could tell the display would turn into a full-fledged downpour with very little urging. Grabbing the groceries and her purse, she locked the doors to her car.
The directions from the rental agent had been vague, but she knew that her cabin was located near the summit of this mountain. With that in mind, she forged ahead until she reached a dirt path.
The late-afternoon wind whipped through the trees. Miranda held the sack of groceries a bit tighter to her chest and quickened her pace. A few more minutes, then she’d be at the rental cabin. She promised herself a long, hot bath, a cup of steaming Earl Grey tea and a whole bag of Oroes.
Reaching a crossroads on the path, she froze. The sound of a man’s voice singing a ballad about lost love carried clearly in the mountain air. The haunting melody and achingly sad words touched a part of her she’d locked away long ago. Surprised for a moment, she listened to the rich baritone that drifted with the wind through the trees.
Where was he? she wondered. Her rental agent had promised seclusion, and civilization was several miles away. Whoever the man was, he’d have to be singing pretty loudly for her to hear him unless...
She was lost.
Miranda groaned out loud.
She rounded a curve in the lane and stopped as a two-story glass-and-cedar structure loomed into view. It fit the landscape perfectly, blending with nature to make the house appear almost as if it were part of the mountain.
The singing stopped, followed by a loud splash. She followed the sounds around to the back of the house. Miranda scanned the shadowed area on the rear porch. A mountain of white frothy bubbles covered the entire surface of an old-fashioned claw-foot bathtub. The foamy spray beckoned her weary body closer and Miranda fought the urge to strip off her clothes and dive into the inviting water. Of course, she’d never do such a thing.
She shivered again as the breeze kicked up. She took an involuntary step closer. Now she could see the steam rising from the tub, and it looked appealing in the chilly weather. A warm oasis, she thought.
Miranda sighed. It had been a grueling week at the office—the end of tax season always left her exhausted—but this year it was more than just the work. She was tirad, tired of her friends, tired of her life-style, tired of seeing her ex-fiancé and his new family everywhere she went.
She’d poured her life into her career, awakening one morning to find that something was missing. She’d handed in her resignation, but Mark didn’t believe her. He’d told her to take a leave of absence, and he’d hold her job for her. The offer was flattering, but she’d warned him she might not come back. Mark had only laughed. He said she belonged in high-level finance. She was too bright and too competitive to stay away for long.
Was she? Miranda had her doubts. Right now she wanted only peace and quiet. Right now she’d settle for climbing in that steaming tub, and soaking away the aches in her body and soul—but she doubted if Mountain Lake Lodge’s hospitality extended to a steam bath in an old-fashioned tub.
The setting sun fought through the gathering storm clouds to cast long shadows on the grass and wildflowers that blanketed the lawn. She stood at the back of some stranger’s cabin and knew she’d followed the wrong directions. Murphy’s Law strikes again, she thought wryly.
As Miranda watched, the bubbles parted and a head and torso emerged amid a spray of steam and foam. She stared at the strongly muscled back. An intricately drawn tattoo of a bind—some kind of hawk, she thought—glistened on one shoulder as the man continued to emerge from the heated water. The complex design made the predatory bird seem real. She felt its intense gaze on her almost as if the bird stared at her. Her fingers tingled with the need to trace the hawk and the male flesh beneath it.
She cleared her throat hoping to catch the man’s attention, but the sound died before it reached her lips.
The man shook his head flinging soap and water everywhere. He stretched his arms toward the sky, an outward reaching as if he were welcoming the coming storm. Miranda felt more of an intruder than ever.
He tilted his head back and let out a loud rebel yell. The kind that men had issued for ages when they were staking a claim or acknowledging the primal male buried inside the more civilized one.
Long midnight-colored strands of hair brushed the top of his shoulders. He combed through the wet locks with his fingers, revealing a diamond stud earring in one lobe.
A battered Stetson sat next to the tub along with a lit cigar. The surrounding wood deck was bare except for those items and a small pile of clothing. She wondered why she hadn’t noticed it before. Smoke drifted upward in a lazy spiral, merging with the clouds of steam. The Hawk, for that was how she thought of him, picked up the hat and settled it low on his forehead as he leaned back against the foot of the tub.
She’d never seen a person more at home in the outdoor environment. She couldn’t picture herself sitting outside in broad daylight—naked. Apparently this man had very little modesty and more ease with his own nudity than she did.
Miranda tried again to say something, to alert him to her presence, but she was too fascinated by the sight of him. She closed her eyes and counted to ten, sure that she imageined the man, the bath and the bird. He was still there when she opened her eyes.
He lifted the smoking cigar and took a long drag on it. She wrinkled her nose at the pungent scent of the tobacco. Definitely a real person—the acrid smell couldn’t be part of anyone’s imagination.
Before she could move he began singing again, but this tune hardly resembled the haunting song she’d heard earlier. The words were embarrassing and colorfully blunt.
A blush heated her face, and, despite the situation, she smiled. For years she’d accepted what passed as sophisticated boardroom humor among her male colleagues. She’d never found their sexual innuendoes embarrassing—just annoying. But this man, the Hawk, with his very crudeness, his earthiness, stirred deep feelings within her and shook her to her mud-splattered toes.
Too embarrassed to stay and ask directions, Miranda decided that she’d take her chances with the approaching storm. She pivoted on her heel, prepared to leave without alerting the man to her presence. A small rock caught under her shoe
