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I ducked right under the bright orange boundary ribbon without a single trace of remorse.
I dropped straight to my knees in the dark pine loam, ignoring the damp mountain chill biting through the worn denim of my jeans. Up in the branches of an old cedar, a mountain jay was catching the late amber light, ruffling its feathers against the breeze. I lifted my camera, dialed the focus ring, and held my breath. It was perfect.
Then my boots gave way.
I pitched forward with a startled gasp, both hands reflexively flying out to shield my lens. My knees and forearms plunged straight into a slick, deceptive patch of black mountain mire. The mud swallowed me past the shins, cold and heavy, splattering the hem of my favorite thrifted knit and soaking straight through my clothes.
"Damn it," I muttered, trying to wrench a foot loose, only for my boot to stay firmly wedged in the muck while my heel threatened to slip right out of the sock.
Before I could even attempt to stand, a ferocious snap of branches and heavy boot leather echoed through the timber behind me.
"You're past the boundary tape. Pack up that gear right now."
The voice was pure gravel—low, dark, and lethal enough to vibrate straight into my sternum.
I froze, humiliated. I scrambled to pull myself up, but my balance was shot. I managed to twist around, wiping a streak of black mud off my cheek with the back of an equally muddy hand, fully aware of what an absolute disaster I looked like.
Oh, lord above. Look at this man.
He filled the entire tree line. Towering, broad as an absolute mountain, and dressed in a dark tactical green state wildlife uniform that stretched impossibly tight across a massive chest. A heavy utility belt hung at his hips, and piercing slate-gray eyes glared down at me beneath a scruffy dark beard and a jaw cut like solid granite. He smelled like crushed pine needles, clean gun oil, and cold mountain cedar. And he was glaring at me like I was a poacher caught red-handed.
"I was tracking a shot," I bit out, desperately trying to sound dignified while kneeling knee-deep in a bog, pulling my knit sleeves down over my muddy knuckles. "I didn't realize the ground was a swamp."
"It's a protected runoff bed. Which you'd know if you stayed on the marked path like the signs told you to," the giant growled, stepping straight toward me with his hands resting heavy on his hips. "Stand up."
"I'm trying, Officer No-Name," I snapped, tugging hard against the suction of the mud with zero success. "The earth is currently eating my boots."
His jaw ticked with pure irritation. He closed the distance, planted his heavy duty boots right on the edge of the bank, and reached down. His massive, calloused hand clamped around my upper arm—careful, never hurting, but completely unyielding—and hoisted me out of the muck in one smooth, effortless pull.
My feet hit the solid dirt with a wet, squelching thud. I stumbled slightly against his chest, instantly overwhelmed by just how solid he was. He was easily six-foot-four, looming over me so completely that I had to crane my neck just to hold his glare.
"State Warden Hargrove," he rumbled, unhooking his hand from my arm but refusing to step back an inch. "And you're done takin' pictures out here today. Move it. Now."
"I have a right to shoot public land," I countered, heat rising in my neck as I crossed my muddy arms over my chest.
"Not off the trail, sweetheart."
"Don't call me sweetheart." Annoyed, reckless, and refusing to be bullied, I brought the viewfinder straight to my eye, centered his scowling, impossibly rugged face, and clicked the shutter. Snap.
Colt didn't yell. He just reached out, took me firmly by the elbow again, and turned me toward the timber line with unmistakable authority.
"Trail's that way," he commanded, escorting me through the brush until my boots hit the hard-packed gravel of the main path. "Keep your feet on it, or I'll haul your camera into town myself."
The drive down the mountain pass to Cedar Grove Lodge felt suffocatingly loud inside my head. With every winding curve, the memory of his scowl clashed with the cold, sterile reality I had just left behind. I could still hear my father’s dismissive chuckle at the kitchen island back in the city, telling me wildlife photography was an embarrassing, childish phase that would end the second I ran out of money. I could still see my mother sliding law school brochures across the polished marble counter, expecting me to fold. I’d rather freeze in a ditch first.
I hauled my heavy canvas duffel into the rustic lodge room, kicked the heavy wooden door shut with my heel, and fell back against the mattress. I dialed my brother immediately.
"Tell me you haven't booked a flight back to the city yet," Eli said by way of greeting, humor laced in his voice.
"Not a chance," I groaned, staring at the mud caked onto my jeans. "Though I did just get hauled out of a swamp by a six-foot-four mountain grump with a badge who thinks he owns the timber."
Eli laughed. "Dad’s literally running a pool with the firm partners on what week you pack it in, Finn. Don't let him win."
"I won't," I promised, sitting up. "I'm going to make this work."
A sharp, rhythmic knock echoed against the cedar door just as I disconnected the call.
I padded across the wide floorboards in my wool socks and pulled the heavy door open. Standing on the threshold was a plump, silver-haired woman in a faded vintage floral apron, holding a steaming, double-crusted apple-cinnamon pie in her oven mitts. The aroma of warm brown sugar, butter, and baked apples instantly washed through the room.
"You're Finn Hollis," Clara Thorne smiled warmly, thrusting the pie into my hands before I could even get a word out. "Saw you check in, honey. Welcome to Cedar Grove. Eat up while it’s hot—you'll need some sugar in your veins if you're plannin' on survivin' these mountain woods."
