Untamed (Irresistible Bachelors Book 9) Read online

  She’ll get over it.

  Truth is, I ran Carlotta off for hitting my sore spot. Her only fault lay in reminding me of what I don’t have . . . and might possibly miss. I’m stubborn as a mule, but even I can see that maybe it’s time to test the waters a little bit.

  Living up here in the mountains, though, I wouldn’t know the first place to start. Hell, maybe this Airbnb idea might be that first step. I could actually say hello to someone every now and then. Work on my terrible fucking social skills.

  “Carlotta’s right,” I mutter as I realize grunting ‘good morning’ isn’t exactly rejoining the world. I was just too prideful and stubborn to admit it in her presence.

  Looking around the cabin, it’s cozy enough, with caramel hardwood floors and a stone fireplace in the center of the living room. I laid that fireplace with my bare hands, picking the rocks out of the land surrounding my cabin and hauling them in a pack all the way here. It’s some piece of work. But the whole place is more functional and minimal than inviting. It looks like exactly what it is . . . a mountain man bachelor pad with no heart, no softness.

  Beyond the cleaning, the connection with someone Carlotta talked about would probably do me even more good.

  Having a woman around probably would make life easier.

  But I haven’t been with anyone in a long time . . . and I’m practically a caveman these days. I don’t need Carlotta to tell me that.

  It’s been a while since I’ve had a woman. And I’d be lying to myself if I said I wasn’t as horny as a bull that’s been caged up in a pen. There’s only so much ‘self love’ you can do before you’re frustrated for something more.

  But what would happen if I actually started dating and let the caged beast within me free? I’m almost afraid to find out.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound comes from outside, and the pitter patter of furry feet breaks me out of my reverie. The wooden dog door I put in last winter swings in, and I look into the piercing grey-blue eyes of my only companion, Rex, a Siberian husky that’s been with me since moving to Bear Mountain.

  If dogs are a man’s best friend, then Rex is the closest thing to a soulmate that I’ve had with a non-human. I’ve raised him from a puppy, taking him from Doc Jones, the vet in town, when Rex was abandoned by his owners. He’s always by my side whenever I need him and has proven himself to be of great use, helping me do chores around the property. If anything, he scares the shit out of local bears.

  Rex stands in the short entrance hallway, gazing at me, obediently waiting for permission to come all the way in, though I don’t mind where he goes. He’s my buddy. I snap my fingers and he trots up to me, sitting right at my feet as I squat down, rubbing him behind the ears.

  “You hear that conversation between me and Car, boy?” I ask him, finding his secret spot behind his left ear that makes his tail wag extra-fast. “She thinks I need a woman around here to keep things straight. What do you think about that?”

  Rex tilts his head to the side, looking curious.

  I chuckle at his expression, shaking my head as I walk over to the calendar I use to keep up with my logging schedule. “Yeah, I think she’s crazy too.”

  I quickly scan the jobs I have planned for the rest of today. It’s not too much, just an old pine that could fall across the trail off my property in the next snow, but it involves some tedious chopping. Fuck chainsaws. I do this right. But if I want to be done by sunset, I need to start now.

  I walk over and grab my favorite axe, an exquisite workhorse with a hickory handle and a hardened steel blade. I’m actually relishing the prospect of a hard afternoon of work. It’ll allow me to forget my problems.

  At least I hope.

  “Come on, boy,” I tell Rex, who obediently pads to my side as I shoulder my axe and begin gathering my gear. “We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  I walk back into the cabin covered in sweat, an iron ache running down my back between my shoulder blades from an afternoon’s labor, my booted feet clunking across the hardwood floor. Rex obediently pads in behind me, panting, and drops down on his worn and tattered dog bed.

  Grinning at him, I fill his water bowl at the kitchen sink and place it in front of him. I watch him lap up the liquid like it’s the last drink he’ll ever have.

  “That’s a good boy,” I tell him. “You act like you’ve been running a marathon in the desert.”

  Grabbing a cold beer out of the fridge, I sit back in my big chair and prop my feet up onto the table, letting out a weary sigh.

  “We made good progress today, Rex,” I say, looking out the front window. The sun is just now dipping into the horizon, and the surrounding trees and land are bathed in tones of yellow and orange. It’s a picturesque scene and the reason I chose here, along with the peace and quiet.

  But wouldn’t it be better to share the sunsets with someone? the annoying voice in my mind whispers.

  I shove the voice to the back edges of my mind, irritated. But it reminds me of something.

  Carlotta was supposed to be sending me the final brochure.

  I take several more chugs of my beer before getting out my laptop. Besides going down into town for the food I can’t get my hands on out here, this cranky old thing is my only link to the outside world. I use it to keep current with world affairs and to handle my limited business matters.

  Ironically, an email from Carlotta is the first thing that pops up on my screen.

  Dear Stubborn Pain In My Ass,

  Aww . . . and here I was thinking she didn’t care.

  Here is the brochure in its entirety. I hope it fits your liking, but even if it doesn’t . . . too late. Using my judgement and your lack of input, I’ve decided that it conveys the vibe we want perfectly and have gone through with a final version. The online profile’s updated, and the order is at the printers.

  I should pick up the hard copies by week’s end and then I’ll get them all sent out. I’ve included my name and number on the brochure since you said you wanted me to handle all inquiries for booking. By the way, I’m taking a cut from that, so there!

  In the meantime, I’ve included a digital copy that's specifically formatted for email. So if you have any friends who might be interested in a vacation or people who can help you pass it around to get the word out, feel free to share.

  Friends? She is being optimistic, isn’t she?

  By the way, I’m not mad at you for being an ass today. I recognize it’s a defense mechanism and I was skating on a touchy subject. I’m sorry. I’m just worried about your wellbeing. I hope you understand.

  Love,

  Car

  I read her letter again before opening the attached document. I have to give the girl a salute with my beer, so I do, lifting my can toward the screen. It’s gorgeous, with professional pictures of the rental cabin and the surrounding landscape laid out in a neat collage intertwined with text. There’s even a link to a YouTube video, a two-minute overview that Carlotta narrated herself.

  There’s no way I could have come up with something like this, and it proves I made the right decision in hiring Carlotta to handle the matter.

  Still, I look over the finished product several times, looking for any mistakes she might’ve missed.

  One picture in the collage, one that I was adamant that Carlotta include, keeps popping out at me. It’s an area I used to frequent a long time ago and one of the reasons I bought the property with the inheritance my grandmother left me.

  It’s a nighttime shot of a small lake that leads off into a quiet cove, the stars twinkling above. It’s a romantic scene if there ever was one.

  Seeing it brings back memories, memories I’ve tried to keep buried. Of the last time I felt romantic. Of the guy I used to be. Of her . . .

  Ana Tucker.

  Even after all this time, my heart skips a little at the mere thought of her. I don’t know why. She probably doesn’t even remember who I am. Even if she does, considering what I did, she probably hates my guts.


  Unable to resist the melodramatic curiosity, I bring up Google and type her name in the search bar. I hover the mouse pointer over the search button for a moment, filled with indecision. I’ve never dared search her name before, making a pact with myself to forget her. That’s easier if I don’t know anything about her.

  But after the visit with Carlotta today, and staring at the romantic lake image, I’m feeling a bit vulnerable.

  Don’t do it. Don’t do it.

  My mind goes through a million and one reasons it isn’t a good idea to search Anabelle. The biggest reason, of course, is that she’s probably married and has at least one kid that she’s proudly showing off all over social media.

  I couldn’t handle that. In fact, even thinking of the possibility makes the dark clouds start to push in again and makes my decision easy.

  Tapping my touchpad, I close the tab and shut down my laptop.

  I’ll leave the memory of Ana Tucker in the past where it belongs since we’ll never be.

  Chapter 2

  Ana

  Beep, beep-beep, beep, beep-beep . . . the monitor chirps at slow, even intervals, like a slow waltz. It’s a sound that I’ve grown accustomed to working in Great Falls as a nurse at St. Joseph’s Memorial Hospital, so familiar I can tune it out unless it stops.

  But in this particular patient’s case, someone who had been at death’s door just a week ago and a half ago, it’s music to my ears. Fighting off severe pneumonia can be hard for anyone, and this patient wasn’t the strongest to begin with.

  A hacking cough interrupts my thoughts, and my instincts kick in. I can’t help it. Even before I was a nurse, I wanted to take care of people.

  “You feeling okay, Mrs. Smith?” I ask concernedly, rushing over to check the numbers on the monitors and more importantly, pat her back and comfort her through the coughing fit. “How’s the chest?”

  Eleanor Smith, a seventy-one-year-old woman with a shock of wiry gray hair who’s a total hoot and has taken to giving me unsolicited advice over the week she’s been here, waves me away unconcernedly, her bushy brows crinkling her forehead into a patchwork of wrinkles. It takes a moment for her to regain control of her breathing to speak as she shakes her head. “Of course I am, dear. Just a little coughing, that’s all. Probably from being cooped up in this dreadful room all day.”

  She gestures a gaunt arm at the window where I see the clear blue skyline of Great Falls. The air is so crystal-clear I can even see the snow-capped Bear Mountains in the distance. They look so beautiful. A part of me wishes I were there soaking in some sunlight, right up at the ski resort I can just make out on the nearest of the hills. “I understand, Mrs. Smith.”

  “It’s so depressing lying in here when all that is waiting for me out there.” She shakes her head, looking rightfully agitated. “A damned shame, really. My garden needs me.”

  I smile knowingly. It’s the beginning of spring, barely past our last frost and while Great Falls thawed quickly this year, the only thing Mrs. Smith’s garden is growing is mushy snowmen. “Well, I have some good news for you,” I say cheerfully. “Dr. Turner says your condition is stable enough that you’ll likely be discharged in a couple of days. He just needs to run some additional tests to make absolutely sure you’re all set.”

  “Well, he’d better hurry the hell up then,” Eleanor grumbles. “The radishes can’t grow themselves.”

  I chuckle, knowing her radishes will be just fine even if she’s here for another month. “I’m going to change your bedsheets out now, Mrs. Smith, okay?” I ask gently. “Do you want me to roll you over or do you want to get in the chair?”

  Eleanor gives a faint nod towards the chair. “Oh, I want to sit up in the chair for a bit. Can you help? Just watch the hip. It’s always giving me trouble. Too much rump shaking in my younger days, if you know what I mean.”

  I can’t help but giggle, realizing patients like Eleanor are one of the reasons I love what I do. Sure, it’s a little weird to see a woman old enough to be my grandmother talking about booty shaking, but who knows? Maybe she was getting her freak on at Woodstock. And I’ve always enjoyed meeting new people, getting to know them, their personalities and all their quirks. Helping them get better and sending them on their way in better condition than when they arrived are what drive me to do what I do.

  “All set,” I say when I’m done helping Eleanor’s to the chair and changing her bed. “Is there anything else you’d like to make you more comfortable?”

  Mrs. Smith shakes her head, patting my hand. “No, thank you. You’re such a sweet girl, Anabelle . . . and a wonderful nurse.”

  A surge of warmth flows through my chest. I always love to get compliments from my patients, a sign that even if they’re stuck in the hospital, something that is by nature depressing, I did something to brighten their day. “Thank you, Mrs. Smith.”

  Eleanor looks at me, her wise rheum-lined blue eyes searching my face. “But my word, child, you look tired. Are you getting enough sleep?”

  I open and close my mouth for a moment, shocked by her blunt statement. “Pardon?”

  Eleanor gestures at the mirror over the sink. “Look at yourself, girl. You look like you haven’t rested in days.”

  I begin to protest but stop short when I catch a glimpse of my face in the mirror. With brown sugar eyes, bra-length honey-brown hair, and an hourglass figure, some would say I’m pretty. But with a shock, I realize that Eleanor’s right. I do look more haggard than usual, and the dark circles under my eyes are underscored with bags fit to be luggage.

  But I can’t help it. The flu season this year was a bitch, and a lot of nurses have been calling off with bugs of some type or another. I’ve been helping, taking overtime shifts on the regular because they needed staff. But I’ve been so busy lately, I haven’t even noticed the subtle changes in my appearance.

  “I’ve been working a little overtime,” I admit grudgingly, “but I don’t mind.”

  Mrs. Smith tuts me, and I’m reminded that in her previous life she was a junior high school teacher. “Oh, that’s bull, young lady. You’re a human, not a robot. How long have you been working hard like this? A year? Two? I think you need a serious break, my dear,” Eleanor says, gesturing back at the window. “And a lot of sun. You’ve been here since they brought me in on what I thought was my last breath. I’ve seen how hard you work, but you need some down time too. Do it for yourself, but if you won’t do that . . . do it for me, an old lady who understands that a day relaxing in the sunshine is just what you need. Trust me. You’ll thank me later.”

  My immediate urge is to brush off Eleanor’s suggestion. Yes, I work hard, but I’m used to it, going straight from all-night study sessions to twelve-hour shifts at the hospital. Plus, honestly, I need to work hard. I’ve still got a stack of student loans roughly as long as my arm. Besides, I truly love what I do, so working a lot doesn’t feel like a burden. It gives me focus and keeps my mind off my lack of a social life.

  I hold back the dark snort at my ‘social life’. My life consists of work and the occasional dinner with my brother, Trey. He seems to think it’s my fault I haven’t found a man, dramatically bemoaning that I spend most of my time working or with my nose stuck in a book. Of course, it doesn’t help that he’s found the man of his dreams in Brad, a hair and makeup wizard who is an absolute trip. Falling in love has suddenly made Trey into Team Love’s biggest cheerleader, and he’s decided that I’m missing out.

  Worst part is? He might be right. I haven’t been looking for love, but lately, nights alone over TV dinners and DVR reruns don’t feel the same. I’d like to find that ‘special someone’ to come home to, but it hasn’t happened. I really don’t know what’s wrong with me. At twenty-eight, I still have time, and my biological clock hasn’t started screaming doomsday. Maybe that’s been the issue? No sense of urgency, so I’ve just been coasting along, focused on other things like school, work . . . the past. Nope, not going there. Definitely not.

 
; As if reading my mind, Eleanor pulls me out of my reverie. “And you definitely look like you could use a date,” she says, putting a little emphasis on the word ‘date’ to show she doesn’t mean a dinner out on the town. She lowers her voice to a whisper. “How about that Adam fella who comes in here at night? That boy’s sure got a nice tush on him.”

  I start to protest. Adam is definitely not my type, considering his brain is solely focused on gym schedules and new protein shake combos to help bulk up. But to my horror, a giant yawn escapes my lips instead of my explanation.

  Eleanor jumps at the opening. “See, what did I tell you? You’re about to pass out on the floor.”

  “Okay,” I admit grudgingly. “Maybe I am a little overworked. But it’s nothing a good night’s rest won’t fix.” I give Eleanor a gentle smile. “Thank you for your concern, Mrs. Smith, but I’m fine. I’ll be back to check on you in a bit, okay?”

  She gives me a wise scowl and crosses her bony arms across her chest. “You’ll be seeing things my way soon. Watch. Us old bats know these things.”

  For the rest of the morning, I make my rounds through the floor, checking in on each of my patients. Eleanor’s words never leave my mind, and the more I think about it, the more I like the idea of a little vacation—some fresh air, clear blue skies, and sun to keep the pep in my step. The flu ‘epidemic’ is waning. What harm could it do?

  It’s not long before I’m daydreaming about all the fun places I can visit. Disneyworld . . . Hawaii . . . okay, those might be a little beyond my means. But there’s one place that stands out to me more than others, a place I haven’t been to in over ten years but a place I’ve been yearning to go back to.

  Ironically enough, it’s local.

  You can’t go back there. That was a different time, a different space. There’s nothing there now but memories. Dead memories.