A Bride For The Mountain Man. Tracy Madison

even her current speed of a sleepy, lazy tortoise felt too fast, too reckless.

      She drove slowly, not so much following the road as the dense line of dark trees along either side of the car. As she did, the sun continued its unrelenting descent and the snow kept falling, faster and thicker, decreasing her scant visibility to the point of near blindness. The gusting, rushing gales of wind battered against the car with such ferocious strength that being swept off the road ranked as a real possibility. Terrifying, yes, but also...lonely.

      Not in the “oh, I wish I had someone to talk to” sense of lonely, but in the “if this goes bad, I could legitimately die out here, by myself, and no one would know.”

      Her parents wouldn’t have a clue, nor would her brothers or friends or prior coworkers. No one, except for Rachel and her husband, Cole, would even think to try to contact her for days, if not for weeks. She was supposed to be on vacation, after all.

      More than that, though. This trip was about a lot more than a simple getaway.

      After an inferno of an exchange with her father, Arthur Jensen had made it clear that for the next year, no matter the circumstance she found herself in, he would not intervene. The rest of the family wouldn’t, either.

      It was what she had wanted, had asked for and then demanded when he’d initially taken her request as a joke. But she hadn’t guessed how upset her father would become, the awful truth that slipped out in his anger, which further upset her or, when he finally capitulated, the strict set of rules he put in place. She recognized why. He didn’t believe she’d agree, but oh, she had. Because really, what else was she to do?

      But she certainly hadn’t foreseen a freak autumn snowstorm, losing her way in a wholly unfamiliar and apparently remote location or the possibility of death on the horizon. And even if her father could somehow know of her predicament and even if he hadn’t declared her as, for all intents and purposes, an orphan for the next year, he couldn’t help her now anyway.

      No one could.

      “Stop it,” she said, loud and clear. “I am not going to die out here.”

      She’d no sooner spoken the words than the faintest shimmer of light appeared ahead and to the right. So faint, she almost wondered if her eyes were playing tricks on her, and what she thought she saw was nothing more than a panic-induced mirage...her personal oasis in the desert. Could be that, she thought, or it could be just as it appeared: a sanctuary. She wouldn’t know for sure until she got closer, but hope and relief tempered the rapid beat of her heart.

      Neither lasted long. Seemingly out of nowhere, the narrow, uphill road curved sharply to the right and Meredith, in an instinctive attempt to correct her direction, yanked the steering wheel too hard. The car whiplashed to the side before settling into a spin and, now facing the opposite direction, picked up speed and careened downhill.

      Gripping the steering wheel even tighter, she worked to keep the car on the road while pumping on the brakes. She couldn’t regain control. She closed her eyes, tensed her body and readied herself for whatever came next. Damn it! This should not be happening. She should be with Rachel, sipping wine and trying to let go of the past while deciding on a new and improved future. She was not supposed to be lost, scared and...

      The impact came hard and swift, jarring her body and ending her inner tirade.

      In sync with the crash, a loud noise, almost like a gunshot, rang in Meredith’s ears as the airbag deployed and slammed against her chest. An acrid smell, strong and pungent, consumed the interior of the car, along with a powdery dust that coated her face and hair. She might have screamed, if she’d been able to breathe.

      Keeping her eyes closed for a minute and then another, she waited for her lungs to kick into gear and her shivers to fade, for her heart to regain its normal rhythm and her stomach to stop sloshing. Finally, when her breathing returned and the starkest edge of her fear ebbed, she opened her eyes. She clenched and unclenched her hands, wiggled her toes and moved her legs.

      Okay. Good. All seemed in working order. She hadn’t died yet.

      * * *

      Where had those dogs gotten off to? Liam Daly swore under his breath and hollered their names—Max and Maggie—uselessly into the wind tunnel the night had become. They didn’t come running, nor could he hear their boisterous barking. Not good.

      Not good at all.

      It was unusual for them to leave his side in the middle of a storm. Even more unusual for them to do so after he’d been gone for so long.

      He’d just returned home after an extended stay in the Aleutian Islands, where he’d photographed a variety of wildlife, including those that lived on the land, flew in the air and swam in the sea. It was a good trip and as always he was thankful for the work, but Lord, he was happy to be back home in Colorado.

      He’d be happier if his dogs would show themselves. Max and Maggie were Belgian Tervurens, a shepherding breed closely related to Belgian sheepdogs. They were smart, intuitive, active and more often than not, positioned themselves so close to Liam’s legs that he was lucky not to trip over them. They’d done so when they’d first arrived home, after Liam had picked them up from his sister’s place in Steamboat Springs proper. Fiona always looked after Max and Maggie when Liam was away, and they loved her almost as much as they loved him.

      Fiona had asked him to stay in her guest room for the night, to relax and spend some time with her and her foster daughter, Cassie, due to the oncoming storm. He’d thought about it, because he’d missed them both, but the storm could last for days. Frankly, he’d been away long enough, and he knew the mountains like the back of his own hand.

      So, he’d promised his sister and niece—because that was how he thought of Cassie—that he’d visit them soon, and as he’d thought, he didn’t have a lick of trouble on the drive home. He’d even made a quick but necessary stop for groceries and still managed to roll into his driveway a solid thirty minutes before the spitting rain had fully turned to sheets of snow-drenched ice.

      Knowing his sister would worry, he tried to check in using his mobile, but without a signal, that proved fruitless. And his satellite phone—a necessary piece of technology for assignments in certain remote locations—was pretty much useless with all the trees. Fortunately, and surprisingly, the landline still had service. Wouldn’t last much longer, he’d expect, but he was able to reassure Fiona that he’d made it home in one piece.

      The dogs had followed as he’d brought in the groceries, turned on the lights and jacked up the heat. They’d gobbled their kibble lightning fast and had then run in circles outside as he lugged in wood for the fireplace.

      He’d gotten the fire going before heading out to make sure everything was in order with the generator, because before the night was through, he’d likely lose power. All was good. He had plenty of firewood, propane and food to outlast a storm of mega proportions. He could last a couple of weeks without issue. Good thing, too.

      He had that bone-deep intuition that this storm would be one for the history books.

      Trying not to worry about the dogs—they knew this part of the mountains as well as Liam did—he hollered their names again while deciding on his next course of action. Likely, the dogs were fine. Wouldn’t hurt to give them a bit more time to stretch their legs and find their way home before allowing his concern to rule his judgment.

      He’d unpack his equipment, get everything set straight and orderly, so that he could buckle in and work for the next long while. He had hundreds upon hundreds of digital photographs to sort through, analyze, decide which were gold and which were not, in addition to the many rolls of film he had to develop in his darkroom.

      It was, perhaps, one of Liam’s favorite aspects of his job: the meticulous process of bringing a captured image to life. Oh, he wasn’t opposed to technology. Hell, he friggin’ loved what technology could do and had done for his profession, both in the practical and artistic sense.

      He was, however, a stalwart follower in the church of