The Virgin Bride Arrived With Fear in Her Eyes Mountain Men Said “Darlin, I Don’t Bite Unless”

Chapter 3

Beatrice was quiet for a moment. Then she sat down across from Evelyn, her hands folded in her lap. “He is not what you are expecting.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that when you see him, you are going to want to run.” Beatrice held her gaze steadily. “Do not run, Evelyn. He is not dangerous. Not to you.”

Evelyn felt the blood drain from her face. “Why would I want to run?”

“Because he looks like something out of a nightmare.” Beatrice’s voice was gentle but matter-of-fact. “He is the biggest man you have ever seen. He has a scar across his face that would make most men cross the street to avoid him. He has been living alone on that mountain for six years, and he has forgotten how to talk to people. He is rough and quiet, and he will not smile at you or say pretty things or make you feel comfortable.”

“Then why are you telling me not to run?”

“Because underneath all of that,” Beatrice said, “he is the most decent man I have ever known. He gave me firewood last winter when my supply ran out and would not take a single cent for it. He saved a child who fell through the ice two years ago, nearly died doing it, and then disappeared back up the mountain before anyone could thank him. He has never raised his hand to anyone who did not deserve it.”

Evelyn absorbed this. “And those who deserved it?”

Beatrice’s expression hardened. “There are men in this world who do terrible things. Elias has done terrible things to terrible men. He killed five of them years ago after they murdered his wife and daughter.”

Evelyn went very still.

“He does not talk about it,” Beatrice continued. “No one here knows the full story, but I knew his wife. Anna was her name. Sweet woman, gentle as a lamb. They had a little girl, Rose. Three years old when it happened.”

“What happened?”

“A gang of outlaws attacked their homestead in Kansas. Elias was away selling horses. When he came back, everything was gone. His wife, his daughter, his whole life.” Beatrice paused. “He tracked those men for two years. Killed every one of them. Then he came here to the mountains, and he has been alone ever since.”

Evelyn sat in silence, processing this information. Outside, the wind howled against the windows, and she could see snowflakes beginning to fall.

“Why is he looking for a wife now?” she asked finally.

“I do not know.” Beatrice shook her head. “I asked him once. He said he was tired of silence. He said he needed someone to talk to, even if he had forgotten how to do the talking himself.”

The kettle began to whistle. Beatrice rose to tend to it, and Evelyn stared into the glowing coals of the stove. She had come here expecting a lonely farmer, perhaps an older widower looking for companionship. Someone ordinary. Someone safe.

Not a man who had killed five people with his own hands. Not a man who had lost everything and retreated to the wilderness to nurse his wounds.

She should leave. She should get back on that stagecoach and go—

Where? Back to Boston, where Julian Croft was waiting? Back to her father, who had sold her like cattle?

There was nowhere else to go.

Beatrice set a cup of tea in front of her. “You do not have to stay,” she said quietly. “You can live here with me if you want. I have a spare room.”

Evelyn wrapped her hands around the warm cup. “If I stay here, they will find me.”

“Who will find you?”

Evelyn looked up at her. “The men I am running from.”

Before Beatrice could respond, the door opened.

Cold air rushed into the room, carrying snowflakes that swirled and danced in the lamplight. And with the cold came a man.

Evelyn had thought she was prepared. Beatrice’s warning had given her time to brace herself, to steel her nerves, to remind herself that appearances could be deceiving.

She was not prepared.

He filled the doorway completely. Not just tall, but massive, with shoulders so broad they seemed to block out the entire world beyond. He wore a coat made of bear fur, heavy and dark, and beneath it, clothing that was worn but well-maintained. His boots were caked with snow. His face was half-hidden by a beard as black as coal, and above it, a pair of eyes the color of winter storm clouds.

And the scar. It ran from his left temple down across his cheekbone to his jaw, pale against skin that had been weathered by wind and sun. The mark of claws, of teeth, of something that had tried to kill him and failed.

He did not look like a man. He looked like a force of nature.

And pressed against his leg stood a wolf.

Evelyn stopped breathing. The wolf was large, nearly to the man’s hip, with fur that was pale gray and white like smoke and snow. Its eyes were yellow, ancient, intelligent. They fixed on Evelyn with an intensity that made her feel as though she were being weighed and measured by something that did not quite belong to this world.

“Miss Hartwell.”

His voice was deep and rough, like gravel rolling down a mountainside. He spoke her name as though it were something he had practiced, something unfamiliar on his tongue.

Evelyn forced herself to nod. “Mr. Blackthorn.”