Hawk Valley Mountain Men Box Set

by Mazzy King

  I check her feet. She’s wearing sneakers, so she should be all right for the walk.

  “All right then, Miss Savannah,” I say with a grin, then whistle for Bramble. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter 3

  Savannah

  “So why dog food?” I ask Clay as we relax in a booth inside the local bar, the Hawk’s Nest.

  Despite the extremely rough part of the first half of my day, the hike down to town with a gorgeous and seemingly nice man helped turn things around. To my surprise, he made arrangements for my truck to be towed down and then offered to buy me a beer and a burger at the local watering hole.

  Clay’s gray-green eyes seem to carry a mischievous twinkle in them, and every time he speaks, he gets this little smile on his face as if he’s about to tell you the punchline of a joke. He’s tall and muscular and I’m not ashamed to admit I spent a good part of our hike down the trail examining those broad shoulders of his.

  He could talk to me about the theories behind mathematical algorithms and I’d hang on every word, because his voice is like soft velvet brushed the wrong way. I am genuinely interested in his company, but more than that, I just want him to say more words in that voice.

  He takes a sip of beer. “I’m a dog guy,” he says simply. There’s that little grin again. “I come from a dog-rescuing family. My parents have a big rescue down south, where they moved after my grandparents passed away. They wanted it to stay in the family. Growing up, we made our own dog food to give to our rescues while we sheltered them. Really good, healthy stuff that calls back to their more primal days.”

  “Like Paleo for dogs?”

  He chuckles. “In a way, yeah. We use a variety of different animal proteins, only the best stuff, and we source everything to be as humane and quality as possible. I’ve worked with vets to make sure our food’s top quality. I know what my dogs have always meant to me and feeding them a healthy diet is one way of prolonging their life.”

  “Then it’s awesome you’re about to be in every store in America,” I tell him. He casually mentioned it when he’d pointed out the factory he uses to manufacture his dog food, far in the distance. But now it hits me what a big deal that is. “That was the commercial right there—I don’t even have a dog, and I’m sold.”

  He chuckles. “From your words to purchasing directors’ ears.”

  At that moment, an incredibly handsome guy with dark ginger hair and a matching beard strolls over from behind the bar. Clay introduced me to him when we walked in—he’s Forrest Thornton, owner of both the bar and the garage where my truck was towed to a little while earlier.

  He claps a hand down on Clay’s shoulder. “Got Billy working on that truck now,” he says. “Might need to run into the city to get a couple things if changing the spark plugs doesn’t do the trick, but it should be up and running by tomorrow. He’s staying late.”

  I nod and smile at him. “Thank you so much for helping me out.”

  Forrest holds up a hand. “Any friend of Clay’s. You know how that goes.” He nods at the baskets of food and beers in front of us. “Everything taste good?”

  “Everything’s great,” I say. “I was just thinking this is the best burger I’ve ever had.”

  I chuckle as Forrest blows on his knuckles and polishes them on his shirt. “Maybe one day I’ll find a beautiful woman like my buddy Clay here and wow her with one of my meals. In the meantime, I guess I’m stuck feeding his sorry butt, and that wolf of his.”

  Clay punches him lightly in the chest. “You know you’re supposed to save your sob stories for last call, after everyone goes home.”

  Forrest laughs, but I catch something a little sad in his brown eyes. “My bad, buddy. You’re right. You all holler if you need anything. Call you as soon as the truck’s ready.” He turns and strolls back toward the kitchen, lifting a couple fingers in the air in a casual wave goodbye.

  “Seems like a nice guy. And busy,” I comment. “Running a bar and a garage.”

  “Man loves beers and bikes,” Clay says with a smile. “He couldn’t choose between them, so he chose them both.”

  From under the table, Bramble huffs as if in agreement. He lounges between us, his big, shaggy front legs draped over my feet, content after demolishing a huge, plain, grilled burger Forrest brought out just for him earlier.

  Clay smiles fondly at Bramble. “He sure seems to like you.”

  I smile, reaching down to rub Bramble’s shaggy ears. Coming at me at the speed of light, he was terrifying and I almost pissed myself, but when he turned out to be a friendly teddy bear, I got over my fear pretty fast.

  “I’ve always been a dog person too,” I say. “I haven’t had one in years, though. I’ve been pretty focused on my career. Like you.” I take a bite of an onion ring even though I’m getting pretty full. The cheeseburger and onion rings I ordered are easily the best I’ve ever had in my entire life. Who knew a little dive bar tucked in the mountains had food like this?

  “You must get lonely,” Clay says, his eyes sliding over me.

  I try to ignore the little thrill of heat that races up my spine. “Sometimes, yeah. I suppose.”

  “None of those country boys catch your fancy?”

  I make a face. “I don’t date in the industry. In fact, I just…don’t date.”

  He smiles. “It’s hard to balance a career and a personal life. Always seems like one or the other suffers. But I believe that balance can be achieved…with the right person.”

  We lock gazes across the table. Under the dusting of a short beard along his square jaw, it clenches a little. I’ve always thought that was so sexy, and it’s never been sexier than when this flannel-shirt-wearing mountain man does it.

  “There’s no Mrs. Dog Food Company?” I ask lightly, tracing the rim of my pint glass.

  “Nope. Not even a Miss Dog Food Company.” He shrugs. “I’m like you in that way, I guess. I throw myself into my work.”

  “Hmm.” I narrow my eyes playfully. “Something tells me there’s more to your story than just work.”

  “Nah.” He waves a hand dismissively, lowering his gaze. “I’m sure you’ve written plenty of songs about broken hearts.”

  Aw, man. “Hey, I was just teasing. I’m sorry.”

  Clay shrugs, and the mischievous smile comes back, although I sense it’s a little forced. “We all have one of those stories, don’t we? My heart’s not broken anymore. Any time a woman asks me to choose between her or the dog…it’s always gonna be the dog.”

  We sit and sip in silence that feels awkward. Or maybe it’s just me who feels awkward. Maybe I have been on my own too much lately. I’ve forgotten how to communicate with people—real people, not the characters in the songs I write.

  “So,” Clay says after a few moments. “You woke up one day, decided you needed to go on a road trip, and hopped in your truck. No idea of where you were gonna go?”

  I shake my head. “Nope. I guess I figured I’d know when I knew.”

  He leans across the table, folding his arms. “And what’re you looking for?”

  I offer half a smile. “Inspiration. I haven’t written a full song since my dad died.”

  “Sorry,” he says quietly. “On both counts.”

  “Thanks.” I swallow and glance vaguely over his shoulder. “Grief is a bitch. But I was hoping a change of scenery would bring it back. My muse, I mean. I kind of need it to come back. Like, immediately.”

  “Why’s that?”

  It’s funny how, on the walk to town, our conversation was polite, surface-level chitchat you make with strangers. The weather, a little history about the town, the guy who’d be coming back to retrieve and then fix my truck. Now, though, we’re getting personal in a way I normally don’t with people I’ve just met, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it’s the burgers, maybe it’s the brews. Or maybe it’s just the man sitting across from me, giving me his undivided attention, as if he’s fully invested in my words.


  “I guess I have a big deal in the works too,” I say, and proceed to give him the rundown. I’d be surprised if he’s familiar with the artist, but when his brows shoot up, it’s clear he is. “I’ve got a song started. A love song I think is totally on brand for her. I just…can’t finish it.” I wave a hand. “Muse isn’t talking.”

  “Hmm.” He purses his sexy lips as he toys with the bottle cap from his beer. His brows draw together as if he’s deep in thought, then he leans toward me again. “Well, look. I’m no artist, so I can’t say I understand your struggle completely, but when I can’t hear myself think, I do what I did today—I go for a hike. And I don’t mean on that little path we were on. I mean the real trail, up high, where it’s just you and your mind. The air’s clear up there. Taking a deep breath is like wiping all the gunk out of your brain.” He lifts a shoulder. “I always feel like I can think again when I go up there. If you want, I’d be happy to take you tomorrow. Hardware store’s always closed on Sundays.”

  I blink at him. “You’d do that…for me?”

  He smiles. “Don’t go getting a big head now, Songbird.”

  “I’d like that a lot,” I tell him with a grin of my own.

  He walks me to the inn just down the block from the bar. It’s run by a woman he describes as the town matriarch, Mrs. Morris. She looks like a fit grandma, with a sharp gaze that misses nothing and an even sharper tongue that takes no prisoners.

  “And you didn’t think to bring her bags here, Clayton Lowell?” she scolds, hands on her hips. Then she points out the door. “You take your tail right on down to Forrest’s garage and you get them bags and get back here like your ass is burning, you hear me? Making this girl wait like that.”

  “It’s no problem,” I start, embarrassed, but Clay waves me off, laughing.

  “No, she’s right,” he says over his shoulder, pushing through the door. “Mrs. M is always right.”

  “You’re damn right I’m right,” the old lady snipes, then takes my arm. “Let me take you to your room, hon.”

  She leads me up to the third floor and shows me to a large room at the end of the hall. “Ain’t got any honeymooners just now, so you help yourself.”

  My eyes widen as I take in the room. It’s spacious, with a fireplace and a walk-out balcony. There’s a big four-poster bed with a thick layer of comforters and pillows, and resting atop the firm mattress is a sterling silver tray holding a small decanter of a dark amber liquid as well as a wine glass.

  “Port,” Mrs. Morris says, gesturing to the tray. “Me and my mister make it, along with beer. Forrest buys our beer from us to sell down at the bar.”

  I snap my fingers. “Is the Mountain Range Ale yours?”

  “It sure is.”

  “I had it just now,” I tell her. “It’s fantastic.”

  She smiles and pats my arm. “I prefer the port. You have as much of it as you like. You run out, just holler. I’ll send up cookies and hot chocolate later for you too, once you get your bags and settled.” She points at the bathroom. “Nice, big Jacuzzi tub in the bathroom, plenty of towels and toiletries for you. I’ll let you be.”

  “Would it bother you or anyone if I play my guitar a little?” I gesture to the case, which I’ve set on the floor.

  Mrs. Morris’s eyes twinkle as she backs out of the room. “Only if you can’t carry a tune.” She winks and shuts the door.

  I laugh softly to myself and stroll to the window. It’s springtime up here, which means the weather is nice and warm during the day and cold as balls at night. I wonder if I can get that fireplace going.

  Lyrics float around in my head, new lyrics to add to the song I played around with earlier. They just popped into my head while I stared at the mountains in the near distance.

  I shift my gaze to the room. It’s a terribly romantic room, perfect for honeymooners, and I’m grateful Mrs. Morris let me have it. I stare at the bed, imagining the couple from my song, faceless shapes, lying together on top of it while the fireplace crackles in the background. More lyrics pour into my head.

  And then suddenly the faceless shapes have faces. Suddenly it’s me on the bed, in the arms of a man. A tall man, with a scruffy beard and naughty earthy eyes. A smile that makes me think of doing very bad things with him. A voice that brushes my skin like soft cotton.

  Clay…

  Three sharp knocks jolt me out of the strange fantasy. “Savannah? It’s Clay. I have your bags.”

  Damn, am I conjuring up him as well as song lyrics?

  I hurry to the door and open it. He’s got a suitcase in each hand and steps into the room.

  “Where do you want them?”

  “Anywhere’s fine.”

  He shrugs and sets them down, then glances around. “Damn, the honeymoon suite. Nice. Mrs. Morris must like you.” He smiles at me. “Well. I have a couple things to tend to yet this evening. Um…it was really nice meeting you.”

  “Thank you so much for helping me,” I blurt, and throw my arms around him. It’s that sense of comfort that propels me to do it, and it’s been so long since someone was just so nice to me.

  Right. And it has nothing to do with the fact he’s sexy…

  Before I can pull away, he slips his arms around me and squeezes gently. It’s like he gathers me to him. I’ve never been hugged like that before—as if he’s holding something…precious.

  “It was my pleasure,” he murmurs, right into my ear.

  I actually quiver. Like a full-body shiver, except I’m not cold.

  Quite the opposite, actually.

  We both draw back, locking gazes. His mouth is just inches from mine.

  “See you tomorrow for the hike,” he adds, releasing me slowly and stepping back. “I’ll come by here around ten. How’s that?”

  “Sure,” I say. “That’d be great.”

  He nods and winks at me, stepping back. “Sweet dreams, Songbird.”

  He shuts the door, but Clayton Lowell lingers in my imagination hours later.

  Chapter 4

  Clay

  Watching Savannah Stone hike the trail in front of me is every bit a treat, especially since she’s wearing athletic leggings that leave absolutely nothing to the imagination.

  I manage to keep up a steady chatter, telling her about the path and the mountains and a little more of my family history as she walks along. Bramble prances ahead then runs back to us, then runs off again and comes back again. I have her guitar case strapped to my own back, because I’m a gentleman, but really, I didn’t want her ass covered up by the long case. Fine, judge me, but, shit. It’s the most beautiful sight in the world, and I ain’t sorry for thinking so.

  “Whew,” Savannah says with a huff, leaning against a large rock. She wipes sweat from her brow. The sun is out, though a big group of dark-gray clouds isn’t far behind. But for now, the sun highlights the sweat on her brow and cheekbones and her bare arms, making her skin glisten, and she looks so damn beautiful.

  We’ve been hiking for a few hours now, and this is the first real break we’ve taken. Savannah, in charge of the backpack since I’m carrying her guitar, pulls out a couple bottles of water and hands me one.

  “You’re pretty tough,” I note. “This trail isn’t really for beginners.”

  “I’ve hiked before,” she tells me, then flashes me a wry smile and pats her plump, round ass. “I know you can’t tell, but. It’s true.”

  “You haven’t hiked this trail, is what I mean.” I take a step toward her. “And for the record, you have a sexy body that looks strong and soft, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  Her eyes lock onto mine, widening a little. “I—I don’t mind. Thank you.”

  “Ain’t gotta thank me for stating a fact.” I return her grin and take a step back to lean on the rock beside her. I nod to the pack she’s slipped onto the ground. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve worked up a hell of an appetite. You ready for lunch?”

  Mrs. Morris insisted on loading us down with f
ood before leaving. She made us giant roast chicken sandwiches, and packed packs of chips, carrots, apples, bananas, and plenty of her freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. It seemed like too much this morning, watching her stuff thing after thing into the pack, but now, as my stomach rumbles, I’m not sure it’ll be enough.

  Smiling, Savannah passes me a sandwich, chips, carrots, and an apple. “Far be it from me to keep a hungry man hungry.”

  I bite my lip as I accept the food to keep from saying it’s not just sandwiches I’m hungry for, but I rein in the wild man. No need in scaring her.

  She removes the baggie with a big, meaty roast chicken breast in it and gives it to Bramble. He carries his prize off a few feet and lays on his belly to enjoy it.

  Savannah holds her wrapped sandwich in her hands and tilts her head back, closing her eyes. She takes a deep breath. “Mmm.”

  “Doing all right?” I ask.

  She nods, eyes still closed. “I’m…content. For the first time in a while. The sun, the breeze, the warmth.” She cracks an eye open and glances at me. “The company.”

  “Aw, shucks, well.” I pretend to be humble.

  “I was talking about Bramble.” Then she elbows me gently. “Thank you for inviting me. This was…what I needed in a lot of ways.”

  This time, I actually am humbled. “Anytime, Savannah. I love it here. I like to show people the true beauty of Hawk Valley.”

  She unwraps a corner of cellophane and plucks a bit of sandwich. “Do you…bring a lot of dates up here?”

  I choke on a chip, then pound my chest. “Dates? A lot?” I chuckle. “We had this talk. I haven’t dated in a long time.”

  Savannah flushes. “I mean, you don’t have to be in love with every woman you have sex with, right?”

  I wipe my mouth on a napkin and angle my body toward her. “A man doesn’t, no. And neither does a woman. But I do.”

  She blinks rapidly, her blue eyes surprised. “Really?”