The Mountain Man's Babies Books 1-5

by Frankie Love

  She has no fucking clue what I’ve done for her.

  We drive up the hill, only a short mile more, and turn off onto a still unpaved road. The pavement will happen later. For now, my crew and I have only focused on the structure.

  When we turn onto the road, the tires grinding over the long, tree-covered dirt road, Harper looks at me again, almost asking a question. Then she stops before any words leave her lips.

  I had a sign made. It reads Doe Cabin and, as we pass it, Harper can’t muster any more restraint.

  “Whose house are we going to?” she asks.

  I don’t answer; I wait until we’ve rounded the corner, and the home is in plain view.

  “Our house.”

  “Jaxon,” she says, her voice catching on her emotion. “When? How? Really?”

  She grabs my hand, taking in the beautiful two-story log cabin, with the wrap-around porch, the stone chimney, the double-front doors that beckon for us to enter.

  I smile slyly and get out of the truck, stepping around quickly to her door to help her out. Her eyes are filled with glistening tears, the same bewildered look she had the first night I met her, when she came to my front door in the middle of a snowstorm. When her pale blue eyes met mine, I had no chance of looking anywhere else, ever again.

  Harper had me the moment we met.

  “I built this home for you, Harper. For our family.”

  “All those logs from the yard ... those are here? Built into this house?”

  “Every last one. But a lot more, too. Dean wanted to expand our business into custom homes, and our place is the first one we built. My dad did all the carpentry work.”

  “In three months? You all did this in three months, for me?”

  “Well, to be fair, some days we’d have a crew of thirty men up here.” I take her hand and we cross the stone walkway toward the porch. Trees surround us in every direction and mountain peaks rise above them.

  “So it wasn’t just the trucks from the wood mill cutting up the mountain everyday?”

  I shake my head, unlocking the front door. “Wanna see inside?”

  Harper stops, not taking a step in.

  “This feels momentous,” she says, her eyes filled with love and light. “It’s like the first step into our new life.”

  “Then, honey, let me carry you over the threshold of our forever.”

  Epilogue

  Five months later…

  HARPER

  The cabin is warm, a glowing fire keeping us warm on this February night. The forest green upholstered rocker was a baby gift from Dean, and I appreciate that his current girlfriend helped him pick it out as it matches the lodge-esque interior of my hand-built home.

  I cradle Cedar as I nurse him to sleep, marveling at his little nose and his tiny mouth nestled against my skin, suckling as he falls into slumber.

  Cedar is my smallest babe, but not by much. The triplets, born six weeks early, weren’t ten pounds a piece as I’d feared, but his brothers were each a pound and a half heavier–seven!–than little Cedar.

  “Alder and Spruce are out,” Jaxon says from upstairs, taking the steps two at a time as he comes into the great room.

  “Shhh,” I say, running my hand over Cedar’s head. “You’ll wake him.”

  “I got this, honey,” he says, coming over and taking Cedar from my arms. Milk drool escapes his heart-shaped lips, and Jaxon expertly positions him in his arms.

  I follow Jaxon upstairs to where the boys sleep in their cradles in our master bedroom.

  Jaxon sets Cedar in his, making sure he is tightly swaddled.

  “I can’t believe they’re all sleeping at the same time,” I say, my eyes fighting to stay open.

  The past four months have been every bit as hard as I feared, but I constantly look at the framed print Jaxon hung in our room.

  Last year at this time, when I was left a week before my wedding, lost in a snowstorm, looking for a savior, Keep Calm and Carry On was the motto I claimed for myself. It has never been more timely—because, oh my heart, triplets are a lot of work.

  “I think we all need to try to sleep at the same time,” Jaxon says, wrapping his arms around my much-flatter-but-not-nearly-the-same stomach.

  “Really, Jaxon, you wanna sleep right now?” I ask, suddenly awake. “Because alone time with my sexy lumberjack is not something I have that often.”

  “In that case, I’ll show you some wood.”

  We both start to laugh at his cheesy line, the line that has actually worked on me more times than I’d like to admit.

  But then immediately we clap our hands over one another’s mouths.

  Sex may be on the table, but keeping the babies asleep is most important.

  Life is funny like that. Things change, priorities shift. I have an engagement ring on my finger but I’m not racing to get married. Right now I have more than enough.

  Right now, I have all I need.

  ~THE END~

  ❤❤❤

  I hope you have loved

  Jaxon and Harper’s

  love story!

  Ready for more in this ovary-exploding world?! There are four more stories set on this fertile mountain!

  The Mountain Man’s Babies:

  TIMBER

  BUCKED

  WILDER

  HONORED

  CHERISHED

  BUILT

  CHISELED

  HOMEWARD

  RAISED

  About the book

  I want two things in life: a woman and a child.

  When I walk into the diner and see Rosie, I think my motherf*cking dreams have come true.

  We share one stolen afternoon, but then she’s gone.

  Eight months later she shows up at my cabin.

  Her belly swollen, her breasts full, and with the face of an angel.

  Still, she wants to keep on running.

  No way in hell am I letting her go.

  It’s not just Rosie that needs my protection––our babies do too.

  Darling You,

  BUCKED is a stand alone story that is packed with true love and a man who knows what he wants: his woman. He fights for her like a real mountain man knows how to do! I hope you love it to pieces––I had so much fun working on it with you in mind! Also, if you loved TIMBER, Jax and Harper (and their babies!) are in Buck and Rosie’s story too!

  xo, frankie

  Chapter One

  I’m not a complicated man.

  And the things I want in life are pretty damn simple.

  A woman to love and a family to protect.

  That’s not asking for the goddamned sun and stars. I just want to go to sleep under the moon; in this cabin I built with my own two hands, knowing that I have some fucking meaning, purpose. You know, a life that is bigger than myself?

  I’m just a man who lives in the forest who hunts in the winter and fishes in the summer.

  Of course, I work, too. I’m not some lazy sack of shit living on canned chili and moonshine. I make a good living as an artist–an unconventional one, sure. I use a chainsaw and carve sculptures. I work with my hands, making something out of nothing.

  It’s what I’ve done my whole damn life.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. My chest is bare, my jeans slung low, and leather gloves protect my hands. I power off my chainsaw, placing it on the sawdust covering the forest floor then wipe the sweat off my neck.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, Buck, it’s me Jax.” There’s a helluva lot of hollering in the background and I pull my phone from my ear.

  “Everything okay?”

  “You mean besides three six month old babies all wanting the same thing at once?” Jax laughs. “Damn, I love these kids, but Harper and I have our hands full. You better be living up the bachelor life for me, okay?”

  I shake my head, knowing Jaxon is all talk. He found his woman and made a life with her. “You know having your girl and those babies is better than drinking shitty beer alo
ne.”

  “I know. That’s the difference between us though, Buck. I don’t drink shitty beer.”

  It’s my turn to laugh now. Jaxon may live in the woods, but he’s a city boy in his bones–brewing fancy-ass beer and sporting hipster flannel shirts. I, on the other hand, was born and raised in these woods. This is no lumberjack phase; I’m a man who knows this mountain like the back of his hand, who’s been playing in these forests since I was a boy.

  “You call to talk about beer or you got something else on your mind?” I ask, eyeing the chunk of wood I’ve just started ripping up. It’s going to be a bear, but it has a long way to go before it starts looking like a grizzly.

  “Nah,” Jax says. “Harper wanted to know if you want to come for dinner tomorrow. She’s making chicken potpie. Your favorite.”

  My stomach’s already growling for some of Harper’s home cooking. “Damn, you sure I can’t come this afternoon?”

  “Just a sec.” Jax covers the phone and I hear him and Harper talking. Jax comes back on the line, “No, sorry man. Harper says tomorrow. She lives by a schedule these days. Hell, we all do. You can’t exactly do whatever you want when three babies are demanding your attention.”

  “Alright,” I say, grabbing my chainsaw and carrying it to my workshop, ready for a shower. “But I’m hungry now and the ham sandwich I was planning on isn’t goanna cut it.”

  “Not my problem.” Jaxon laughs, not realizing how good that fool has got it. “Go into town,” he tells me. “Go to town, get lunch at your mom’s diner and stop your complaining.”

  “You know my mom can’t cook worth shit.”

  Jax laughs, it’s a joke around here, how the one restaurant in town is owned by my mother, a woman who buys prepackaged everything and serves my dad cold cereal half the nights of the week and calls it supper.

  “In fact, if you go to town,” Jax continues. “Grab me some sandpaper at the supply store and bring it tomorrow. I’ve run through most of mine and there’s no way in hell I’m getting a get out of jail free card today.”

  “Your girl is locking you up?”

  “Hell no. Harper’s taking the afternoon off and there isn’t a woman on earth who deserves it more. She’s going a few towns over and getting her hair and nails done, some girl shit. I’ll be here with the babies.”

  I nod, knowing Harper and Jax have a healthy relationship, always giving one another what they need.

  “Alright then, good luck with Cedar, Alder and Spruce. I’m sure the afternoon will go fine,” I tell him.

  “I don’t need luck, Buck. These are my boys. I can spend the afternoon with them without a pep talk.”

  I laugh. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  I hang up and head inside to change. And damn, I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t jealous. I’ve been waiting my whole damn life to find a woman, a wife–and Jaxon was just sitting in his cabin drinking whisky when a snowstorm hit and Harper showed up.

  Lucky bastard.

  Chapter Two

  Somehow I ended up here, wearing a polyester uniform, a ponytail, and pink lipstick – looking nothing like my former self – which is pretty much the entire point.

  I needed out. Away from Spokane, far from my uncle who thought selling my virginity to the highest bidder was a reasonable choice. The Russian mob considers women to be property, assets to be bought and sold.

  I wanted more than that.

  So I left.

  Well, ran.

  Fast and far.

  It’s been over a week and no one’s found me yet. Somehow I got myself here, to this sleepy Idaho town, at the base of a forest, where there’s nothing but pine trees and pick-up trucks. I got a room at the one and only motel and in an effort to bulk up my completely diminished savings, I walked into the not-so-cleverly-named Diner where they hired me on the spot.

  I’d say I got lucky – but there was nothing lucky about me winding up here. It’s a sad story – orphaned and raised by people who planned on using me for their gain. The mob is an ugly chapter I’d rather have ripped from the story of my life.

  Today is a new day.

  A fresh start.

  In the diner, the owner, Cherri, gives me directions. She seems much more flustered than when I met her the previous afternoon.

  “Everything okay, Cherri?” I ask, tying the half apron she hands me around my waist. My uniform is tighter than I’d choose, but it’s all she had. Apparently she’s been wanting to hire someone for months, but she says no one’s moved here looking for a job.

  “Oh, my husband is all bent out of shape. Apparently the dogs got loose, and are running up and down the highway.” She waves her hands in the air. “I mean, he’s calling me every five minutes as if I can do something about the mutts. I’m here. Working.”

  “Does he not work here?”

  “It’s really a one woman show,” Cherri tells me, giving me a tour. “Here’s the restroom – but do not give out the key to just anybody. If they place an order, then fine. Otherwise, no can do.”

  “Okay. But what about the food? Who makes that?” I follow her into a tiny kitchen that has a deep fryer. A griddle, cold. And a microwave front and center.

  “Well, that’s the thing, honey. There’s never what you’d call a rush here. So, I make up one order at a time, keep the menu simple, and smile.”

  I make a pointed attempt to smile per her request. I can’t lose the only job option in this town. There is a bar down the ways, but considering I turned twenty-one a month ago and have never so much as poured a beer in my life, I don’t think I’d get the job.

  A diner, though, I can handle. I grew up in my uncle’s mansion, making meals for fifty men most nights of the week. I may not be the most educated woman, but I can do a few things exceptionally well.

  Cook. Clean. And keep my mouth shut.

  I follow her back to the front of the diner.

  “So, I’ll take the dining room and you’ll be in the kitchen?” I ask, looking at the laminated menus in a stack by the register. There are half a dozen booths, all currently empty.

  “Actually, darling, I was thinking you could man this place while I go help my hubby.” Cherri takes off her apron and grabs a jacket hanging over the chair next to the register. A week-old edition of US Weekly with Jack Harris and his wife Tess are on the cover, holding their new baby.

  I bite my bottom lip, not so sure about running this place on my own.

  “Um. So you aren’t going to train me?”

  “Sweetie, look at that menu. If anyone pulls up here, wanting a Hot Pocket, you can make them one. Odds are, no one is coming back, most of the customers come for breakfast - black coffee and a slice of pound cake courtesy of Sara Lee.”

  I scan the menu. Hot Pockets. Taquitos. Pizza.

  This is the strangest diner ever. I mean, it’s more of a gas station without the fueling pumps.

  “If you’re hungry, help yourself,” Cherri says. “And I’ll be back in two hours. Three tops.”

  “The dogs are that wild?”

  “We have about six of them, Rosie.”

  “I see.” I swallow, looking around, uncertain. “You just trust me with your restaurant? You don’t even know me.”

  “I know you’re clean, your eyes are clear and you’re smiling. Besides, what are you going to do? I know you don’t have a car. And there’s just some change in the till. You want to run off with a pack of frozen burritos, that’s fine by me.”

  “Okay.” I nod. “Is there a number to reach you? If there’s an emergency?”

  “Good idea. See?” she says wagging her finger at me, “I knew you weren’t just pretty. You’re smart, too.” Cherri writes a number on a receipt pad, and then points to the rotary phone on the counter. “Call if you need me, I left my son’s number, too, just in case you can’t reach me.”

  She leaves through the front door, and I watch her drive off in a beat-up truck.

  Okay. So. It’s just like being at home. Sitting in an
empty house while everyone else is off doing something exciting.

  I pick up the magazine. Flip to the article on the famous DJ and his wife, who may even be more famous than her husband on account of her childhood kidnapping.

  They just had a baby boy, named him Mac after her brother McQueen. I smile, looking at pictures of their professionally designed nursery in a new wing of their home on an island in the Puget Sound. They are beyond lucky.

  They have everything they ever wanted.

  But looking at the picture of the mother, Tess, who was kidnapped as a child and grew up in a motorcycle gang, I’m reminded it wasn’t all easy. She had a hell of a road to get to her happy ending.

  I swallow, looking around this empty diner, feeling lost and so very alone.

  No money, no home, no family. Running from the people who think they have a hold on me.

  I have no idea if I’ll ever end up with a man who loves me, a baby in my arms, a house to call home.

  But Lord, I hope so.

  Chapter Three

  Driving into town, I listen to the radio, but the local news keeps blaring about cops in Spokane, WA looking for a Russian Mafia ring that is selling girls as brides. I scroll through the stations, landing on some old John Denver song that makes me sentimental as fuck.

  Damn, I’m getting soft.

  I pull into the parking lot of the diner, only to see that my mom’s pick-up truck isn’t here. She’s always here.

  The lights are on though, and the sign is flipped to open, so I get out. Maybe Mom’s truck wouldn’t start and Dad drove her to town or something.

  The bells on the diner door jingle as I walk inside, and that’s when I stop dead in my motherfucking tracks.

  Whoever this woman is, sitting on a stool, reading a magazine, her dark hair pulled back, revealing a heart shaped face, her lips pouty and parted, her brown eyes so big they look drawn on. She stands, a smile on her face, and I see she’s wearing a tight uniform, pressing her huge tits up high, her waist narrow, accentuated by the apron tied on.