A Bride for the Mountain Man

by Tracy Madison

  She hadn’t felt safe in so long. Why? She couldn’t remember the details, but tendrils of nausea swirled in her belly. Now, though, she felt safe and protected and so gloriously, wonderfully warm.

  Again, the stranger’s tenor sifted into the smoky film of her dreams, where it sparked and sizzled in her soul. Her brain decided that this deep and evocative voice must belong to the man who loved her and that he was, in some form or fashion, taking care of her.

  Had she been ill? Her stomach rocked with another bout of nausea. Seasick, she determined. While the softly bobbing boat spoke of calm waters now, it must have been rough going earlier. And this man with his delicious voice had seen her through the worst of it. So, yes, he loved her.

  Did she love him? She couldn’t see his face, recall his name or even how they had met, but for her to feel so absolutely safe and cared for, love had to exist on both sides.

  She continued to sleep, continued to dream. Lost to reality. There was nothing to worry about, not a reason on earth to force herself awake.

  Slipping deeper into this magnificent dream world, her subconscious manufactured the type of love only found in the most romantic of movies, with her and the man behind the gentle touches and seductive voice as the leads. She still couldn’t remember his face, which was odd, yes, but somehow, this lack of knowledge didn’t cause her a moment’s concern. He was hers. She was his. That was enough.

  But suddenly, she saw his eyes. And oh, were they gorgeous. Sensual and vivid and striking. Distinctive. Irises rimmed in dark olive green that gradually lightened to the color of moss near his pupils, glinted with shots of burnished gold and warm brown. Eyes she knew.

  They belonged to the man she loved.

  And with this man at her side, her brain continued to weave a story for her alone to experience. There was laughter and passion. Long talks and handheld walks. A proposal and then a wedding. Children, a boy and a girl named Max and Maggie.

  Years upon years passed while she slept, years filled with the purest form of happiness she’d ever known. Satiating, complete, fulfilling and robust. Ever changing, ever growing, ever stronger...day in and day out.

  This fantasy was so intense, so real, so exhilarating and breathtaking, so beautiful a life her mind had created, that even as she started to come around, to realize she was merely dreaming, she staunchly resisted the pull of awareness. She wanted, yearned for more of this.

  Precisely, this life. And she wasn’t ready to leave it behind.

  The sad truth was that even with Rico, before learning that all of his words had been bald-faced lies, she hadn’t known such depths of emotion existed. So, she stubbornly held on to her dream world and tried—oh, how she tried—to quiet her thoughts, relax her body, to return to the fantasy. But with conscious thought of Rico, her fog-filled brain cleared and the rest of the facts from the past several weeks engulfed her in a rush.

  Her job. The argument with her father. Deciding to visit Rachel and flying to Colorado. Her decision to rent a car and then losing her way in the mountains. The storm. The accident. Her loneliness and consuming fear, the acceptance that she would die...and then, those dogs.

  Those astounding dogs who’d found her and led her to shelter. Had led her...here.

  No. She did not want to think about any of that, had no desire to do anything other than fall back into a coma-like sleep and return to that oh-so-beautiful life. Pretend or not, it didn’t matter. She yearned to be there again, even if every speck of it was only her imagination.

  But the voice that had started it all was becoming more insistent that she wake. Now. That she’d been sleeping for too long and enough was enough. That she open her mouth and drink, because she needed more than a spoonful or two of tea every hour. He was tired. He was worried.

  “Open your eyes, Goldi,” he said, his voice loud and commanding. “Now!”

  She did not obey his command. Eventually, she would have to, but at the moment, she didn’t need to look into this man’s eyes and see they weren’t green with golden flecks. They were probably brown. And while she did not have a thing in the world against brown eyes, she wasn’t ready to give up her fantasy. This man’s voice—his deliciously rich voice—was, in her mind, a matching set to the green eyes she’d imagined.

  To see otherwise would only make it more difficult to jump into her dream life when she was able to sleep again, and she believed she’d be able to soon. If only he would stop talking.

  “Goldilocks, you’re killing me here,” the man said in a lower volume. “Wake. Up.”

  She still would not have responded except for the identifiable set of canine whines that followed his plea. Her dogs.

  Sighing, unwilling to ignore her angels, she capitulated enough to say, “I’m awake.” A tail thumped near her leg as she spoke. A warm nose pressed against her cheek, giving her a lavish lick. “Kind of.”

  Ouch. His voice might be a melody fit for a concert, but hers sounded rough and raspy. Thick. Nothing like normal. As if she hadn’t spoken aloud in days.

  “Thank God,” he half whispered. Then, “Great! I knew you could do it. How about opening your eyes and trying to sit up? Move slowly, though. You’ve been out for a while.”

  Those words acted as a catalyst, and suddenly, she realized how heavy and cumbersome her body—as in, every inch of it—felt. Tipping her head in the opposite direction of the man’s voice, because no, she still wasn’t ready to see him, she did as he asked and waited for her blurry vision to sharpen. She stared at the back of a couch, at the thick stripes of deep burgundy, gold and forest green on the cushion. She remembered how she’d stumbled across the room on unwieldy legs, frozen and exhausted, with this piece of furniture as her singular goal.

  She had almost died. Almost.

  “You said I have been out for a while,” she said. “How long is that, exactly?”

  “I don’t know the precise moment you found your way here and collapsed.” Muted frustration, perhaps some concern, echoed in his speech. “When I came home, you were already down for the count, but we’re going on close to twenty-four hours since then.”

  How was that possible? In reality, an entire night and another day had elapsed, yet in her dreams, that same amount of time had equaled years. She thought about the picture she must have presented to this man, a stranger, as he’d walked into his living room with her passed out on his couch. She was lucky. So very lucky. He could’ve been a monster.

  “I’m sorry about letting myself in and...well, I mean, I knocked first and I tried to stay awake, but...I should’ve tried harder.” Though, even as she said the words, she knew there wasn’t any trying harder. She’d barely made it this far. “So, um, I’m sorry.”

  With each word, her voice grew in strength, became more sure, but still held that rough and raspy edge. Thirsty. Lord, she was thirsty. And she had to pee, too. Badly, though not as desperately as one would think after sleeping for a full twenty-four hours.

  He snorted. “You’re forgiven for saving your life. I’d have done the same.”

  “You...took care of me, too.” She knew he’d stripped off her clothes, redressed her in something else, had dribbled tea into her mouth. It was a lot to do for a stranger. “Thank you.”

  “Didn’t have much choice,” he said in a brusque but not unkind manner. “There’s no way to get help out here until the storm is over and the roads are cleared. From the looks of it, we’ll be stuck together for another handful of days. Maybe a week. But you’re welcome.”

  “A week?”

  “Unlikely, but possible. So, if you hadn’t found your way here, well...”

  Right. She would have died. She’d already figured that one out. Pretending she felt better than she did, she said, “If we’re going to be stuck together, I’d like to know your name.”

  “Oh, sorry. It’s Liam. An
d it will be fine. Number one priority is your health.”

  So far, he hadn’t pushed her to do anything now that she was awake and talking. He had to be exhausted, but he was giving her the opportunity to orient herself. To figure out how she felt and how to find some comfort in this strange situation. Unless, of course, he often had strangers stumbling to his house in the middle of a storm and passing out on his sofa.

  For some reason, the thought made her laugh.

  “What’s so funny, Goldilocks?”

  “Meredith,” she corrected, “And...” Oh. Okay. That small, barely there laugh had magnified the pressure on her bladder tenfold.

  Saying a mental goodbye to that beautiful, love-filled—and not to mention, pretend—life she’d concocted, Meredith planted her hands on the couch and slowly pushed into a sitting position. The dog who had been squashed against her side jumped off the couch but not before gracing her with another doting lick to her cheek. “This is awkward,” she said, “but I need to use the bathroom.”

  “No need to feel awkward, and of course you do,” he said, his voice reasonable. “I’ll show you where it is, but be careful when you stand. Take it slow.”

  “Right.” Her head swam for a minute, maybe two, before she regained her equilibrium. Time to face the music, time to look into this man’s real eyes.

  She turned to face him. And her breath caught in her throat, her heart ramped up in speed and a tremble of surprise rolled through her weakened limbs as she stared into Liam’s eyes.

  Green and gold, sensual and vivid, striking and distinctive. The same eyes she’d dreamed about. But they were real, not imaginary, and they belonged to Liam-with-the-rich-and-layered-voice.

  And oh, the rest of what she saw lived up to those eyes. Wavy black hair, somewhat tousled at the moment, framed a strongly featured face that all but begged to be touched. The chiseled, powerful line of his cheekbones was a work of freaking art, as was the firm, somewhat generous stretch of his lips. His nose was mostly straight, neither too large nor too small, and a square, powerful jaw that suggested inherent stubbornness completed the picture. Her fingers itched to sketch this man, to bring his likeness to life on the page.

  Without doubt, though, it was Liam’s eyes that resonated with her soul. They brought to the surface how, in her dreams, this man had been hers, and she had been his.

  “I dreamed you,” she blurted, lost as their “life” came back to her in waves. “I dreamed us. And you’re going to think I’m crazy, but I’m supposed to be here, with you. Because this is how we meet, and there must be a meeting before anything else can happen. And a lot is going to happen for us.” Great. She had to sound like a nutcase. “Or...um...I meant to say that in my dream, a lot happened. But you know, not until after we met. Which makes sense!”

  Confusion darted into those stunning eyes of his, followed quickly by concern. “Is that so?” he asked lightly. “Well, before you explain any more of that, how about we get you to the bathroom? Once you’re set there, your body needs sustenance. I’ll whip up something that resembles a meal. After that, you’ll probably feel a lot better. More like yourself.”

  Ha. He thought she was delirious. And okay, she probably shouldn’t rule out that possibility. But if there was any chance at all that she’d dreamed about a life—an incredible, beautiful life—with this man for a reason, then she had to consider what that reason could be. The pull to do so was strong. Stronger than she thought she could, or even should, resist.

  Though, he was right on one front: she’d wait and see how she felt about everything later, once she’d shaken off more of the dream world in favor of the real world.

  This world. The one she was apparently stuck in for...oh, maybe a week. With a man whose eyes seared her soul.

  It would prove interesting, to say the least. It might even be life changing.

  Chapter Four

  Liam needed to sleep. Soon. The grouch in him was crawling to the surface, and the last thing he wanted to do was bite this poor woman’s head off. She’d already been through enough. Before he could give into his body’s demand for rest, though, he had to be certain Goldi—Meredith—wasn’t about to pass out again. She required food far more than he did sleep.

  Even if his body declared otherwise.

  He waited outside the bathroom door, listening for signs of distress or cries for assistance. So far, all he heard was the full blast of the water faucet as she, presumably, tended to some hygiene matters. After she ate, he’d get her another set of clothes and show her where the bath towels were, as he imagined she’d like a shower. Hell, he’d like one of those, too.

  She had dreams about him, she’d said, and that she was supposed to be here, that a meeting had to happen before anything else could, and that a lot was going to happen. Made him worry she’d bonked her head, though he hadn’t noticed any bruising or, for that matter, lumps or bumps.

  What if she was delusional? Dealing with an extra person with their sanity intact, stuck in the same space—his space—would prove challenging enough for a guy like him, but if she kept rambling on about dreams? Well, he’d rather not deal with any of that nonsense, thank you very much.

  Not that he had any other option, he supposed. She was here for the next good while, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.

  Combing his fingers through his hair, Liam tried to keep his impatience under wraps. Wasn’t her fault she ended up in his vicinity during a freakishly early storm. Wasn’t her fault that she’d dreamed whatever she had. More than likely, once she ate and rested again, she’d be closer to her normal self. Which, hopefully, would be defined as the non-annoying type.

  That, he could handle. He’d been dealing with that most of his life.

  Finally, the water turned off, and a few seconds later, the door creaked open. Lord, she was pale. And the purple smudges under her eyes spoke of her exhaustion. Maybe she’d eat, take that shower, and sleep for another twelve hours. A likely scenario. Hell, she’d probably sleep most of the next week, which meant they’d barely have to exchange words.

  He felt a whole lot better at that thought. It would be almost as if she wasn’t even here.

  Until she slept again, though, this would be awkward as hell. Sighing, Liam gestured toward the sofa. “You’re going to be weak for a while. Rest. I’ll bring you some food and...ah...more tea. Unless you’d rather have something cold? I have grape juice or—”

  “Yes, please.” She leaned into the wall for support and a shudder rolled through her slight frame. He wanted to pick her up and cart her to the couch, but he managed to restrain that instinct. “Grape juice sounds fantastic,” she said. “But I’m not ready to lie down again when I’ve barely opened my eyes. I’ll join you in the kitchen. We can...talk. I’ll fill you in how your dogs recued me.”

  He waited a beat and then another, to see if her body would give in to its obvious weakness. If she sagged to the floor, he could legitimately refuse her offer and insist she rest—without coming off as a Class A jerk—but no. She remained standing, albeit somewhat crookedly propped against the wall, with a hopeful smile. How could she want to talk? If she already wanted to talk, he was done for.

  “Tell ya what,” he said, swallowing another sigh. “If you can make it to the kitchen without falling, then sure. We can...chat it up while I put together some food.”

  The second—as in the very second—the words came out of his mouth, Maggie pulled herself off the floor and went to Goldi’s side. Rather, Meredith’s side. Standing straight, the woman put her hand on the top of Maggie’s head for balance and, with a determined set to her jaw, said, “Lead the way!”

  Hrmph. He should’ve added “on your own” to his prior statement. As in, “If you can make it to the kitchen on your own without falling, then sure.” Regrettable error, but an understandable one. He was, after all,
beyond exhausted.

  Nodding sharply, he turned and strode to the kitchen, shoving his concern for a stranger’s well-being and his grumpy attitude as far down as possible. It wasn’t as if he planned on preparing a feast. He’d open a can of soup, which would take all of five minutes, and slap a slice of bread in the toaster. In less than ten minutes, she’d be eating. She couldn’t talk his ear off with food in her mouth, and by the time she was done, she should be ready to collapse.

  Ten minutes should be a cinch.

  In the kitchen, he pulled out one of the chairs and waited for her and Maggie. She entered a minute later, Maggie still by her side with Max following. Yup. Whether he understood why or not, his dogs had declared Goldi—damn it, Meredith—to be one of theirs. Perhaps hearing about how they’d rescued her would clue him in as to why. And yeah, he’d like to know the details of how his dogs had brought her to his couch.

  How bad could it be? It was her story, since the dogs—amazing as they were—had yet to learn how to speak the English language, so she would do most of the talking. Realizing that all he had to do was cook and listen, maybe nod every now and then, utter an “ah” or an “is that so?” the tension between his shoulder blades relaxed.

  “Here,” he said, his voice gruffer than he’d intended, “sit down before you keel over.” Now, under the bright, overhead light in the kitchen, her pale skin appeared almost translucent. Those dark circles beneath her eyes could’ve been the result of being on the losing side of a bar fight. “Last thing you need is to cause more damage to yourself. I’ll get you that juice.”