Contents

  Mountain Man’s Wild Obsession

  Copyright

  Free book

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Epilogue

  Mountain Man’s Wild Obsession

  Rugged Loners of Timber Peak Valley #1

  By Hazel J. North

  Copyright

  © Mountain Man’s Wild Obsession by Hazel J. North

  2026

  All Rights Reserved

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

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  Chapter One

  Romy

  I double-check the three addresses I scribbled down this morning before sliding behind the wheel. Three deliveries aren’t bad for a Monday. If I don’t stay and chat with my customers, I’ll be back at the vineyard by noon with the whole afternoon to tackle the endless to-do list waiting for me.

  Running my own vineyard means wearing every hat: winemaker, delivery driver, accountant, marketing department… you name it. Most days, I love the independence and the satisfaction of building something that’s entirely mine, but it’s also exhausting to have to make all the decisions yourself. Last night I made it exactly half a page into my book before the words blurred together and I fell asleep on the couch, still wearing my dirt-stained jeans. And of course, there was no one to pull a blanket over me to keep me from waking up cold.

  I shake off the thought and pull up to my first stop, which is my friend Mia’s food truck parked near the lumberyard. She’s already waving at me through the service window and smiling brightly.

  I get out and grab her order.

  “Perfect timing! It’s a gift for Jace’s birthday. He has no idea,” she says as she walks toward me and takes the case of wine from me.

  “He’s going to love it,” I tell her.

  The label is one of my favorites. It’s a bold red that pairs perfectly with whatever amazing thing Mia will probably be cooking up for him.

  She grins. “You’re the best, Romy. Want to grab lunch this Sunday?”

  “Sounds great. I’ll call you,” I promise, already heading back to my van.

  One down, two to go. The second delivery is quick and easy, downtown, but the third? That one’s way up the mountain to someone named Luke Brighton. I’ve never heard of him, but that’s not unusual. Timber Peak Valley has plenty of recluses who prefer their wine delivered rather than come down the mountain and face actual human interaction.

  The drive to his place takes longer than I expected. The paved road gives way to gravel after the first mile, and my van jolts over ruts and potholes that haven’t seen maintenance in what feels like years. Pine trees line the road on both sides, their branches creating a canopy so thick that even midday sunlight struggles to break through. Who would want to live here voluntarily? I mean, it’s beautiful, sure, but so far away from Timber Peak Valley’s town center.

  I keep one eye on the GPS and one on the increasingly narrow road, second-guessing myself with every turn. This can’t be right, can it? But the little blue dot insists I’m going the correct way, so I keep going.

  When the trees eventually open up, I relax.

  Up ahead in a clearing to the right sits a gorgeous cabin. The building is all dark wood and river stone, with a wraparound porch and massive windows that overlook the entire valley below. Smoke curls from the chimney, and the whole place has this rugged, intentional quality to it. Like someone built it with their own hands and didn’t cut a single corner.

  I park near the porch and kill the engine, taking a moment to appreciate the amazing view. From up here, Timber Peak Valley spreads out like a painting, with the town barely visible in the distance. I finally get why someone would want to live up here. It’s absolutely stunning.

  I grab the case of wine from the back, adjusting my grip twice before I make it to the porch steps.

  The wood creaks under my boots as I climb. There’s no doorbell, just a heavy iron knocker shaped like a bear’s head. Of course. I position the wine case between my knee and arm so I can knock.

  Footsteps approach from inside, heavy and deliberate, and then the door swings open.

  Oh. Oh shit.

  The man standing in front of me is not what I expected. He’s massive. Easily six-foot-four with shoulders so broad they nearly fill the doorway. His arms are roped with muscle, but it doesn’t look like he’s the type to go to a gym, so I’m sure it’s from splitting wood or whatever it is that mountain men do all day. His hands are big and rough, with a couple of small scars. I let my eyes rest on his beard and wonder how it would feel to run my hands through it. The thought makes me shiver with anticipation, but then I realize this is completely inappropriate. He’s a paying customer, not some man candy for me to eat up.

  My gaze travels up to his eyes. They’re currently fixed on me with an expression that can only be described as annoyed. No. Not annoyed. Irritated.

  He’s scowling like I just interrupted something important, and somehow that makes him even more attractive. Which is nothing short of ridiculous. I don’t have time to be attracted to grumpy mountain men who look like they haven’t spoken to another human in months.

  “Can I help you?” he asks in a low rumble.

  I swallow and force myself to sound professional. “Wine delivery for Luke Brighton!”

  His scowl deepens, and a crease forms between his dark brows. “That’s not me. And I didn’t order anything.”

  “Are you sure?” I shift the case in my arms, trying not to think about how his gaze drops briefly to follow the movement before snapping back up to my face.

  “Am I sure that I’m not Luke Brighton. Yeah, one-hundred percent.” I probably look dumbfounded because he slowly adds, “My name is Weston Hale.”

  I swallow. “But this is 170 Mountain Ridge Road, right?”

  “It is.” He crosses his arms over his chest, and I have to physically stop myself from staring at the way his biceps flex under the flannel. “And I didn’t order wine.”

  My stomach drops. No. No, no, no. I triple-checked the addresses this morning. I know I did. Juggling the case onto one hip, I dig the crumpled order form out of my jacket pocket and scan the handwriting I scrawled at dawn when I was only halfway through my first cup of coffee.

  “Oh, no.” I look at him and offer him an apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry. The order was for number 17 Mountain Ridge Road. At the bottom of the mountain. Not 170.”

  He just stares at me. He’s still wearing the same flat, unimpressed look, but something else flickers in his eyes. But as fast as it appeared, it disappears again.

  “Right. This was a mistake on your part. So you can go,” he finally says in a clipped tone.

  And then, without another word, he steps back and closes the door. Right in my face! I stand there on his porch for a few seconds and blink at the solid wood door, my mouth hanging open slightly in disbelief.

  Did he just slam the door in my face? Jesus Christ. Dismissing me like I was a door-to-door salesperson trying to sell him a vacuum cleaner or a shady subscription to a magazine that doesn’t even exist?

  The heat in my cheeks intensifies, but now it’s not just from embarrassment. It’s indignation mixed with anger. And a smidge of disappointment. Which is ridiculous. I don’t even know this man. He was fucking rude to me. He couldn’t have made it more obvious that he wanted me gone.

  I grit my teeth, adjust my grip on the wine case, and turn back toward my van. Fine. Whatever. I’ve dealt with difficult customers before. Plenty of men in Timber Peak Valley have that whole leave me alone attitude, especially the ones who live up in the mountains. It’s not personal; I know that. Except this felt personal.

  The way he looked at me, like I was an inconvenience he couldn’t wait to remove from his property, gets to me more than it should.

  I load the case back into my van and slam the door shut. The sound echoes through the clearing, and I half expect—no hope—him to come back outside to tell me to keep it down, but he doesn’t. Of course, he doesn’t.

  I climb into the driver’s seat and start the car. As I navigate back down the winding mountain road, I catch one last glimpse of his cabin in the rearview mirror. It really is beautiful up there. Too bad the man who lives there is an ass.

  By the time I reach the bottom of the mountain and find the actual address, which is a modest house with a cheerful garden and a mailbox clearly marked with the number 17, I’ve almost managed to put Weston Hale out of my mind.

  The customer who answers the door is everything he wasn’t. Friendly, chatty, enthusiastic, and grateful for the delivery. The lady even tips me twenty d
ollars and tells me how much she loves my Cabernet.

  It should make me feel better, but it doesn’t. Weston Hale slamming the door in my face left a nasty taste in my mouth.

  And yet, as I drive back toward the vineyard, all I can think about is the way Weston looked at me. The rough timbre of his voice. The sheer presence of him filling that doorway. And the fact that I’ll probably never see him again. Which is fine. Totally fine. I have work to do. A vineyard to run. I definitely don’t have time for brooding mountain men who can’t even be bothered to be polite.

  I pull into my driveway and stare at the rows of grapevines stretching out before me.

  This is my life. My dream. Everything I worked for. Everything I love.

  I sigh and kill the engine before heading back inside while I try to ignore the hollow feeling that I just walked away from something I didn’t even know I was looking for.

  Chapter Two

  Weston

  I close the door and stand there for a moment, staring at the wood grain like it might offer some explanation for what just happened, but of course, it doesn’t. It’s a door, not a person.

  I sigh and return to my workbench in the corner of the main room, where I was busy crafting a belt before that woman interrupted my peace. I’ve been tooling a geometric pattern into the leather that should hold up to years of wear.

  I pick up my swivel knife but can’t seem to concentrate. Fuck. If I mess this up, I’ll have to start all over again.

  After two more tries and near misses, I give up. I simply can’t focus. Not when I can’t stop thinking about her. The woman who just left after showing up with a crate of wine I didn’t order.

  I drag a hand through my hair and pace to the window, looking out over the clearing where her van was parked just moments ago. She’s already gone, though. Which isn’t a surprise. I told her to leave and closed the door in her face. I understand she didn’t exactly want to hang around any longer.

  And I shouldn’t even care. I don’t like people interrupting my day. Don’t like small talk and meaningless conversations. It’s why I moved to the top of this mountain in the first place. Hardly anyone ever comes up here. I even pick up my mail in town once a week because it takes the mailman too long to reach my cabin, especially in winter.

  But then why am I standing here staring at my empty driveway like an idiot? I shake my head and return to my workbench. I’ve got to get this order done.

  I manage to complete one line of the intricate pattern I’m creating before my mind wanders back to how gorgeous she looked when a flush crept up her neck after she realized she had the wrong address.

  It’s absurd. I never think about women I’ve only met for thirty seconds or reply to conversations that barely even qualify as such. And I definitely don’t feel regret over sending an uninvited visitor away. It’s my default. But for some reason, something in my gut twisted the moment the front door shut. Like I’d made a mistake.

  That hasn’t happened to me since I moved up here three years ago. Three years of no one demanding anything from me. I’ve been self-sufficient too. Grow my own vegetables in the summer and chop my own wood to get through the winter without freezing to death. I’m fine with it. Or… was.

  Truth is, she surprised me. When I opened the door, I didn’t expect to find a gorgeous woman with dirt under her fingernails and a look of exhaustion on her face. Like she’d been working way too hard and could need someone to take care of her. Someone like me, for instance.

  I grip the edge of my workbench. No. That’s not my job. Not my problem. I don’t take care of people, and I don’t let people in. That’s the whole point of living up here. I should forget about her and move on. But I can’t.

  I reach for my laptop that’s buried under a stack of supply catalogs on the shelf. I haven’t opened this thing in weeks. Maybe a month. I don’t even need it for work since I drop off finished pieces at Timber Peak Outfitters in town every week when I pick up my mail, and they handle the rest. The laptop’s only for ordering leather and hardware when I run low, nothing more.

  I hate social media. Don’t browse aimlessly. Don’t watch the news. I simply don’t want to know what’s happening in the world beyond this mountain. Call it self-protective measures. I spent years helping people in need, and it blew up in my face. The world’s full of greedy bastards and broken hearts, and I’m done ingesting those horrors with my morning coffee.

  But right now, I need information. I type vineyard Timber Peak Valley into the search bar and wait for the results to load. I’ve got a slow satellite connection that barely works, but eventually a result populates: Hillside Vista Vineyard.

  The name sounds vaguely familiar. I might have driven past a sign for it at some point during one of my weekly trips to town, but I’ve never paid attention. Never cared enough to wonder who ran it or what kind of wine they sold.

  I click on the website and wait for it to load. The design is simple, almost amateur, like someone built it themselves without much technical know-how. Probably the woman I can’t get out of my head. The photos are excellent, though. There are rolling hills covered in grapevines and bottles of wine with handmade-looking labels. And there, on the About page, is a photo of her. She’s smiling in the picture, standing between rows of vines with the sunset behind her, and she looks happy.

  The text below reads: “Romy Evans started Hillside Vista Vineyard five years ago with nothing but a dream and a lot of determination. Every bottle is handcrafted with care, from vine to glass.”

  So her name is Romy. It fits her. Soft but strong.

  I stare at the photo of her smiling in the vineyard, and something primal surges through me. Mine. The word echoes in my head, absolute and undeniable. I don’t care that we spoke for thirty seconds. I don’t care that this makes no logical sense. She belongs with me.

  The website lists an address and mentions that the tasting room is open Thursday through Sunday, noon to six. Today is Monday. Which means if I want to see her again, and I do, there’s no point pretending otherwise; I need to wait days. It feels impossible. But showing up uninvited after the way I treated her this afternoon? That’s a good way to make things worse.

  I close the laptop and frown. I could call. The website listed a phone number. But what would I say? “Sorry I was an ass earlier. Can I take you to dinner?”

  No. That’s not right either. It wouldn’t even convey how I feel. This isn’t casual to me. I’ve had a few relationships before I moved up here. But this? This certainty that’s gripping me, this need to see her again, to know everything about her, to make sure she’s okay? This is different. This is the kind of thing that would’ve scared the hell out of me three years ago. Now that I’ve met Romy, it’s the only thing that feels right.

  I look out the window again. Somewhere down there, Romy is going on with her day. Maybe she’s in her tasting room. Maybe she’s out in her vineyard checking on the vines or whatever someone does in a vineyard. Maybe she’s collapsed on her couch after delivering orders all day.

  Fuck. The thought of her being exhausted and alone makes it harder to breathe, so I make a decision.

  Tomorrow morning, I’m going down the mountain. I’m going to Romy’s vineyard. And I’m going to fix my mistake.

  I never should’ve slammed that door in her face.

  Chapter Three

  Romy

  “And this one,” I say, pouring a generous sample of my Cabernet Sauvignon into the older woman’s glass, “is aged for eighteen months in French oak barrels. It’s bold, but smooth.”

  The couple, Helen and Frank, who are visiting from Portland, lean in to inhale the aroma, their faces lighting up with genuine appreciation. It’s barely nine in the morning, way too early for wine tasting by any reasonable standard. I don’t even offer tastings on a Tuesday, but when they knocked on my door twenty minutes ago with such earnest enthusiasm, I couldn’t say no. I never can.

  “This is absolutely divine,” Helen says after her first sip. “Frank, we need to bring some of this home.”

  “We need to bring all of it home,” Frank agrees, already eyeing the wine bottles lined up behind me.