Wes’s funeral had been about as much fun as shoveling horse shit. Bringing her into his world won’t be easy, but if he can convince her that Montana isn’t as terrifying as she believes, they might just be the perfect match. Instead, he volunteered to keep her safe. So when a hotshot reporter rolls into town, dragging her big-time problems with her, he should have run for the hills. He has no use for large crowds, noisy cities or dramatic women. Give him a peaceful day hiking in the woods with his dog, and he’s a happy man. Too bad he isn’t the slightest bit interested in a city girl like her.īeau likes his life quiet and simple.

The only good thing about her situation is the gorgeous mountain man assigned to protect her. Stuck in the Montana wilderness, she’s secluded from anything resembling civilization or the modern-day world. To stay safe, she’s forced to trade one bad situation for another. Instead of basking in the glory of her article’s success, she’s on the run from a powerful man who wants her dead. Trapped in his tiny mountain cabin, she didn't expect to fall for his big heart.Įxposing a prominent criminal family with an investigative news report didn’t exactly work out the way Sabrina had hoped. “I can’t stay here,” I repeated, my voice cracking. My hair had become ratted in dreadlocks and I had befriended the mouse that came in and out through the gaping holes in the dirty floorboards to share my moldy bread. In a nightmare flash, I pictured myself in six months, wearing the same clothes I was in now. I didn’t know whether to start laughing or crying. Prison inmates were given better accommodations than this. I had walked right into my own personal hell. “Oh my god.” I was going to faint, and if not for the fear of touching the floor, I would have. “I’ll get the well pump running in the morning so the water works.” “If you need to use the bathroom tonight, you’ll have to go in the biffy,” Beau said. Next to it was a log chair that looked about as comfortable as sitting on a gynecologist’s exam table with your feet in the stirrups.

In the back corner was an old, black wood stove with a pile of wood blocks at its base. The fridge’s door was opened slightly and there were suspicious brown droppings in the bottom.

Dead-fly carcasses were scattered across the counters. The pea-green counters clashed fantastically with the mustard-yellow refrigerator and stove.

On my left was a small kitchen circa 1972. Every one of his steps sent echoing creaks and squeaks through the uneven floorboards. Beau’s footprints were visible in the thick layer of dust coating the floor. The overhead lamp cast a dim glow through the open room but I could see enough to know that I’d never be comfortable here. Not much? Talk about the understatement of the century. “I know it’s not much,” Beau said, “but we’ll make it comfortable for you.”

The outpost devney perry