Braving The Storm: An Age Gap, Cowboy Romance (Crimson Ridge Book 2)
Braving The Storm: Chapter 3

I crack one eye open. My nose feels like it’s about to fall off. This place is like moving to Alaska, not Montana. I had to get up three times during the night to keep adding more clothes.

Feeling a lot like a marshmallow of a woman, I’ve got the covers tucked firmly under my chin and have no desire to drag myself out of this warm cocoon.

Dread fills me at the thought I’ll have to try and figure out how to light that stupid fireplace on my own. I’m also going to have to get myself back down the mountain to Crimson Ridge without managing to plunge over the edge of the ravine and die in a fiery crash in the process.

I think the only reason I survived getting here last night was a cocktail of anger, desperation, and exhaustion.

My tiny rental car has supposedly been fitted with winter tires, but even I know it’s not suited to a remote, mountainous location like this.

Driving in nose-to-tail traffic on highways and crawling through suburban rush hour does not equip you for gravel or ice or the constant terror that a wild creature might bound out onto the road in front of you at any moment.

At least for now, I’m safely hidden here amongst the pines and the snow. I left without telling a soul where I was going, and fortunately for me, I’ve got a credit card in my name that none of them can trace. Maybe someone might eventually connect the contents of the will with my disappearance, but in all honesty, they only want me back for one reason.

And fuck them, I’m done being someone’s pet.

I’m done living a lie and being kept inside a glass cage.

They can go screw themselves and take their little power games and corporate empires and shove them.

No wonder my uncle cut ties and didn’t look back.

Perhaps there was a reason he chose never to reunite with my father after their rift. I know I certainly have no intention of ever speaking to my family again, if I can help it.

Stôrmand Lane is so completely unlike any of them. He’s different, in so many ways…

No.

No, Briar. You need to shut that shit down. There is nothing your silly little brain needs to start fixating on or obsessing over in this set of unusual circumstances.

What happened last night was clearly a misunderstanding of planetary proportions on his part, and what happened, what he did, was an accident. As soon as he recognized who I was, he nearly broke his neck to get out of there. While I have no idea why he turned up in the first place, the only explanation I came up with as I lay in bed wide awake at three a.m., compulsively overthinking everything, was that he maybe used this cabin for his hookups. Had he been expecting to replace some other woman awaiting him in the dark?

God, I need to stop thinking about his hands being on me. How a split-second of him being rough and demanding turned my insides molten with desire.

It’s wrong. Immensely so.

Maybe I can replace a cute cafe in this one-horse town and hope there is cellphone reception, or WiFi, and I’ll get myself on one of those dating apps. I’ve never used one, but now is absolutely the time when I need to learn.

I’m not heartbroken, I’m pissed off, and my pussy deserves some attention. It’s been a long, long time, with only my vibrator for company.

Which, of course, explains why I reacted the way I did last night. Nothing more.

I scrunch my fingers in the thick blanket. The room is barely big enough to fit a double bed, which is entirely unlike the California King I’m used to sprawling in all by myself. If two people were to sleep on this mattress, you’d practically be on top of each other.

Maybe that’s the point.

Casting my gaze around the gray morning haze, I take in the room. Simple, functional finishes. A tall dresser and a freestanding wardrobe both in wood. A mirror facing the end of the bed is the only thing approaching decoration. Total log cabin vibes.

Nothing here suggests who might have last used the place; it certainly wasn’t my father. Erik Lane’s taste was much more Malibu waterfront and Michelin Star restaurants where he could shake hands with self-important people. I doubt he ever set foot here, but for whatever reason, this property wound up in our family, and he left it to me. At least he left it solely under a trust listed in my name in the will. If that was the only good thing he did for me, it gave me a place to escape and hide out when my whole world imploded around my ears.

God. I can still see the sight of her neon purple satin underwear stuffed in his suit pocket burned into my retinas.

My skin crawls.

Turns out, once I knew what I was looking for, it only took me about ten minutes to uncover just how much of a cheating douchebag Antoine is. He also had the absolute audacity to make no attempt to hide what he was doing.

Did he want to get caught? Or did he just think I was so pathetic I would never replace out, or would be too much of a wet blanket to confront him if I did?

Did he just expect me to roll over and look the other way?

Ugh. I can’t believe I ended up being someone who was cheated on.

Even worse, is that I allowed myself to be in a relationship with a guy, who, now that I look at it, was always going to be that asshole.

I’m so disappointed in myself.

Huffing out a breath, I decide to face the day.

Wallowing is not going to solve the fact I allowed myself to be involved with a guy named Antoine Montgomery III. Or, more to the point, that I allowed my asshole family to push me into a relationship with someone on the pretense of connections and business. The Montgomerys are the type of people my father loved to golf with and name-drop into conversation. Somewhere in amongst it all, Antoine was someone who I tried to convince myself I could grow fond of. When you’re gaslit enough times into believing there’s no such thing as love or soulmates, it’s only business and connections and the passing on of a legacy built on generational empires, you start to sip the Kool-Aid when you’ve been worn down for long enough.

My sister is the one who typically loves to hit the emotional wounds, and really drive the knife home at every opportunity. It’s a small sacrifice after what you did.

Meanwhile, my father only ever saw dollar signs in the Montgomery media empire, and Antoine’s family saw power in being aligned with Lane Enterprises.

A shudder passes through me, how I managed to go through three years of being under the same roof as that prick. Of pretending to be the perfect ornament to compliment his life. Even his name is enough to make me gag now.

Swinging my feet out from under the covers, the chilly air is less than welcoming. I’ve got double leggings tucked into three pairs of socks and more layers than I can count on my top half.

Blowing on my fingers, I open the bedroom door, and a wall of warm air stuns me, as if I just walked into the path of a hairdryer.

At my back, the bedroom feels like the interior of a walk-in chiller in a restaurant kitchen. Whereas, before me, on the other side of my previously closed door, the rest of the cabin is toasty warm.

Dishes clink in that watery way they do while being hand-washed, and a sizzling sound comes from the kitchen.

Once again, I tread lightly down the short hallway, if you could even call it that, it’s barely more than a couple of short paces, confused as fuck, and realize my uncle’s presence fills the room.

“Uhh. Hi?” Reaching up, I quickly run my fingers over my hair, tucking a few loose strands behind my ears. Do I have sleep drool on my face? I hastily swipe the corners of my mouth with my sleeve. My eyes are trying hard to look anywhere but in the direction of the broad planes of his shoulders.

He’s dressed in a blood-red and charcoal checkered flannel shirt pushed to his elbows as he stands over the sink, and from this angle, all I can see is the outline of muscles rippling below the faded fabric.

“Coffee’s there, if you want it.” He grunts. Not turning around.

Do I ever. My stomach immediately growls as the smell of whatever he’s cooking fully hits my nose. It’s fatty and delicious, and I’m secretly hoping there might be some leftovers once he’s done that I can steal.

I vaguely remember eating a granola bar sometime yesterday afternoon, but I didn’t even stop to buy myself any groceries on my way here; being in such a state of nausea and self-disgust, nothing mattered more to me than arriving at my final mountain-side destination.

As I grab the pot and slosh some desperately needed coffee into the mug with a chipped rim already sitting on the bench, my brain starts functioning properly.

Why is he here, in my cabin, cooking?

Why is he even here at all?

“Thank you.” I take a gulp. Black coffee, bitter and definitely not what my taste buds would prefer, but it’s coffee, and all things considered, I’m grateful for its warmth at the very least.

He continues rinsing off dishes in the sink, placing a few on the tired, worn draining rack. Stony silence is all I get in response.

The fire cracks loudly, and I slip onto a seat tucked under the small wooden table. It’s a nook hardly big enough for two people but offers a breathtaking view over the world waiting for me in the glimmers of morning sunlight.

From the looks of it, I’ve woken up inside a fairytale, or a snow globe. I’m expecting a winter queen to pull up in a chariot pulled by reindeer at any moment to offer me Turkish delight. Dizzyingly tall trees are coated in dustings of white on all the pine needles. Piled snow is heaped in places around the outside of the cabin. Off in the distance, I can see a long spine of reddish-looking rock rising into the sky.

Crimson Ridge.

“It’s beautiful here,” I replace myself murmuring out loud, clutching the mug between my fingers. “Do you live nearby?”

When I turn my eyes back toward the man mountain filling the kitchenette, my smile falls. His arms are folded over his chest, piercing blues locked on me, and a snarl pulls at his upper lip.

“Are you shitting me right now?”

I blanch a little at the force of his bark.

“What?”

“I said. Are. You. Shitting. Me.”

Shifting in my seat, my eyes flicker around. What does this man want me to say? “Sorry, I don’t mean to be rude or anything… I’m just curious. I mean, I’ve never been here before and don’t want to come across as ungrateful. Thank you for lighting the fire…” I gesture in the direction of the flames and dare a glance back his way.

“Didn’t do that for you, darlin’.” His voice is mocking.

In my life, I’ve had very few encounters with my uncle. He was always traveling, living the high life of the rodeo star, and my dad wasn’t exactly close with his adopted brother. Then things went from bad to worse between them for whatever reason when I was about sixteen, and dad told us to never have anything to do with Uncle Stôrmand ever again.

“Utter his name into this house, ever, and I’ll disown you.” I still remember how terrifyingly mad he was. Spit flecking at the corners of his lips. Flush reddening his cheeks. It was a formidable sight as a young girl. Certainly enough to make me wonder more than once what my uncle could have done that was so unforgivable.

And now here we are, alone together on the side of this mountain, and he looks ready to snap my neck.

Oh, god. Should I be worried about being here alone with him? Is he violent? A criminal?

Suddenly, the memory of his fingers around my throat fly back in, and my body heats involuntarily.

This is so fucked up. So. Fucked. Up.

“I just… I don’t know why you’re here.” I mumble. Running my touch over the chipped rim of the brown mug, I kind of like the way the sharp edge of the ceramic digs into my skin beneath the pad of my forefinger. It’s broken and yet somehow resilient, stubbornly still intact, looking like a relic from the eighties.

“Why I’m here?” He repeats my question, narrowing those impossibly blue eyes on me and tilting his head to one side.

“Yes. I mean… you didn’t know I was arriving… I only made the decision to come here myself on the spur of the moment.” Shrugging, my cheeks heat the longer he keeps glaring at me.

“I’m no fucking gentleman, but even I know it’s not exactly polite to throw someone out on their ass when we’re barely beyond the depths of winter.”

My mouth opens and closes. “What?”

“I don’t really give a fuck that you’re my niece, or family, or whatever, but I’m in no mood for this bullshit you’re selling… so, I’ll let you get a coffee and some food in your belly, then I’m taking you back down to Crimson Ridge.”

He turns and begins shunting the contents of the pan onto plates and aggressively opens a drawer with a loud thunk; cutlery clatters as he digs some knives and forks out.

All the while, my head is spinning.

Instinct has me moving before necessarily thinking. I’m up out of my seat and crossing the few feet back to the kitchenette without paying any heed to, or forming a proper plan, of how I wish to respond.

“Excuse me? I’m not going anywhere. Thank you for your help, Uncle…” Inwardly, I wince, hearing myself say the word out loud, especially considering the very un-familial places my mind has drifted to since last night. “But I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Leave?” That drags a menacing bark of a laugh out of him. It’s a cold sound, one that echoes around this small space.

“You lot really are a piece of work. I bet Erik put you up to this, didn’t he?”

“Pretty hard for a dead man to put me up to anything.” I grit my teeth. I didn’t know if my uncle knew. He wasn’t invited to the funeral, and considering my father had cut him off from the family so ruthlessly, I assumed he probably wouldn’t have known, or if he did, simply didn’t care.

His broad shoulder lifts in a shrug. Is that his way of sympathizing? Apologizing? I don’t know that I exactly loved my dad, but he was my parent all the same, and with that comes a fuck load of complicated emotions when they’re no longer around.

No matter how much they hurt you while they were still alive.

My uncle turns and shoves a plate into my hands before pushing past me. A couple of bits of extra crispy bacon. Scrambled eggs. Toast cut in triangles.

Do I want to laugh? Cry? For years, the only thing I’ve been permitted for breakfast has been a green smoothie.

I don’t remember the last time I ate bread.

Such is the vanity of L.A. life in the glare of the Lane Media empire. Life under the fishbowl scrutiny of a million eyes and a hundred shutters clicking at every turn. I had it drilled into me as soon as I could walk that someone is always watching.

Hence, I’ve spent my entire adult life armed with nutritionists, private chefs, and wellness specialists, who are all neatly packaged cult leaders bowing at the altar of skinny. All hail the latest trend, and thou shalt let nothing pass thy lips deemed to be ‘unhealthy.’

God forbid you might be naturally curvy, no matter how many hours you spend in the gym or carbs you avoid.

My mama’s genes came through strong with me, and I adore that aspect of myself. It’s always been others who seemed to scrunch their face while looking at my hips and thighs and boobs as if they were a complex calculus problem to be solved. Whereas my sister was graced with the gazelle-like bone structure passed down by my dad’s unknown lineage prior to being adopted. The two of us couldn’t be less alike if we tried.

I realize my uncle has seated himself at the tiny table over by the window, and if I’m going to cling to any hope of making sense of this, it looks like I’m needing to follow after him.

“Are you going to at least answer me?” I place my plate down and fold my arms over my chest. If I remain standing, I feel like I’ve got some tenuous thread of power in this conversation.

Stôrmand Lane is damn imposing.

He dwarfs this little breakfast nook and yet somehow looks perfectly suited to where he’s seated all the same.

It’s confusing. Perplexing. I don’t like it.

Nor do I like how my skin prickles beneath the surface when I’m this close to him. As I stand here, my eyes have absolutely no business continuing to trace over the tattoos lining his forearms and hands. The veins and corded muscles revealed by his shirt rolled to his elbows are far too alluring for my health.

Yet my gaze flickers to the ink adorning his right knuckles. Letters that spell S.T.O.R.M. span across each individual digit from little finger to thumb.

“My niece wants to know why I’m here?” he says through a mouthful. Mocking me again.

“Yes.” I shift my weight.

“This is my house, darlin’… my home.” He leans back in his chair and studies me with fierce, ice-cold eyes as he washes his food down with a slurp of coffee.

“So, the real question I’m needing to hear your excuse for, is why the hell you are trespassing here.”