Page 1 of His Wild Desire
Chapter 1
Emma
The sun is already sinking lower in the sky as I navigate the winding mountain trail, my breath coming in labored pants. I should've listened to that chipper park ranger and started earlier in the day, but sleeping in on my little mountain vacation didn't exactly align with his suggested timeline.
Sweat trickles down my lower back, and I pause to wipe my brow, grimacing at the grimy streaks of dirt and smudged makeup. Mother Nature is really doing a number on my meticulously crafted appearance.
Glancing down at my brand new, top-of-the-line hiking ensemble—complete with trendy leggings, a quick-dry tank, and ridiculously overpriced trail shoes—I can't help but scoff. All this fancy gear, and I still look like a hot mess.
I really need to start taking those Zumba classes again if a few measly miles have me this winded. Although, to be fair, these "few miles" are more like a relentless uphill climb, and the altitude is no joke. Stupid Rocky freaking Mountains.
The trail narrows, and I eye the precarious path winding alongside a steep, rocky drop-off. Of course, the one time I decide to get in touch with nature and find my inner peace or whatever, it has to be on the world's most treacherous hiking trail.
I take a tentative step, gripping the rock wall for balance as loose gravel shifts beneath my boots. Maybe coming out here alone wasn't such a bright idea after all. Not that I have anyone to join me these days unless you count my doorman who keeps not-so-subtly offering to show me the city's best takeout spots.
My ankle twists sharply on an uneven patch, and a searing pain shoots up my leg. "Son of a—" I cry out, crumpling to the ground.
I clutch my throbbing ankle, panic rising as I survey the vast, unforgiving landscape around me. Rugged peaks loom in every direction, dwarfing me with their sheer size and leaving me feeling impossibly small and alone out here.
Stupid, stupid idea, Whitmore. What the hell were you thinking?
Sucking in a sharp breath, I try shifting my weight, but even the slightest movement sends daggers of agony stabbing through my joint. Tears well in my eyes as the reality of my situation sets in. I'm miles from the trailhead, stranded in the middle of nowhere with a twisted ankle and not a soul in sight to help.
Digging into my pack, I fish out my phone, only to find zero bars. Because, of course, there's no cell reception out here in the wilderness. With a growl of frustration, I hurl the useless device aside and slump back against the rock wall, cradling my injured ankle.
Aspen would be having a field day if she could see me now. My good friend and coworker grew up around these parts, always raving about the rugged beauty of Silverpine and insisting I needed to experience it for myself. "The mountains will reset your soul, Em," she'd say with an annoyingly serene smile. "Get away from the city grind and find yourself again out there.”
Well, consider my soul thoroughly reset, Aspen. I'm certainly finding myself out here—cold, injured, and utterly miserable.
As the shadows lengthen and the temperature plummets, I curl in on myself, shivering violently. So much for getting "in touch with nature." More like nature getting in touch with kicking my ass.
The encroaching darkness only amplifies every crunch of gravel and eerie whisper of wind, fueling the irrational fears swirling in my mind. I'm just some helpless city girl out of her depth, an easy target for whatever deranged lunatics or wild animals lurk out here.
I blink back tears, hugging myself tighter in a pitiful attempt to retain what little body heat I have left. The last rays of sunlight are nearly swallowed by the jagged peaks, casting the trail in an inky blackness that seems to stretch endlessly in every direction. No one is coming for me. Not out here. I'm utterly alone.
That's when I hear the telltale crunch of heavy boots on the gravel behind me. Every muscle in my body goes rigid as my pulse hammers in my ears. Slowly, shakily, I turn to face the source of that ominous sound.
A towering silhouette emerges from the fading light, the sharp angles of his chiseled jaw and broad, muscular frame unmistakable even in the growing gloom. He moves with a confident, purposeful stride, each footfall solid and sure on the treacherous terrain.
Our eyes meet across the trail, and I'm pinned by the intensity of that piercing stare, feral and wild like the rugged peaks surrounding us. Strands of shaggy dark hair whip across his weathered face in the biting mountain wind, and his mouth is hidden by a thick beard.
His gaze drops to my crumpled form, and I instinctively shrink back against the rock wall. Please don't be a serial killer. Please don't be a serial killer.
The man halts a few feet away, his brows furrowing into a stern scowl as he folds his arms over that broad, flannel-clad chest. Even bundled in layers, it's obvious he's all muscle.
"You hurt?" His gruff baritone shatters the tense silence, somehow deeper and richer than I'd imagined a voice could be.
I blink dumbly for a beat before managing a jerky nod. Smooth, Whitmore.
Those eyes rake over me again with an unmistakable hint of judgment. "Figured. You city girls always underestimate how unforgiving these mountains can be."
The condescending edge to his words immediately puts me on the defensive, pain and fear momentarily forgotten in a flare of indignation. "Excuse me? I'll have you know, I'm perfectly capable of taking care of—"
I cut off with a yelp as I instinctively try to push myself upright, searing pain lancing through my ankle. So much for that little bravado act.
To his credit, the gruff mountain man's eyes immediately soften with something like concern as he watches my face contort. "Yeah, you don't look too capable from where I'm standing."
With a grunt of apparent reluctance, he crosses those final steps to crouch beside me, his calloused fingers grazing my ankle with surprising gentleness. I flinch at the contact, fresh tears springing to my eyes at the jolt of agony. Up this close, his rich, musky scent—all cedar and campfire smoke—is utterly intoxicating in a way I'd never admit aloud.