Wild Rugged Daddy - A Single Daddy Mountain Man Romance

  Wild Rugged Daddy

  A Single Daddy Romance

  Sienna Parks

  Contents

  Description

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue 1

  Epilogue 2

  Bonus Book 1

  Bonus Book 2

  Acknowledgments For Wild Rugged Daddy

  About the Author

  Social Media

  COPYRIGHT 2018 PRISM HEART PRESS

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  COVER DESIGN: Louisa Maggio

  EDITING: Booktique Editing

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form, including electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or, if an actual place, are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their contents.

  E-books are not transferable. They cannot be sold, given away, or shared. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is a crime punishable by law. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded to, or downloaded from file sharing sites, or distributed in any other way via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in Federal prison and a fine of $250,000 (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr).

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Created with Vellum

  Description

  Bear Paw Mountain is rife with urban legends.

  When football superstar, Travis Thorburn, lost his wife in a car accident, he became a single daddy. Overcome with grief and overwhelmed by parenthood, he dropped out of the spotlight with his newborn son and hasn’t been heard from since. Journalists have been trying to find them for four years without success.

  As Juliet Abrams sets out on an expedition to Bear Paw Mountain for her next article, she’s intrigued by the town of Cricket. Rumors circulate about the local recluse who flits in and out of their close-knit community with his little boy. Warnings to steer clear of the enigmatic stranger and the mysterious creatures that roam the mountains are rendered obsolete when her strong will and inexperience conspire to bring them together.

  Travis can smell an intruder a mile away and track them down with practiced ease. The moment Juliet sets foot on his territory, he can feel her… and the moment their eyes meet, it stirs emotions that Travis thought died the day he lost everything—compassion, concern… and desire.

  When Juliet realizes who her wild lover really is, will she expose him to further her journalistic career or will she be ensnared by this wild, rugged mountain man?

  For everyone who has

  lost their way during life’s challenges.

  Be true to yourself,

  and you’ll find your True North.

  Prologue

  TRAVIS

  I’m so sorry, Mr. Thorburn. We did everything we could, but your wife’s injuries were too severe… I’m afraid we lost her… however, we did deliver the baby. Your son has been taken to the NICU. As you know, he’s very premature, but we’ll do everything we can to help him. Is there anyone I can call for you? Mr. Thorburn…

  These were the words that would obliterate my existence like a grenade.

  I thought I was untouchable. I had it all—money, fame, love, and my dream job—quarterback for the Rams.

  December 29th had been like any other day—training for our next game. Angela was there as always, shouting from the sidelines and noting anything she thought I needed to work on. She was as committed to my career as I was. We were the classic tale of boy meets girl—the first day of college I saw her across the room, and I was a goner. We were inseparable. Coach was always on me to focus on my career, but somewhere deep down, I knew I was going to make it to the NFL. I had what it took. I worked hard, but football always came a distant second to Angela—she was the love of my life. We were married the moment we graduated, and she supported every move I had to make for the game.

  After practice that afternoon, Angela left to visit her sister uptown while I hurried home to put the finishing touches to the nursery. We had planned a gender reveal at our New Year’s Eve party. At the strike of twelve, we would open the door and let everyone see the soft baby colors and bold blue lettering—ELIJAH.

  With a beautiful wife and a baby on the way, life was perfect… until 9:57 p.m. that night. A man I’d never met made the decision to drive home after a night of drinking with his buddies. It was a split-second lapse in judgment.

  Angela was everything to me—wife, lover, soulmate, and my best friend. We were supposed to grow old together…

  Sitting in that hospital room trying to say goodbye, I wanted to die. A part of me did die. I lost my compass and my ability to navigate this unfair world. Football seemed insignificant. Everything became meaningless. I’d worked my ass off for multi-million-dollar contracts, and for what? No amount of money could save her.

  Initially, my days were spent inside the four walls of the NICU with Eli watching as he fought for every breath. Tubes and wires were everywhere. I was terrified to touch him in case I broke something. I never anticipated how he would fill my heart with so much love… and fear… and hope.

  I thought the media attention would calm down after the funeral, but the vultures continued to circle. No matter where I went, they wouldn’t leave me alone. They camped outside the hospital where Angela took her last breath, and my son fought against the odds to survive.

  Elijah grew strong, healthy, and despite everything that had plagued his short, little life so far, he was the happiest baby I’d ever seen. He made it easy for me to make the decision—two months, two weeks, four days, three hours, and fourteen minutes after Angela died, I packed a bag for Eli and me, and we left it all behind. Travis Thorburn—legend of the LA Rams—disappeared, never to be heard from again…

  1

  JULES

  “Come on! You’ve got to be kidding me?” I swear my editor is trying to kill me.

  “You’ve got to earn your dues, Jules. You knew that when I hired you.”

  “Yeah, and traveling to Cabo wasn’t that hard… but Montana? I’m not an outdoor girl, Norm.” The smug grin that creeps across his weathered features tells me I’m fighting a losing battle.

  “What can I say? People like all that nature bullcrap. The readers are going to eat it up.” I slump into the chair across from him.

  “When do I get to write a real story? I’ve been doing this gig for two years now.”

&nb
sp; “Soon. Now get out of here. Your flight leaves at noon.” With a snide salute, I grab my itinerary and head out the door.

  When I graduated from Brown, this isn’t how I pictured my future—moving from one tabloid rag to the next writing fluff columns. With every day that passes, my dreams of becoming a respected investigative journalist seem that much further away. I sling my laptop bag over my shoulder resolved to write the best damn article this paper has ever seen… and my travel piece!

  As I step onto the tarmac, the bite in the air is enough to steal my breath away, the cold fingers of winter wrapping around my chest. This trip is going to suck. I’m an LA girl—the freezing wilderness is a cute picture on a Christmas card, not a way of life. Being forced to go hiking twice a year with my father was bad enough.

  The airport is the size of a postage stamp—I won’t be surprised if I’m unloading my own bags from the plane.

  When I get outside, I’m accosted by an elderly woman holding a plaque with my name written in perfect cursive.

  “Welcome to Cricket! You must be Juliet.” I wasn’t expecting anyone.

  “I’m sorry, who are you?”

  “Oh, how silly of me. I’m Babs. I own the B&B you booked for your stay.”

  “Nice to meet you. You didn’t have to come get me. I was planning on getting a cab.”

  “Nonsense. I like to provide an all-inclusive package for my guests. My home is your home for the duration of your stay.” She tries to take my bags, but I insist on carrying them myself. She’s at least eighty with glasses that resemble the bottom of Coke bottles. I’m a little concerned about getting in a car with her. I can just imagine my obituary.

  Juliet Abrams—died age twenty-five, being driven to the middle of nowhere by a blind lady. She achieved very little and never realized her dreams of becoming an award-winning journalist. Juliet is survived by her disappointed parents and an exponentially more successful brother. R.I.P. Loser.

  Before I got the travel writing gig, I wrote obituaries for the Nantucket Times. Depressing doesn’t even come close to describing that woeful six months of my life. This job seemed like a step up, but today, I’m not so sure.

  The landscape is rugged but majestic as we twist and turn along the winding one-lane roads toward the mountains. The canopy of trees overhead creates a tunnel leading to a different world. My hands are like blocks of ice, the old lady next to me seemingly unaware of the arctic temperatures.

  “So, what brings you to Cricket?” My heart leaps into my throat as she takes her eyes off the road to stare at my face.

  “Eyes on the road, Babs!” She swerves narrowly missing the embankment.

  “Sorry, dear.” Her voice has a sweetness that lulls you in.

  “I’m writing a column about the trails at Bear Paw Mountain.”

  “You hike?”

  “Used to. I haven’t in about ten years, but it’s like riding a bike… right?”

  “Hmm. I’ll get my son, Arron, to school you before you hit the trails. It’s dangerous to go out there this time of year if you don’t know what you’re doing. The weather can change on a dime. And it’s not safe with him roaming up there.”

  “Him?” I assume she’s referring to some local lore beast or something equally ludicrous, but I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t ask. Her attention is diverted to the road ahead as the trees disperse, and we’re staring up at the mountains—the town sprawled in front of us a mere speck of dust by comparison.

  “That’s where you’re heading. And, this is home.” I’m stunned by my surroundings. There’s one street with a grocery store, a pharmacy, and a few other storefronts that have closed signs on the door. This can’t be it—how can people live like this?

  “How many people live in Cricket?”

  “Three hundred and twelve at last count. Know every one of them by name. Delivered most of them. I used to be the midwife here, but I’m retired now.” Thank God! I would worry for the pregnant women of this town if she were still working. There are a few houses dotted around the landscape—blips in the vast expanse of green. Chimney smoke snakes up into the bright, blue sky—an inviting beacon of warmth within.

  LA is a bustling metropolis with over four million residents. No matter what street you’re on, you’re surrounded by people. In tourist areas, there are easily larger crowds than the population of this entire town. We’ve yet to see another human being, and I’m a little concerned that I’ve been booked into the Norman Bates Motel. This is a ghost town.

  Babs pulls into the driveway of a picturesque country manor.

  “This is your B&B? Wow!” A proud smile lights up her face.

  “This was the first house ever built in town. It’s been in my family for generations. We may be small here in Cricket, but we are mighty.” With a sly grin, she kills the engine and gestures for me to follow her inside. “Come, come.”

  With my bags in hand, I step out into the ice-cold air slapping the LA comfort right out of me. I’m quick to scurry up the steps and into the grand house, the door shutting behind me. It’s even more impressive inside. Extraordinarily high ceilings, intricate crown moldings, and rustic hardwood floors. I would not have paired this quirky old lady with such elegant tastes. I love the juxtaposition.

  Babs shows me to my room and gives me a brief rundown of the B&B—mealtimes, laundry service, and most shockingly for me, a curfew.

  “Doors are locked at 11:00 p.m. It’s my non-negotiable rule. I need my sleep, and I don’t want to be worrying about guests coming in at all hours.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I’ll let you get settled in. Dinner is at 6:00 p.m.” She disappears out the door and within seconds, I hear her chatting with another guest. My room has the same quirky charm as the rest of the house—a perfect spot for a budding writer. It’s quiet and comfortable, and as I leaf through the tourist pamphlets on the bedside table, I contemplate why I’m here. Maybe inspiration will strike during this trip. There has to be something bigger out there for me.

  After a hot shower and a fresh set of clothes, I’m hungry. The aroma of authentic home-cooking drifts up the stairs and into my room, a blanket cloaking me in its warm embrace. Usually, I wouldn’t be so keen on eating with a group of strangers, but tonight I’m looking forward to it. My job keeps me away from home most of the time, and I rarely get a welcome like today. The paper is all about the wham bam thank you ma’am of journalism—no personalized service of any kind.

  The latest heartthrob or current Disney princesses weren’t my idols when I was growing up. I wanted to be like Woodward and Bernstein kicking political ass and taking names. Back then, investigative journalism was a skill—a talent gleaned from years of education and hard work. Now, with everything available to everyone the moment it happens, the craft I hold most dear has become more and more diluted.

  As a fledgling writer, the figures are disturbing. Two-thirds of Americans get their news from social media. Half of the crap on there has zero basis in fact—an explosive headline with no substance. When it really comes down to it, a Google search is not a replacement for the media. That’s not what I do. If it was that easy, wouldn’t everyone do it? The reporters I aspire to are all pre-internet.

  With a notebook tucked in my back pocket and a pencil through my messy bun, I head down for dinner.

  The dining room has the endearing qualities of home with the shabby chic of a New York boutique restaurant. The other guests are laughing, joking, and praising Babs for a wonderful spread. It reminds me of Thanksgiving when I was young. A guy, around my dad’s age, stands to greet me.

  “You must be our visiting journalist. I’m Babs’ son, Arron.” He holds out his hand.

  “Pleased to meet you, Arron. I’m Juliet.” With a warm smile, he introduces me to the rest of the table, who offer welcoming pleasantries. I take a seat and make a plate for myself.

  I don’t remember the last time I had a meal this good. I’m all takeout and Ramen noodles. No time or m
oney for a social life, and Sunday dinners at my parents’ house have become fewer and farther between in the past year.

  Babs sits back and enjoys the view. She’s a feeder for sure!

  “This dinner is incredible. Thanks, Babs.”

  “You’re welcome, my dear. Now, why don’t you tell us all about your exciting job as a journalist?” Everyone oohs and aahs thinking I have some glamorous career—if only. The reality of having your name in print is underwhelming at best when it’s not something you’re passionate about.

  “Not much to tell. I write a destination column. Just out here for a few days to see what all the fuss is about with hiking vacations.”

  “So, you’re heading up to Bear Paw tomorrow? For how long?” Concerned is etched on Arron’s brow.

  “Yeah. Two nights.”

  “There’s a thirty percent chance that the first winter storm could hit this weekend. Are you sure you want to stay overnight?”

  “It’s sort of a requirement if I want to write the piece.”

  Another male guest chimes in, and it gets my hackles up. “Little thing like you shouldn’t be up there alone. Do you even have any experience hiking?”