Page 2 of Sheltered By the Mountain Man

"Sadie?" Another knock, this time my mother's manicured rap. "Honey, it's time. Everyone's waiting."

Time.

Time to what? Time to settle? Time to silence that voice in my head that's been screaming "wrong, wrong, wrong" for months? Time to become Mrs. Matthew Preston, wife of the most boring man in Rosewood Valley? Time to sign up for a lifetime of polite dinner parties and scheduled sex and watching Matthew alphabetize his sock drawer?

My eyes dart to the back door of the bridal suite.

It leads directly outside, to the gravel path that winds down through the chapel gardens to the main road. I know this because I've planned seventeen weddings at this chapel. I know every exit, every hiding spot, every possible escape route.

Escape route.

Oh God.

Before I can think too hard about what I'm doing—because thinking is what got me into this mess in the first place—I'm moving.

I kick off the four-inch heels I spent way too much money on, leaving them like guilty witnesses on the plush carpet. The floor is cool under my bare feet as I grab my phone from the vanity and move toward the door. My hands are steadier now, certain in their trembling.

"Sadie?" More knocking. More voices. The door handle jiggles.

I throw open the back door and run.

The late afternoon air hits my face like a kiss of freedom, warm and sweet with the scent of wild roses—so different from the cultivated blooms inside.

The sun is setting, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold that would have made for beautiful pictures. My dress catches on brambles as I sprint down the gravel path, the tulle probably tearing, the beading probably catching and scattering like expensive breadcrumbs behind me.

But I don't care. Each step feels like breaking another chain, each breath tastes more like liberty.

I can hear shouting behind me now. Someone's spotted me. I run faster, my lungs burning, my feet already aching from the rough ground.

But I don't stop. I can't stop. Stopping means going back, means suffocating, means dying slowly in a life that fits like a dress three sizes too small.

I make it to the main road just as my legs are about to give out.

The countryside stretches out before me, wild and untamed and nothing like the manicured perfection I left behind. Rolling hills dotted with wildflowers, trees swaying in the evening breeze, clouds gathering on the horizon promising rain.

I have no plan, no destination, just the desperate need to be anywhere but here.

The rumble of an engine makes me turn. A black pickup truck is approaching, slowing as it nears me.

Through the windshield, I catch a glimpse of a man with a dark beard and long hair, his expression unreadable behind aviator sunglasses.

The truck is dusty, well-used but well-maintained, nothing like Matthew's spotless BMW.

The truck stops beside me. The window rolls down with a mechanical whir, and I'm hit with the most intense pair of dark eyes I've ever seen, partially hidden behind wayward strands of brown hair. His beard is neat but full. He looks like he'd be more at home in a lumber yard than at the country club where Matthew plays golf.

"You look like you're running from something," he says, his voice deep and rough, like whiskey over gravel.

No judgment in his tone, just quiet observation. I glance back at the chapel, where I can see figures emerging onto the gravel path.

"I am."

He studies me for a moment, his gaze taking in the wedding dress, my bare feet, and what I'm sure is increasingly catastrophic makeup. His eyes linger on my face, searching for something.

Whatever he finds there makes him nod slightly. "Need a ride?"

I should say no. This is crazy. He could be a serial killer!

But something in those dark eyes makes me think he might just be salvation instead. Besides, what's crazier—getting in a truck with a stranger or marrying a man I don't love?