FINDING LOVE

  A CURVY GIRL/ MOUNTAIN MAN ROMANCE

  CAMERON HART

  Copyright © 2024 by Cameron Hart

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  CONTENTS

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  1. Wilder

  2. Ari

  3. Wilder

  4. Ari

  5. Wilder

  6. Ari

  7. Wilder

  8. Ari

  9. Wilder

  10. Ari

  11. Wilder

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Also by Cameron Hart

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  River: One look at the stunning waitress carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, and I’m a goner. I wasn’t looking for a sweet little thing with auburn hair and more baggage than I can fit on the back of my bike, but there’s no going back now. She’s mine. I’ll prove to her I’m more than capable of handling her past and making her feel safe again.

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  FINDING LOVE BLURB

  No one understood why I wanted to purchase the old abandoned mining town hidden in the Smoky Mountains. I’ve been up here for nearly a year now, working out my anger as I tear down old structures and clear the way for new construction.

  Still can’t seem to get rid of the demons that chased me all the way up the mountain in the first place.

  When Ari bursts into my life in the most unexpected way, I’m not prepared for the feelings she brings out in me. The curvy woman is far too young and sweet for a jaded ex-Army Ranger who has barely recovered from his time overseas.

  She hurt her leg, and I’m obligated to treat her before sending her on her way. It’s my land, after all. The longer Ari is under my roof, the more I want to keep her.

  I don’t know if I can let the little ray of sunshine go once she’s healed. I may need to keep her forever.

  What to expect from a Cameron Hart book: Curvy heroines, protective alphas, lots of heat, and plenty of sweet. No cheating, safe, guaranteed HEA!

  1

  WILDER

  Iwipe the sweat from my brow, pausing long enough to take a breath of fresh mountain air before swinging the ax again. Over and over, I get the log in position, hoist the heavy steel ax above my head, and swing downward. The sharpened metal slices into the wood, breaking it in half with a satisfying crack that echoes down the mountain.

  The sun is about to slip behind the highest peak here in the Smoky Mountains, which means daylight in my little valley will soon be gone. That was one of many things I had to get used to when I moved up here almost a year ago. Sunrises and sunsets aren’t the subtle occasions they often are in other places. In the mountains, darkness falls swiftly, followed by a temperature drop so stark it has to be felt to be believed.

  Eyeing up the last few logs to be split, I decide to hustle and get it done in the ten minutes or so I have left of the yellow-orange glow. I get lost in the rhythm of chopping wood until the stack is gone and I have a wheelbarrow full of firewood. Good thing, too. I haven’t been able to shake the feeling that something’s coming my way and I need to be prepared.

  “It’s your paranoia, you idiot,” I mutter.

  Jesus Christ, now I’m talking to myself?

  Maybe my friends were right. Maybe a year alone, without a single soul around other than the wildlife and occasional helicopter flyby has gotten to my head. Then again, it’s better for everyone if I go crazy up here alone than mingling amongst civilians like I was trying to do before.

  Focusing back on the task at hand, I wipe off the blade of my ax and put it away before wheeling the stack of firewood up the path to my cabin. I make quick work of unloading the wheelbarrow, lining the logs up in rows against the back wall of the mudroom in my small cabin.

  By the time I’m done, the solar-powered lights on the corners of my roof are on, letting me know it’s officially quitting time. As much as I’d like to work longer into the evening, it’s not worth configuring a light set-up at this point. Not when it’s just me. Maybe when Elliot, Huxley, and Cassian join me, we can discuss a more permanent electricity solution.

  Right now, everything I need runs on solar power aside from the construction equipment I’ve purchased in the last few months and my personal water heater. That all still needs gas, but once the major work has been done, the goal is to have a self-sufficient community up here in the Smoky Mountains.

  I rinse off in the shower, thankful for the hot water. I don’t have many creature comforts up here in my cabin, but warm water to shower in was at the top of my list of things to figure out once I decided to make the move up here.

  The hot liquid pours over my aching muscles, and I roll my shoulders out, groaning as the tension subsides. For now. I'm fine as long as I have something to do, a plan of action, and a task at hand. The darkness is kept at bay. Barely, but it’s better than when I was trying to “fit in” with regular people and society. I don’t know how to do that anymore—and I don’t want to.

  After I left the Army Rangers, I fell into the bottom of a whiskey bottle, trying to forget the reason I retired early in the first place. When that didn’t work, I considered trying something stronger. Possibly something I wouldn’t wake up from.

  Even at my absolute lowest, I couldn’t bring myself to end it all. Something kept me here, some sense of purpose I still don’t understand. I spent days at a time in bed, only leaving to go to the bathroom and gag down whatever food I had on hand. Still, when I woke up in the morning, I knew I wasn’t done. My time wasn’t up.

  But something had to change. I couldn’t keep numbing my pain with alcohol and ignoring my friends when they tried reaching out to me. So, I did what any barely-functioning, depressed-as-fuck, emotionally-scarred veteran with demons screaming in his head twenty-four-seven would do; I got a shady loan from a friend of a friend who may or may not be in the mob so I could buy an abandoned mining town in the Smoky Mountains.

  At least, it seemed like a good idea to me at the time. I have no regrets, even if my Army buddies don’t understand. They will. Huxley is joining me soon, along with Cassian. Both are coming up on retirement in the next few months. Elliot has already been medically discharged, but he’s…

  Fuck. I let Elliot down. If it weren’t for me…

  I stop myself from spiraling, though just barely.

  Turning off the water, I grab a towel and dry off, wrapping it around my hips before stepping out into my single-room cabin. It’s not much, but I built it with my own two hands instead of diving off the nearest cliff to silence the voices, so I consider that a major accomplishment.

  Besides, it’s not like I’m trying to impress anyone out here. My log cabin has everything I need for it to be a home base while I’m planning and building the rest of the town over the next several years, with lots of room to expand if I so choose.

  At the moment, I can’t imagine sharing this space with anyone. When my friends get up here, we’ll build their homes according to their specifications, but even so, they won’t be staying with me. No way in hell. The first thing I did when I got the deed to the land was to make a drivable path down to the nearest town at the base of the mountain.

  I finish dressing and look over my meager options for supper. One day, I’ll have a row of fully stocked greenhouses and fields full of grains, veggies, and roaming cattle. Until then, I still rely on supply runs every few months to the town at the bottom of the mountain.

  Something catches my eye in the kitchen window, but I don’t see anything when I try to investigate further. Shrugging, I grab the last freeze-dried soup mix from the cupboard and fill a pot with water to boil over the fire.

  A strange feeling sweeps through me, not quite a chill and not quite a shiver. It’s just… I don’t know. I can’t explain it. My heart races, and I’m on edge, ready to spring into action. I know it could be my PTSD, but this feels… Again, I don’t have the words to describe the feeling settling over me.

  I’m drawn out to the back of my cabin, onto the porch, where I lean against the railing and strain my eyes to see something, anything in the darkness.

  Shadows weave in and out of the thick forest, the moonlight catching here and there on the branches. The silver light swirls with the navy blue of the sky, the dark brown of the earth, and the yellow glow of the stars, and suddenly, I’m not here.

  I’m back there. In the dark. Can’t feel my arms. Not sure what happened. The colors fade in and out as screams and explosions cut into my subconscious and make my head throb. Elliot. Elliot! Where did he go?

  A sizzling, hissing sound fills the air, followed by smoke.

  “Shit,” I curse under my breath, ripping my mind from that awful memory and focusing back on the present.

  Looking over my shoulder, I see that the pot hanging above the fire boiled over and started to put out the very flames heating it. Feels like there’s an apt metaphor somewhere in there for my life, but I’m too damn tired to think of it.

  I grab a towel and carefully remove the pot from its hanging spot, setting it down in the sink to cool off. A tremor runs through my left hand, which shouldn’t surprise me. I always get the shakes after a flashback.

  Lifting my trembling hand, I run my fingers through my hair and take a calming breath. I’m not hungry anymore, and there’s no way in hell I’ll get any sleep right now. I may as well see if there really was anything in the woods earlier.

  Grabbing a coat, my hiking boots, and a headlamp, I make my way outside into the clear night sky.

  2

  ARI

  Okay, I can admit it. Camping out here all alone may not have been my best idea.

  As a paranormal travel writer-slash-investigator, I’ve spent the night in many a strange place. The haunted Winchester mansion, Alcatraz prison, and even Pennhurst Asylum, to name a few.

  I’m noticing, however, that while those places are arguably scarier when it comes to ghosts and ghouls, they all have walls and a roof.

  The wide-open wilderness of the Smoky Mountains? Not so much.

  Don’t get me wrong, the hike up here was gorgeous. I’ve already almost filled an entire sketchbook with flowers and wildlife portraits to accompany the series of articles I’m going to publish about this latest venture. But now it’s dark and a lot colder than I thought it would be, and this tent isn’t nearly as sturdy as the man at the sporting goods store led me to believe.

  Still, I’m living life on my own terms, doing something I know my parents would be proud of.

  A heavy sigh escapes my lips as I lie back on my sleeping bag and a pile of blankets. I don’t have many memories of my parents before they passed away when I was seven, but those I cherish the most are centered around bedtime stories.

  I was never a fairy tale kind of kid. I wanted something weird, fascinating, and unexpected in my stories. When my dad told me the legend of the Mothman haunting a small town in West Virginia in the 1960s, I was hooked. My mother was horrified at first, but she soon came to accept that I loved all the crazy paranormal monster stories.

  She may have scoffed a few times at my father for encouraging my interests, but I remember her smiling and joining us outside whenever Dad made a bonfire and started up on his favorite stories of Bigfoot or UFO sightings in the area over the last hundred years.

  It’s not that I believe one hundred percent that every story or experience out there is true. I’m not totally ignorant of liars, scammers, and those out to prey on people. But even if five percent of the hundreds of thousands of encounters are based in reality… hell, if one percent of every alien abduction story or ghost encounter were true, isn’t that worth pursuing?

  According to my aunt Maureen, the answer is an emphatic no.

  I roll my eyes at the memory of her incredulous stare when I told her I was going to travel to the most haunted and active paranormal sites across the US to document my experiences. Some part of me gets her reservations. I’m twenty-two, going out into the big bad world armed with nothing more than a bachelor’s degree in journalism and enough financial support from my small but loyal following online to pay for gas and a place to sleep.

  If my safety were the cause for her concern, that would be one thing. But Aunt Maureen… She’s always belittled my father’s memory. She never liked him, and although she didn’t say it outright, she never truly liked me, either.

  A creaking noise filters through my thoughts, putting me on high alert. Every muscle tenses as I listen for the possible threat. I have my EVP wrist recorder on, which measures Electronic Voice Phenomena for playback at a later time.

  I didn’t haul my plus-sized ass all the way up this mountain for the exercise. No, thank you. I did it to be the first person to officially investigate and record their findings in the abandoned mining town in the Smoky Mountains. It used to be known as Slatesville, but that was over a hundred years ago.

  Recent video footage from hikers has shown some strange things happening in the valley containing the old town. For a long time, no one could even get there. I happened to find what looked to be a new track all the way from the base of the mountain to right here, a half mile or so from the hotbed of recorded activity.

  Things might not be paranormal here, but something is happening, and I want to be the first to report on it.

  Leaves crunch off to my right, and then an owl hoots, making me gasp.

  “You’re overreacting,” I tell myself. I’m just not used to the wilderness aspect of camping out. Although I’ve been to some questionable places, they’ve all at least sheltered me from the elements.

  Despite my justifications, my heart thrashes around in my chest, making my head throb as I listen for what’s next. The disembodied voice of a miner trapped in one of the dozens of tunnels beneath me at this very moment? Perhaps something less paranormal and more biological, like a deer or a squirrel. Or a bear.

  Oh, God. Why did I think this tent was enough protection from a bear?

  My eyes widen as I sit straight up, more aware of my surroundings than ever. The image of a hungry bear outside my tent morphs into a deranged Blair Witch situation, and that’s about the time I realize I’m not prepared to deal with any of that.

  “Idiot,” I mutter, my hands shaking as I struggle to unzip my sleeping bag.

  Panic winds up my spine, squeezing the air from my lungs. Gasping for breath, I fight my way out of my blankets, which seem to have tied themselves into knots around my ankles.

  I don’t have a particular plan of action other than getting the fuck out of this tent and off this mountain. My followers will be disappointed, yes, but at least I’ll be alive for them to roast me in the comments. Hopefully.

  I let out a frustrated grunt as I tumble out of the nest of blankets, flinging my considerable weight forward and directly into the closed tent opening. The zipper pops in a few places, but surprisingly, the material stays mostly intact.

  Unfortunately, my appreciation for the well-made tent is superseded by the fact that I’m not stopping. And neither is the tent.

  I fall on my face—still trapped in my canvas coffin—and continue to roll downhill, sleeping bag, backpack, and all. Curling into a ball, I try to protect my face from whatever is about to come my way. I should have been more worried about my extremities.

  “Ugh!” I grunt as my left leg smashes against something and gets stuck. My entire body comes to a jolting halt. All the blood rushes to my head while my ankle and shin are wedged between a rock and a hard place. Literally.

  I’m hanging upside-down, or at least I think I am. Honestly, I don’t know which way is up at the moment, only that my head is killing me, and my trapped leg is numb, which can’t be a good sign.

  I try taking a few deep breaths, but they’re shallow and a little painful. What the heck do I do now?

  No sooner does the thought cross my mind than I hear something heading in my direction. I’m not sure why I'm so certain it’s coming my way, but my heart beats faster as the steps grow closer. I can’t see anything since I’m still all wrapped up in my tent, but the world seems to condense into this single moment, everything lying in wait for what’s next.

  When the beast outside my tent spreads its hand out over the side of my tent, I scream until my throat is raw. And then I scream again.

  3

  WILDER

  “Calm down, woman, I’m trying to help,” I grunt at the unfortunate person in this precarious position.

  I wasn’t sure what the fuck I was looking at when I saw a canvas tent catapulting its way through the forest, tumbling downhill before wedging itself between a Y-shaped tree trunk. Now that I’m standing right in front of it, I’m still not sure what the hell to do about it.

  The trapped woman thrashes to one side, then hisses. My heart lurches in my chest at the thought of her being in pain. Weird, since I didn’t know I still had a heart.

 

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