Chapter 3 Ethan Kincaid
The figure didn't move for a long moment, then slowly straightened. He was tall with broad shoulders that strained the fabric of his worn flannel shirt. He turned, and Clara found herself staring into a pair of eyes the color of glacier ice, framed by a rugged, sun-weathered face and a strong jaw with a day’s growth of dark stubble. His dark hair was tied back loosely. He looked like he’d been carved from the very mountains around them, all sharp angles and unyielding strength.
"You're on private property," Clara announced, trying to project an authority she distinctly lacked.
He just looked at her, his expression unreadable, and then, slowly, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk played on his lips. "Is it now?" His voice was a low rumble, abrasive like stones tumbling in a riverbed, but with an underlying cadence that sent a shiver down her spine, both annoyance and something undeniably magnetic. "Last I checked, this belonged to Beatrice Vance."
"She passed away," Clara retorted, crossing her arms over her chest defensively. "I'm Clara Vance. Her great-niece. I inherited the property."
He remained silent, his gaze raking over her, the neat jacket, the practical but still-new hiking boots that hadn’t been out of the box more than a few days, her slightly disheveled but styled hair. It felt like an assessment, and she bristled under its intensity.
"And you are…?" she prompted, impatience edging into her voice.
"Ethan Kincaid," he finally supplied, his eyes narrowing just a fraction. He gestured vaguely with the camera. "Wildlife. Usually here to catch a glimpse of the bighorns."
"On my property?"
"This land is barely yours, " Ethan drawled, his tone dismissive. "I've been coming through here for years. Your Aunt Bea didn't mind. Said I was good for the trees."
Clara scowled. "Well, I do. Mind, I mean. It's an invasion of my privacy."
Ethan pushed his camera tripod firmly into the earth, his body language still guarded but not hostile. "Look, I’m a wildlife photographer. Used to be a park ranger. I know these mountains better than any human being ought to. Your great-aunt allowed me access for my work. Never disturbed a thing. More than I can say for some folks that come up here." His gaze flickered towards the distant, barely visible dirt road that led to the nearest small town. A subtle shift in his eyes, a hardening, conveyed a deep-seated suspicion.
"I'm perfectly capable of looking after my own property, thank you," Clara said, though a cold knot was forming in her stomach. His intensity was unnerving. He was gruff, undeniably so, but there was an underlying current of protectiveness in his voice when he spoke of the land. It was almost… fierce. And beneath her irritation, an undeniable flicker of something else sparked, a primal attraction to his raw, untamed presence.
"This isn't Denver, Ms. Vance." His voice dropped slightly as he spoke, losing some of its edge, becoming more cautious than confrontational. "These mountains don't care about your spreadsheets or your 'privacy.' They'll chew you up and spit you out if you don't respect them. The weather turns on a dime. Animals aren't pets. And," he paused, his gaze fixed on her, suddenly unsettlingly serious, "there are people up here, 'locals' if you will, who don't take kindly to outsiders. Especially those looking to… disrupt things."
“My spreadsheets?” she bristled. How did he know so much about her? Remembering the feeling of being watched, she prepared an accusation. “Have you been stalking me?”
“Nope.”
“How do you know that I am from Denver and about my work?”
“Bea talked about you a lot.”
Clara blinked. Her mind went back over what he had mentioned earlier about outsiders disrupting things. "Disrupt things? What are you talking about? My great-aunt’s cabin is hardly a disrupting force."
"Selling land up here, especially land like this, can be a disruptive force," he said cryptically, his eyes scanning the surrounding woods as if searching for unseen listeners. "There are folks who have their own ideas about what this wilderness should be used for."
Clara scoffed, a nervous laugh bubbling up. "You're serious? My neighbors are… villains? This isn't some movie, Mr. Kincaid. I’m just trying to handle my inheritance." She thought of the friendly elderly woman who’d waved from a rusty pickup on her way in that first day, the quiet general store owner in the nearest town, and the way Deputy Miller had helped her with the gas tank. It sounded absurd. "I'm only going to be here for a couple of weeks. Just long enough to clean out the cabin, get everything ready for an appraisal, and put it on the market. Then I’m going back to Denver."
Ethan’s glacial eyes held hers, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them, disappointment? Resignation? "You shouldn't do that," he said, his voice surprisingly soft now, almost a murmur. The contrast to his earlier gruffness was jarring. "You shouldn't do that, Clara Vance. You should stick around awhile. This place… it'll grow on you."
He didn't wait for her reply. With a nod that was more a dismissal than a farewell, he turned, shouldered his camera pack with practiced ease, and melted back into the shadows of the forest, moving with unnatural stealth. One moment he was there, the next, he was gone, leaving Clara standing alone, the silence heavier than before.
She stared at the spot where he’d vanished, a maelstrom of emotions swirling inside her. Annoyance, certainly. That man was insufferable, territorial, and completely over the top with his cryptic warnings. But beneath it, a current of undeniable attraction pulsed, making her cheeks flush despite herself. His rugged looks, the intensity in his eyes, the surprising softness in his voice when he’d urged her to stay, it was a potent cocktail, utterly unlike anything she encountered in her carefully curated life.
Back at the cabin, the fading sunlight seemed less cozy and more eerie. The creaks and groans of the old house no longer sounded like harmless settling, but like whispers. The vast expanse of mountains outside her windows, which only moments before had been breathtaking, now felt intimidating, teeming with unseen dangers and "certain locals" with vague, nefarious intentions.
She threw herself onto the worn floral sofa, feeling the unfamiliar grit of dust under her fingers. Her great-aunt’s lawyer had also made a passing comment about the "unique energy" of the place. And now this brooding, handsome stranger, emerging from the wilderness like a mythical beast, telling her not to sell, to let "the place grow on her."
Clara stared at the ceiling, then out the window at the darkening peaks. Her logical mind, the one that broke down complex data sets into manageable insights, was utterly baffled.
Why? she thought, frustration building in her chest, hot and indignant. Why does everyone insist that she stick around? What’s so special about this place? It was just an old cabin, full of dust and memories, in the middle of nowhere. A burden, really. Wasn't it?