THE WOMAN FROM NOWHERE, a page-turning new grumpy-sunshine, small town, mystery romance set in New York Times Bestselling Author, Kristen Ashley’s, Misted Pines world, is available now!
She can’t escape.
He can’t either…
After a heartbreaking betrayal, Mabel Adams reinvents herself for the fourth time. Regardless of the alarming reputation of the deceptively sleepy town of Misted Pines, she decides to move all the way across the country to start yet again.
Mabel has a one-night stand with a mountain man who rocks her world in bed but doesn’t tell her his name.
The next day, after receiving a threatening note from her neighbors, she discovers she’s living next to an extremist cult where the women go in and are never seen again.
After serving, former Navy SEAL Hutch Hutchison is living a peaceful life on his patch in the mountains outside Misted Pines. He’s been burned so many times by women, he’s happy to train his guard dogs, play his guitar, live remote, and most of all, quiet.
Until he hooks up with a beautiful woman who lives just down the way. And then he discovers she’s been threatened by the cult next door.
Hutch’s protective instinct sparks, and he decides his next mission is to keep Mabel safe at all costs.
But there’s something even hinkier about that cult than Hutch or local law enforcement expect.
As Hutch executes the riskiest mission of his life—keeping Mabel safe at the same time keeping both of their hearts intact—Hutch and the Sheriff’s Department try to unravel the mystery of The Lion and The Lamb before it’s too late.
Because Mabel is in their crosshairs.
And Hutch is not about to allow her to disappear.
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“…an unputdownable fusion of sizzling chemistry and sharp dialogue in an edge-of your-seat, suspense-filled storyline.” ~Danielle, Red Cheeks Reads
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EXCERPT:
Chapter One
“Pink Moon”
Mabel
The bar probably had the capacity to fit twenty-five people.
It was the closest thing to an actual hole-in-the-wall that I’d ever seen.
Outside, it looked like a big shack.
Inside was no different.
There was no stone, brick or drywall to be seen. It was all rough wood, even the planks on the floor.
There were three taps for beer, one for cider, and a single shelf behind the bar displaying bottles of alcohol, the closest thing they had to top shelf being Jack Daniels Old No. 7.
Providing heat on this chilly night were a small, cast-iron fireplace in a back corner, walls that kept the wind out (just barely) and bodies.
There were four bar stools in front of the short bar, an entry space that was big enough to allow a few people to stand, four tables with four chairs each (yes, all wood), two-by-twos along the walls with an aisle between, which led up to a miniscule stage mostly taken up with two humungous speakers that were absolutely not needed in this small space.
There was a threadbare rug covering the tiny stage, so big it dipped off the sides, along with a stool.
On which, currently, a man was sitting with his guitar perched on his knee, singing into a microphone.
As far as I could tell, every slow, mellow, bittersweet song he sang was original.
Further to that, he had a silken, smooth baritone voice, and long, graceful musician’s fingers on strong, veined man’s hands.
If you had no imagination and a limited vocabulary, you’d call him blond.
But the rich complexity of his thick, overlong hair, to me, didn’t know whether to be blond, brown or auburn, could not be described by one simple word.
Nor could anything about him.
Well, I guessed one thing could.
He was tall. I could tell that even if I hadn’t seen him standing, considering how long his broad torso was even bent over that guitar, and the length of his meaty thighs and shins.
And he was muscular.
But it wasn’t lean muscle. Nor was it bulky. However, you couldn’t miss the man packed some power.
He had some russet-brown scruff on his cheeks, jaw and chin. It was full, not patchy, but it also wasn’t a beard.
He had a chiseled jaw, sun lines radiating from his dark-brown eyes, and high cheekbones.
He was beautiful.
Simply beautiful.
Robert Redford as Jeremiah Johnson beautiful (obviously without the true blond hair and bushy beard).
And perhaps part of that was why the house was packed, and not just that they came to listen to the moody, broody, sublime music he was playing.
Not that it could get too packed out here in the middle of nowhere, but it was standing room only.
And I knew the hulking lumberjack of a bartender didn’t tend to this many people every night.
Truth, this place seemed like it existed just to be a local gathering hole for those of us who lived up in the mountains on the west side of Misted Pines—a good twenty-minute haul just to get groceries and seriously sparsely populated.
But no one would want to drive that drive into town to have a few drinks and commune.
Though that hulking lumberjack wanted his neighbors safe and sound, and he didn’t make any bones about it. I knew this because there was a sign on the shelf with the liquor that said, I’LL SERVE YOU AS MUCH AS YOU WANT, BUT I’LL ALSO TAKE YOUR FUCKING KEYS.
One could just say, it was without a doubt that hulking lumberjack could take anyone’s keys.
And if that wasn’t enough, he wasn’t stingy with the bowls of pretzels and popcorn, seeing as he scooped one out for every drink he served.
Not many people were communing that night, not verbally.
No one uttered a sound.
We were together, though.
Woven together by soft, gentle, sad songs of hope lost, promises broken and love always remaining just out of reach.
I could not say I wasn’t mesmerized by how handsome the singer was. The build of his body. The easy way he wore his faded olive-green button-down and jeans, the scuffs on his unpretentious, round-toed brown boots.
I absolutely was.
I could also not say I wasn’t fascinated by his deft fingers strumming or curling to press out the chords and how natural that came to him, like that guitar was an extension of his body.
I absolutely was that too.
Mostly, it was the music.
And the way his eyes often landed on me sitting at a table with three people I didn’t know, not drinking my beer nor eating from any of the bowls of pretzels and popcorn on the table, my eyes glued to him as he told his story.
His story was my story.
It was my story.
Through the skin and flesh, bone and marrow, straight to my soul…
My story.
I knew it wasn’t exactly the same. It couldn’t be.
But he got me.
He got me.
I had good friends. People I loved.
And no one on this planet got me.
But that man got me.
All good things had to come to an end, but fortunately for me that night, that end wouldn’t be the same as it was for everyone else at The Link just off County Road 10.
I knew it was over for the others when he sang Nick Drake’s “Pink Moon,” the only cover he’d done all night, because the vibe shifted.
They knew that was his finale.
And when he was done, twisting to lay his guitar in the case lying open in the only space still available on that stage floor, he didn’t even dip his chin to the raucous applause, whistles and hoots of the people in that bar.
He just clipped his guitar into its case, grabbed the handle and got up, proving I was right, he was tall—again, not super tall, but not short by a long shot—I’d place him at about six two. Then he stepped off the stage.
Immediately, a man and woman started talking to him. I sipped at my second beer, which wasn’t even half consumed, waiting and hoping.
It was stupid to wait.
It was stupid to hope.
Every damned thing that happened to me in thirty-one years of my life had taught me that.
There might only have been about twenty-five adoring fans, but he talked to them, still carrying his guitar, and I knew that was his unspoken indication he wasn’t going to grab a whisky, sit down and gab awhile. He was going to allow them to say their words, then he was going to go home.
Five minutes slipped to ten, then to fifteen, and he didn’t look at me in any of that time.
Oh yes.
It was stupid to wait.
It was insane to hope.
I got up, shrugged on my denim jacket and wrapped my scarf around my neck.
I slung my crossbody over my head, took a last sip of beer and went out the door.
I was unlocking my faded red old Ford pickup when I heard, “You followin’ me, or am I followin’ you?”
I turned at the deep, silken voice and saw what I considered in my perhaps not-so-amateur opinion was one of the best singer-songwriters of my generation standing there carrying his guitar case.
“You’re following me,” I told him.
He jerked up his chin and headed to a big, dark-blue (lumberjack bartender didn’t skimp on outdoor lights either), one-ton GMC truck.
I got in, reversed out, and headed to the exit to County Road 10.
He followed me.
I lay naked, curled up on my side, staring at the man bathed in moonlight beside me.
He was on his back.
He was naked too.
The sheets were down to his waist.
He had the same russet-brown hair covering his evenly moving chest, one leg cocked, the knee and most of his thigh sticking out from under the covers. He had one hand resting on his flat, ridged stomach, the other arm was on the bed between us.
He snored.
And damn the man, even his snores were melodic, quiet, low, rhythmic. They were the kind of noise that would lull you to sleep, not keep you awake.
How I wasn’t asleep was a mystery.
He’d worn me out.
He was the best lover I’d ever had. The best lover perhaps in history.
Among other activities, we’d had sex three times.
He knew every inch of my body.
He was deliciously controlling in bed, so alas, I could not say he allowed me to learn every inch of his, but the (many, many) inches he’d given me, I’d enjoyed thoroughly.
I couldn’t move. After five orgasms, my body was somnolent from the tips of my toes to the ends of my hair.
But I couldn’t stop looking at him.
And this couldn’t happen.
The whole point of me being in this loft cabin in the middle of nowhere in Fret County, Washington State and not back home in Florida was to stay very, very far away from this kind of entanglement.
Of course, a girl had needs.
However, this was not the guy you used to scratch your itch.
This was the kind of guy that the first concepts from the beginning of time were the hotbed of what hopes and dreams were made of.
Dang it, I’d only been here seven months, and here I was, messing up my life again.
My hand actually ached from forcing myself not to reach out and rest it on his chest, feel that springy hair, the warmth of his skin, his heart beating.
My body yearned to inch forward and press itself to his side, wrap him in my arms, so he might turn and wrap me in his, tangling us up in the moonlight.
I was so screwed.
But I didn’t stop watching him, perhaps it was only long minutes, it felt like hours, before my eyes drifted shut, and I lost him.
In more ways than one.
I opened my eyes, delightfully tender, deliciously relaxed, totally refreshed, and I stretched my back.
The sun was shining through the window at the head of my bed.
And the pillow beside mine was empty.
No.
Strike that.
It wasn’t.
There was a wide, yellow Post-it note resting on the pillow.
I held the covers to my chest and reached out to the note, stupid, stupid, stupidly hoping it was his number and an urge to call him. Or an invitation to dinner. Or to meet him at The Link that night for a drink.
Mostly, hoping it was signed because he never told me his name.
It was not.
There was one word on that note, scrawled in black ink.
And that word was…
Thanks.
WANT MORE? Click HERE to read Chapter 2!
About Kristen Ashley:
Kristen Ashley is the New York Times bestselling author of over eighty romance novels. She’s a hybrid author, publishing titles both independently and traditionally, her books have been translated in fourteen languages and she’s sold millions of books.
Kristen, born in Gary and raised in Brownsburg, Indiana and was a fourth-generation graduate of Purdue University. Since, she has lived in Denver, the West Country of England, and she now resides in Phoenix. She worked as a charity executive for eighteen years prior to beginning her independent publishing career. She now writes full-time.
Although romance is her genre, the prevailing themes running through all of Kristen’s novels are friendship, family and a strong sisterhood. To this end, and as a way to thank her readers for their support, Kristen has created the Rock Chick Nation, a series of programs that are designed to give back to her readers and promote a strong female community. You can learn more about Kristen and the Rock Chick Nation on her website.
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USA Today Bestselling Author Lacey Black is a Midwestern girl with a passion for reading, writing, and shopping. She carries her e-reader with her everywhere she goes so she never misses an opportunity to read a few pages. Always looking for a happily ever after, Lacey is passionate about contemporary romance novels and enjoys it further when you mix in a little suspense. She resides in a small town in Illinois with her husband, two children, and three rowdy chickens.
