“Please, Don’t Kick Me… I’m Already Hurt,” Cried The ᴏʙᴇsᴇ Girl—Then The Mountain Man Did This | HO

In the pine dusk of a remote Appalachian ridge, a plea fluttered into the cold air and died there. “Please don’t kick me. I’m already hurt,” the young woman whispered—her dress torn, her body bruised, the forest floor trembling beneath her sobs.

She was eighteen, soft-bodied, apple-cheeked, shaken so hard the leaves around her shivered. Her name was Josephine Whitmore, though no one would call her that for long. She lay curled in autumn pine litter, her cheeks streaked with mud and blood. Her uncle, Garrett Whitmore, watched like a livestock trader. His overseer, Pike, drew his heel back for the finishing blow.

“End it,” Garrett told him. “She’s a problem that solves itself.”

The boot hung—then dropped. A voice cut through the forest, low, iron-hard, unarguable.

From the trees stepped a mountain of a man, the woods itself seeming to part for him. Broad-shouldered, weather-cut, eyes the pale grey of a coming storm. His name was Ezekiel “Zeke” Thornwood. A rifle held easy on his shoulder; at his knee crouched a great wolf-dog, silent as shadow.

Pike swung anyway. The stock of the rifle blurred once. Pike folded, as though the ground swallowed him. The wolf-dog’s growl froze another man’s hand mid-reach. Garrett scrambled for his pistol; the mountain man — Zeke — took it from him without seeming to move.

“This is beating, not justice,” Zeke said. “And it stops now.”

The forest held its breath. The men fled; the wolf‐dog’s yellow eyes promised something old and final. Zeke dropped to one knee beside the girl. “You’re safe,” he said, tearing linen, building fire from cold. “Hear me? You’re safe.”

A New Life Among the Pines

When Josephine woke hours later, the air smelled of pine smoke and leather oil. Pain anchored her to the bed; every inch of her body ached.

Zeke sat beside her, sleeves rolled, arms strong with old scars. His eyes were neither cruel nor gentle—just steady.

“You’re safe here,” he said. “My cabin. Closest doctor a day away. You wouldn’t have made it alone.”

Tears stung her swollen eyes. “You saved me,” she whispered. “I just stopped bad men from finishing what they started.”

He stirred a pot over the hearth. “Eat when you can. Pain means you’re still alive.”

Days passed. Each morning, Zeke tended her wounds with hands too careful for a man of his size. He spoke little, and when he did, his voice was low, like gravel in a riverbed. She learned fragments of his past: soldier in a war, trapper deep in wilderness, man who walked away from everything. “Too many graves,” he said once. “I built one for myself up here, then kept waking up.”

The Story She Hid

When she was strong enough to sit by the fire, Josephine told him her story: the murder of her parents, the land stolen, the uncle who dragged her into the forest to erase her name, the beating meant to break her. She tried not to cry; when she did, Zeke simply let her. He offered no pity—only quiet—and in that quiet she found something close to peace.

“You think he’ll come looking?” she asked one night.

“He wants the deed. As long as you’re alive, he can’t have it,” she answered.

“He’ll come,” Zeke said. “And when he does, he’ll find you’re not helpless.”

She frowned. What do you mean?

He motioned to the door: “When you can walk, I’ll show you the woods. How to hide. How to shoot. How to survive. You won’t ever beg again.”

Transformation on Devil’s Ridge

When snow flurries danced through shafts of pale light, the cabin stood in a clearing ringed by pines and mountains. Shadow, the wolf-dog, trailed her every step; protective and watchful.

“It’s beautiful here—but so empty,” she said, wrapping the blanket tighter.

Zeke adjusted his rifle strap. “Emptiness isn’t always a curse. Sometimes it’s room to start over.”

By winter’s height, she could stand on her own. Limbs still shaky, ribs still screaming, but she was reclaiming her body. Zeke didn’t console her; he taught her the mountain’s language. “Mountain doesn’t care who you are,” he said one morning, handing her an axe. “Only how much fight you’ve got left.”

He showed her how to split wood without cutting fingers, how to track rabbits by faint prints, how to keep fire alive when rain tries to kill it. Shadow watched always. At first her hands blistered, her breath caught—but she never quit.

Zeke never praised; he only nodded once when she chopped clean through a log without missing. That nod meant more than words.

A Quiet Thaw

Snow covered the woods; nights were long. Inside the cabin the air once heavy with smoke and solitude began to brighten. She cooked hearty meals; he repaired traps. Laughter—soft, shy—slipped through the hearth’s glow.

One night the wind howled like a beast outside. The fire burned low. Zeke fetched another quilt and placed it over her. She hesitated. “Please sit. Fire’s warmer if you stay close.”

He sat beside her, back to the fire. Outside the mountain screamed; inside something gentler took root.

Afterward, “You ever wonder why I live up here, Josie?” he asked.

“Because you lost too much?” she replied.

“Maybe—but I think I was just waiting.”

“For what?”

“For you.”

The Confrontation

Winter thawed into spring. The land still whispered of the violence she fled. One morning, she fed Shadow scraps by the porch when she saw a glint at the tree‐line.

“Zeek,” she hissed. Zeke emerged, rifle in hand. A figure moved; not their hunt. They weren’t alone.

That night, gathered by the fire, she confided: “It was Garrett Whitmore.”

Zeke nodded. “Men like him don’t let go of what they think they own.”

“He’s not finished with me.”

“He might be—but I am.”

Days passed in tense quiet. Zeke set traps, cleaned his weapons. “You tired of fighting?” she asked him as she mended his coat.

“Every day,” he said. “But some things are worth the trouble.”

“Like me?”

He reached across the table and covered her hand. “Especially you.”

Blood on the Mountain

At dawn, boots and guns thundered in the clearing. Six men rode in, Garrett at the lead. Zeke joined them on the porch—rifle ready.

“You’ve come for what’s mine,” Garrett sneered.

“You mean the land you stole or the girl you tried to kill?” Zeke answered.

“Both.”

Gunfire cracked. Timber exploded. Shadow lunged from the tree line. Josie, trembling but fierce, loaded spare rounds for Zeke, hands steady despite her pounding heart.

When the sun settled, the clearing was chaos and silence. Garrett knelt, blood on his face, hatred flickering in his eyes.
“She belongs to no one,” Zeke’s voice was final. “Not while I’m breathing.”

Garrett spat, then fled wounded and humiliated.

Reclaiming the Life

Zeke dropped to one knee, exhaustion washing through him. Josie ran. “You’re hurt,” she sobbed.

“I’ve been worse,” he lied.

“You could’ve died.”

“Worth it.”

“Don’t you ever say that,” she cried. “You’re all I have left.”

He squeezed her hand. “Then you’ll never lose me.”

Tears broke free. “I don’t want to live scared anymore. I want to live.”

“And I’ll be there,” he whispered.

A New Beginning

Two days later they rode into Cedar Hollow together: Josie upright, ribboned with quiet strength, the deed to her land creased in her pocket. Zeke watched her ride; his eyes flicked to hers not with doubt—but pride.

The courthouse heard her story. She named the beating, the land theft, the night in the woods. The hired guns stood arrested. Garrett was found guilty of attempted murder, conspiracy, theft of inheritance. As he was led away, he glared at Josie. She looked back—not with fear but pity.

“You’re still nothing,” he spat.

“Wrong,” she said. “I’m finally something.”

Zeke asked: “Ready to go home?”

“Home?”

“To the mountains. Because you’re there now.”

She reached for his hand. “You saved me twice. Once from them, and once from myself.”

He smiled. “And you saved me from being a ghost.”

Epilogue

In spring the mountains thawed. The cabin grew. Josie taught in the little schoolhouse she built. Zeke carved furniture and repaired rifles—but always returned at sunset to her.

One night as snow drifted off their porch, she asked: “If tomorrow were our last day, would you change anything?”

He looked at her. “Just one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I’d have found you sooner.”

She leaned on his shoulder, the wind carrying pine and wildflowers.

“Promise me one thing: when they tell our story,” she whispered, “promise they know it wasn’t about strength or revenge.”

He brushed back a silver strand of hair.

“Then what was it about?”

“About mercy,” she said softly. “And about staying when the world walks away.”

That night the fire burned low. Outside the forest hummed with life. Inside two wounded hearts began to heal. The girl who once begged not to be kicked became the woman who refused to be owned. The man who lived among ghosts found reason to stay.

They found each other. And that was their victory.