Page 15 of Savage Ranger Daddy

She laughs, and I lean down and kiss her again because I can. Softer this time. Slower. The kind of kiss that isn't going anywhere tonight but promises it will eventually. She sighs against my mouth and her hand settles over my heart and the storm outside doesn't matter. The men on the radio don't matter. Not right now.

When we finally pull apart the fire has burned lower and the windows are black with night. She steps back, touches her lips, and shakes her head with a disbelieving little laugh.

"I should get back to those case files," she says, but she doesn't move.

"Tomorrow." I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "Storm's not going anywhere. Neither are we."

She nods. Turns toward the bed. Stops. Looks back over her shoulder. "For the record, I'm still going to find that list."

"Goodnight, Hazel."

"Goodnight, Marshal." She grins and crawls under the quilts.

I settle onto the couch with the sat phone set to scan the frequency from the intercepted transmission. The fire crackles. The storm howls. Across the room she shifts once, twice, and then goes still.

I touch my mouth where hers was and stare at the dark ceiling.

No more lists. No more running.

Just a man doing his job, protecting a woman who's already changing everything, and the quiet certainty that when this storm finally breaks the real fight is just beginning.

8

Hazel

I don't sleep well.

Not because of the storm, although it's still hammering the cabin hard enough to rattle the windows every few minutes. And not because of the fear, although the intercepted radio transmission is lodged in my brain like a splinter I can't reach. The journalist is the priority. Find out where they took her.

No. I can't sleep because I keep touching my lips like a teenager and replaying the kiss on a loop.

The way he closed the distance slowly. The first brush of his mouth against mine, barely there, testing. The way I grabbed his shirt and pulled him back. And then the second kiss, the real one, where he tilted my head back and kissed me like he'd been holding his breath for two days and I was air. My whole body still hums with it. Every nerve ending is wide awake and demanding a follow-up that didn't happen because we were responsible adults who said goodnight and went to our separate sleeping arrangements like mature, sensible people.

I hate being mature and sensible.

I roll onto my side and watch Brock's silhouette on the couch through the low firelight. He's lying on his back with the sat phone propped on his chest, still monitoring the frequency. He hasn't moved in a while but I don't think he's sleeping either. His breathing is too controlled. Too deliberate.

"You're awake," I say into the dark.

A pause. "Yeah."

"Anything else on the radio?"

"Static. They've either switched frequencies or shut down for the night. Storm's probably making their handhelds useless at this range."

I pull the quilt tighter around my shoulders. The fire has burned low, casting orange light across the log walls. "Can I ask you something?"

"You're going to whether I say yes or not."

"True." I sit up against the headboard and tuck my knees under the covers. "The incident report I found today. Cal's complaint about unauthorized vehicles on the Crescent Fork trail. It was filed through the proper channels. Official form, official log number, everything by the book. And then it just vanished into a drawer. Someone inside the system made that happen. Do you have any idea who has that kind of authority at the regional level?"

He's quiet long enough that I think he's not going to answer. Then the couch creaks as he shifts. "A few people. Regional supervisors. District rangers with administrative access. Anyonewith clearance to close or reclassify an incident report before it gets flagged for follow-up."

"So it could be someone in your own chain of command."

"Could be." His voice is careful. Measured. "Which is why we're keeping this between us and Mason until we know more. I don't like the shape this is taking, Hazel. A network with established routes, a front company, local infrastructure, and now possible law enforcement cover. That's not a smuggling ring. That's an operation."

"I know." I've been thinking the same thing since I opened that folder. "When the storm breaks, I want to go through the rest of those files. And I want to cross-reference the GPS coordinates Cal gave me against your patrol routes. If his coordinates point to one of the active sites you haven't been able to reach, we might be able to confirm what RC North actually is."