Page 17 of Savage Ranger Daddy

It's different from the first time. Softer. I initiate, which feels important somehow, and he lets me set the pace. My hand finds his jaw, rough with beard, and I feel him exhale against my mouth like he's been holding something back and just decided to let it go. He kisses me back slow and deliberate, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other settling on my hip over the blanket.

I shift closer. The blanket slides off my shoulders. His hand moves from my hip to the bare strip of skin between my shirt and my sleep shorts and the contact sends heat racing up my spine. I make a small sound against his mouth and feel his fingers flex in response.

The kiss deepens. His tongue brushes mine and I press into him, hands climbing to his shoulders, pulling myself closer until I'm half in his lap. His hand slides up my back under my shirt, callused palm against bare skin, and every point of contact feels like a circuit closing. I've never been touched like this. Like someone is paying attention. Like every response I give matters.

I'm breathless and shaking and it has nothing to do with the cold.

The sat phone screams.

Not a ring. A burst of static followed by a voice, loud and clear in the quiet cabin. Both of us jerk apart like we've been electrified.

"...confirmed the article came out of Timber Creek. Check the motels. Check the rental history. She didn't drive up from Helena for one story. She was staying somewhere local. Find the car and you find the trail..."

The voice cuts to static. Then a second voice, the deeper one from before. "Voss wants this wrapped up before the roads clear. No loose ends. If the marshal's got her, we need to know where."

Static. Silence.

I'm frozen with my hands still on Brock's shoulders. My heart is slamming against my ribs so hard I can feel it in my throat. The warmth from thirty seconds ago has been replaced by something cold and sharp.

"They know about you," I whisper. "They know a marshal has me."

Brock is already off the couch. He grabs the sat phone, checks the frequency, and starts writing on the notepad beside it. His face has gone completely flat. Professional. The man who was kissing me ten seconds ago is gone. The operator is back.

"They know the Marshals Service is involved. They don't know which marshal or where." He writes fast, recording everything we just heard. "They're working backward from your movements in Timber Creek. The car, the motel, the rental history. That's ground-level investigation. It takes time, especially in a storm."

"How much time?"

"Depends on their resources and their contacts. If they've got someone in local law enforcement, they could pull your rental records fast. If they're doing it themselves, the storm buys us a couple of days." He looks at me. "Either way, your car is clean.I had someone move it within an hour of extraction. Plates swapped, driven to a lot in Billings. There's nothing in Timber Creek that connects to this location."

Some of the ice in my chest thaws. "You planned for this."

"I plan for everything." He sets the phone down and crosses back to me. His expression hasn't fully softened but his voice drops lower when he speaks. "They're not going to find you. Not here. Not while I'm breathing."

I nod. My hands are shaking again. I look down at them and let out a breath that's halfway to a laugh. "Great timing on their part. Really excellent dramatic instinct. Ten out of ten for ruining a moment."

His mouth twitches. Just barely. "The moment's not ruined. Just postponed."

"Postponed." I pull the blanket back around my shoulders and hug it tight. "I can work with postponed."

He crouches in front of me so we're eye level. Takes my shaking hands in both of his, steadying them. "I need to set up a monitoring protocol on that frequency. Log everything and get it to Mason as soon as I can get a clear outbound line. That's going to take the rest of the night."

"I'll help. I can transcribe while you monitor. Two sets of ears are better than one."

He studies me for a second, then nods. "All right. Pull your notebook. We'll take shifts. Anything that comes through, write it down exactly as you hear it. No paraphrasing. Exact words."

"I'm a journalist. Exact words is literally what I do."

He almost smiles. Then he squeezes my hands once, lets go, and moves to the table to set up the sat phone and the notepad side by side.

I grab my notebook and a pen and sit across from him. The fire crackles behind us. The storm howls outside. Between us the sat phone hisses with white noise, waiting for the next voice to break through.

We work through the night. Two more fragments come through before dawn, shorter and more garbled, but enough to confirm that at least three people are actively searching for me and that they're taking orders from someone they only refer to as Voss. One fragment mentions "the deputy" without a name, which makes Brock's jaw go tight in a way that tells me he's thinking the same thing I am. Law enforcement contact. Inside the network.

By the time gray light starts seeping through the windows the storm has finally begun to ease. The wind drops from a scream to a moan. The snow thins. I've filled four pages of transcription notes and my eyes are burning from staring at the sat phone's small screen in the dark.

Brock sets down his pen and looks at me across the table. We're both exhausted. Both wired. The case files and transcription notes are spread between us like a map of something dangerous and half-visible.

"You should sleep," he says.