Page 6 of Savage Ranger Daddy

Because it's late. The windows show nothing but black night and swirling snow. The wind has picked up, rattling against the glass. And every time I blink I see those three missing journalists' faces from the articles I read.

"Food first. Then sleep. Got it, boss. Any chance this fortress comes with something that isn't an MRE?"

He moves to the kitchen without a word, pulls out a couple of containers, and heats something on the stove. Within minutes he's setting a plate of actual food in front of me at the table. Stew. Thick and hearty. Bread on the side. I sit and eat because it's easier than talking, and because the warmth of the fire and the solid presence of him across from me is the only thing keeping the fear from spilling out of my mouth.

He eats too, quiet and watchful. I fill the silence with stories about terrible coffee from past assignments and the time I accidentally interviewed a goat farmer instead of a city councilman. I tell him about the stakeout where I sat in a rented minivan for eleven hours and got so bored I wrote an entire short story on gas station napkins. He doesn't laugh, but the corner of his mouth moves a couple of times, which I'm counting as a win.

What I don't tell him is that the whole time I'm talking, I'm also thinking about that map on his wall. The x-marks in red. The question mark next to RC North. Harker Creek. He's beenbuilding something up here, some kind of case file, and I want to know everything in it.

When the plates are empty he stands and takes them to the sink. "Bed, Hazel. You need sleep."

I nod and push back from the table. My legs feel unsteady as I walk to the bed and sit on the edge. I kick off my boots, crawl under the covers still fully dressed, and pull the quilts up to my chin like a shield.

Brock moves around the cabin turning off lights until only the fire and a small lamp near the couch remain. He settles onto the leather couch with a blanket, long legs stretched out, back against the armrest so he can see both the door and me.

I close my eyes and try to breathe evenly. I count to ten. Then twenty. My body is exhausted but my brain won't stop running. The missing journalists. The way people disappear when they dig too deep. The thought of my parents getting a phone call that starts with "We're sorry." Cal Hutchins going silent after giving me those coordinates. The question mark on Brock's hand-drawn map.

My eyes burn. I squeeze them tighter and force my breathing to stay slow.

Minutes pass. Maybe five. Maybe ten. The fire pops. The wind rattles the windows. My heart won't slow down.

I open my eyes and stare at the dark ceiling beams. My voice comes out smaller than I mean it to, barely more than a whisper.

"Brock?"

He's instantly alert. I hear the couch creak as he sits up. "What's wrong?"

I keep my eyes on the ceiling because if I look at him I might crack completely. "I know this is going to sound ridiculous and completely against the whole tough-journalist thing I've got going, but could you maybe come lay with me? Just for a little while. The bed's big enough and I can't seem to make my brain shut up and I'm really trying not to freak out but it's not working."

Silence. Then the sound of him standing. Footsteps cross the wooden floor. The mattress dips hard as he sits on the edge, then lies down on top of the quilts beside me, careful not to crowd me at first. He's so big the whole bed shifts. Warmth radiates off him immediately.

I turn my head just enough to see his profile in the firelight. Jaw tight. Eyes watching me with that steady focus.

"I'm scared," I admit quietly. The words slip out before I can dress them up or make them funny. "Really scared. This story is bigger than I thought. People go missing for less. Three journalists in five years, Brock. And I keep telling myself I'm fine and making jokes so you don't think I'm falling apart, but the truth is I'm terrified I'm next. I don't want to disappear. I don't want my last byline to be the one that got me killed."

His arm lifts. Slow. Careful. Then it settles around me and pulls me in against his side like he's been waiting for permission. I go willingly, tucking my face against his chest, my hand fisting in the fabric of his thermal. He's solid and warm and so much bigger than me that I feel almost small for the first time in years.

"I've got you," he says, voice low against the top of my head. "No one's taking you. Not while I'm breathing. You're not disappearing, Hazel. Not on my watch. Sleep. I've got you."

I close my eyes and let the tears I've been fighting slip free, silent and hot against his shirt. He doesn't comment. Just holds me tighter, one hand stroking slow circles on my back.

For the first time since I hit publish, the fear loosens its grip just enough for me to breathe.

I fall asleep thinking about two things. The steady beat of his heart under my ear, keeping me anchored. And the red x-marks on his map that I'm going to ask him about first thing in the morning.

Because I might be scared. But I'm still a journalist. And this story isn't finished yet.

4

Brock

I stay perfectly still until her breathing finally evens out into the steady rhythm of real sleep.

Hazel is curled against my side like she was made to fit there, one small hand fisted in my shirt, face pressed to my chest. Every few seconds she makes this tiny sound, half sigh half something softer, and each one hits me square in the ribs. I like holding her. I like it way too much. The weight of her. The way she finally relaxed once I pulled her in. The trust she handed me even while her eyes were still wet from the fear she tried so hard to hide.

This is crossing a line.

I'm her protection detail. Nothing more. I don't get to enjoy the feel of her pressed against me. I don't get to catalog the way her body softens when she feels safe. And I sure as hell don't get to want her the way my blood is currently telling me to want her.