Page 7 of Savage Ranger Daddy

I wait another full minute to be certain she's out cold. Then I carefully slide my arm free, ease out from under the quilts, andstand. The bed shifts. She makes a small protesting noise and curls into the warm spot I left behind, but she doesn't wake. I pull the covers higher around her shoulders, force myself to take three steps back, and put real space between us.

The cabin feels colder the second I'm not touching her.

I cross to the far side of the room, drop onto the leather couch, and scrub both hands over my face. I've never felt this way about a job before. Protectees come and go. I keep them breathing, I hand them off, I move on. Clean. Simple. No attachments. That's how I stay sharp. That's how I stay alive.

Hazel Lowe is already under my skin and it's been less than twelve hours.

I grab the satellite phone from the side table, step into the small entryway so my voice won't carry, and dial Colt.

He picks up on the second ring. "Savage. You secure?"

"Yeah. Outpost's locked down. No sign of them yet." I keep my voice low. "Need a minute."

There's a pause, then the sound of a door closing on his end. "Talk."

I stare at the dark window and the snow still falling beyond it. "She's asleep. In my bed. I was holding her because she asked and she was scared and now I can't stop thinking about how right it felt. I've never had a job hit me like this, Colt. Not once."

Colt is quiet for a few seconds. When he speaks again his voice is more careful. "Sometimes things like this happen. You know that."

"Yeah. And I know how it ends when you let it." I pace the small space, boots quiet on the wood. "I'm not built for this. I'm built for the mountains, the badge, and keeping people alive long enough to walk away. I need to remember that. I need a plan. Something to shut it down every time my head goes there."

"Make a list," he says, and I can hear the smirk. "Write down every dumb thing you can do instead of thinking about her."

"You're an asshole."

"And you're already gone for the journalist." The smirk fades out of his voice. "Listen, before you hang up. I pulled the Ridgeline Outfitters file you had Mason run. Thought I'd get ahead of it while you were busy playing cabin in the woods."

I stop pacing. "What'd you find?"

"The company's registered to a PO box in Helena. Shell corp, no real officers on file. But the registered agent's name is a woman named Alice Dermott. Ring any bells?"

"No."

"Me neither. But here's the thing. That same name shows up on the liquor license for a bar in Timber Creek. The Lucky Moon. She's either the owner or the manager, and she's been filing taxes on it for six years. So either Alice Dermott runs a bar and a shell company that's fronting a weapons trafficking ring, or someone's using her name as cover. Either way, it's the first real thread connecting the ring to someone with an actual address."

My jaw tightens. The Lucky Moon. I've driven past it a hundred times. Dive bar on the edge of the main drag, the kind of place that looks like it's been closed for years even when it's open. Never gave it a second thought. "You tell Mason?"

"First thing in the morning. Wanted you to have it tonight so you can factor it in. If whoever's running this thing has roots in Timber Creek, they're closer than we thought. Which means your girl's article didn't just piss off some guys in the mountains. It hit somebody with a life in that town. That makes them more dangerous, not less. People protect what they've built."

"Copy." I lean a shoulder against the wall and close my eyes. The wind pushes against the cabin. "Thanks, Colt."

"Stay sharp out there. And Brock? The list thing. It actually works. Mostly."

He hangs up.

I stand there for a long minute, turning over what he just told me. Alice Dermott. The Lucky Moon. A shell company with a PO box in Helena connected to a bar in Timber Creek. If the head of this operation is living in the same town where Hazel published her story, then I didn't just extract her from danger. I extracted her from someone's backyard. And people who feel cornered in their own territory don't run. They fight.

I file it away and grab a notepad and pen from the kitchen drawer. Sit at the table with my back to the bed. Start writing, because if I don't do something concrete with my hands I'm going to walk right back over there and crawl under those quilts with her again.

Things To Do Instead Of Thinking About How Bad I Want Hazel Lowe

1. Chop more firewood. Even if we already have enough for a month. Extra firewood never killed anyone. Wanting my protectee might.

2. Clean every weapon in the outpost. Twice. Then clean them again while reciting firearms safety rules out loud like a psycho.

3. Count the pine trees visible from the front window. If I lose count, start over. Do not look at the bed. Do not think about the way she fits against me.

4. Drop and do push-ups until my arms shake. If that doesn't work, add mountain climbers. If that still doesn't work, go outside and roll in the snow like an idiot until my dick freezes off.