Page 8 of Savage Ranger Daddy

5. Recite the entire US Marshals code of conduct from memory. Especially the parts about not sleeping with the person you're supposed to be protecting.

6. Make a very detailed grocery list for supplies we don't need. Include things like "extra socks" and "definitely not whipped cream" just to torture myself.

7. Practice tying complicated knots. With my eyes closed. While facing the wall. Far away from the woman currently asleep in my bed.

8. Think about every mission that went sideways. Blood. Cold. Failure. Anything that isn't the sound she made when she finally relaxed in my arms.

9. Write a strongly worded letter to myself titled "You Are Not Built For This, Dumbass" and pin it to the fridge.

10. If all else fails, go stand in the generator shed until my teeth chatter and my brain remembers that funny, fearless journalists are not for men like me.

I set the pen down and stare at the list. It's stupid. It's desperate. And it's the only thing standing between me and walking back to that bed right now.

I fold the paper, shove it in my pocket, and force myself to stretch out on the couch with a blanket and my weapon within easy reach. The fire has burned lower. Snow taps against the windows. Across the room Hazel shifts in her sleep.

I close my eyes and start counting pine trees in my head.

One.

Two.

Three.

Alice Dermott. The Lucky Moon. A shell company in Helena.

Whoever's running this ring isn't hiding in the mountains. They're hiding in plain sight.

And I'm lying on this couch with a woman they want dead asleep twenty feet away, counting trees so I don't think about how she felt in my arms, while somewhere out there the person who ordered her silence is probably sitting in a bar I've driven past a hundred times.

I won't touch her again. I'll keep her alive, hand her off when this is over, and walk away clean.

Even if every stubborn, selfish part of me already knows I'm lying.

5

Hazel

I wake up warm and slightly confused about where I am.

The bed is huge. The quilts are heavy. There's a leftover dent in the mattress beside me that still holds warmth, like someone big was here not that long ago. For a second my sleepy brain panics, then the whole night rushes back. The drive. The outpost. Admitting I was scared. Asking Brock to hold me. Falling asleep against his chest like it was the safest place in the world.

I sit up slowly and push my messy hair out of my face. Morning light filters through the small windows, pale and silvery. Snow is still falling outside. The fire has burned down to glowing embers. And across the room, Brock Savage is sitting at the wooden table cleaning weapons.

Not just one. Several. A handgun broken down into neat pieces on a cloth. A rifle resting across his knees. He's methodically wiping each part with focused intensity, and under his breath he's muttering what sounds like a full lecture.

"...always treat the weapon as if it is loaded. Keep your finger off the trigger until ready to fire. Know your target and what is beyond it..."

I blink. Rub my eyes. Blink again. He's reciting firearms safety rules while cleaning an entire arsenal like it's a normal Tuesday morning.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and pad across the floor in my socks. "Um. Good morning? Everything okay over there, or did the weapons union stage a rebellion while I was asleep?"

Brock freezes mid-wipe. His head snaps up. Those gray eyes lock onto me and for one unguarded second I see something raw flash through them before he shuts it down. He stands so fast the chair scrapes against the floor. The rifle gets set down with careful precision. He gathers the pieces of the handgun, slots them back together faster than I can track, and slides everything into a heavy case.

He looks at me. Really looks. Jaw tight. Shoulders rigid. Then he growls. One short sound that somehow manages to be both annoyed and completely done with whatever is happening in his head.

Without another word he grabs his jacket, stomps into his boots, and heads straight for the door. The second he's outside I hear it close, followed by the unmistakable crack of an axe hitting wood.

I stand in the middle of the cabin staring at the closed door. "What was that?"