When he got back home, he was keeping her locked inside the house. Better yet, in his bed, under him, where nothing could touch her.
The last memory she had of him was him driving away without her. He’d left her. One hour to town and back. One hour, and Silas had taken his little fox. Taken her somewhere in a damn snowstorm while Trace had been picking up a damn ring.
Was she scared? That was a stupid question. Of course, she was scared. Was she hurt? She’d better not be. If she had even a scratch on her when Trace found her, Silas Holt was going to find out what Trace could do with a prod and a scalpel.
Boone’s hand landed heavy on his shoulder. “Second-guessing is a waste of time, brother. You made the call you thought was right. That’s all any Daddy can do.”
Chance already straddled his sled, goggles pushed up on his forehead. “We’re getting your Little girl back safe and sound. Count on it.”
Trace’s voice ground out gravel. “Oh, we’re gonna find him. And if he’s hurt her, you need to know, I’m gonna end him.”
Tanner got in his face the way only his twin could. “No, you’re not. We’re family. That means we all have a piece of her in our hearts. So if Holt has hurt her, all of us will end him. You’re not alone.”
God, he loved his brothers. And Tanner always knew what he needed to hear.
Sev stood by the last sled, his black coat dusted white, eyeshard. “A man… a Daddy protects his own at all costs.” He nodded once, sharp.
Trace closed his hand over the velvet box in his pocket. The ring was still there. That meant her finger was still bare. He hated it more than the cold. “Ring or not, she’s mine. Now let’s go get her back.”
The barn doors rolled open. Engines roared to life. Griff Turner, one of Wilder Security’s Wild Men, ran in from the storm, arms loaded with night-vision goggles. “Take these. You can’t see your own hand in this shit.”
Boone passed them out. Trace yanked his on, flipping the world to green and black. They rolled out single file, throttles wide open, heading north across the pasture Tanner had seen taillights disappear into.
Although it only took fifteen minutes to reach the first of the north pastures, it felt like years. Minutes mattered, and no one knew what Silas was doing to his little fox. The storm fought them hard. Snow blasted them from all sides like sand, stinging every exposed patch of skin. Ice crusted the goggles. Wind shoved the sleds like it wanted them dead. Trace kept his throttle pinned, teeth clenched so tight his jaw ached. Every second it took them to get to her was a second she was colder, hurt worse. Farther from him.
It was like looking for that needle in the stack of hay. Endless seas of white surrounded them on all sides. Then something occurred to him. He keyed the mic on the helmet headset. “Follow me to the ridge.”
It took an excruciating additional five minutes to get there.
He scanned the ridge through the green glow. Nothing. Nothing. Then, like a beacon in the storm, back taillights flickered in and out of view. Two faint pinpricks high on the far side of the ridge. That had to be Silas’s truck.
Relief and rage hit him all at once. He keyed the helmet mic. “I’ve got eyes on the truck. Look at the far ridge line, dead ahead.”
Boone’s voice crackled back. “Copy.”
Movement near the truck caught Trace’s attention. The heat signature of a single person, too large to be his little fox, lifting something long to his shoulder. Oh, shit!
Trace forgot everything else. “Gun!” he spat into the mic.
Fishtailing down the slope, he yanked hard left toward the spruce grove that he could now see glowing in the goggles. Tanner peeled right, circling wide. Boone, Chance, and Sev held center, throttles roaring, rifles already up. Muzzle flashes lit up the storm as they laid down fire across the truck, providing more cover and distraction than actually trying to hit Silas. They weren’t taking any chances of accidentally hurting Kip.
Silas returned fire, not worried about who or what he hit. Sparks flew off Boone’s sled inches from his right leg.
Sev fired his rifle twice. Both front tires on Silas’s truck exploded. Silas dove into the snow.
Trace hit the bottom of the ridge, killed the engine, and rolled off running. He positioned his body between the ridge and the grove. His rifle was raised, eyes scanning the area for his woman.
And then he spotted her. His little fox. Kip.
She was cuffed to a spruce. At first, he thought Silas had laid down bunches of dark spruce branches to block some of the wind from her. But then he looked more closely. Had Silas given her a huge fur coat? Then he saw the wolfdog out in front.
Once again, Dodger was protecting Kip. And the wolfdog wasn’t alone. As impossible as it was to believe, a pack of massive wolfdogs pressed tight around her, bodies shielding her from the cold and wind.
What in all that was holy?
He didn’t have time to wonder now. He needed to reach his woman and make sure she was safe. Dodger was more than just anordinary dog, or wolf for that matter. Trace wanted to know just how much more. But later. Dodger could wait for later.
Silas stood twenty yards above, moving away from the truck on the ridge toward Kip. His rifle pointed at either Dodger or Kip, Trace couldn’t tell which. He knew the instant she saw him. When he was no more than five feet away, her mouth opened, and she called out, “Trace!”
