“Something that shouldn’t be there.”
Her mouth presses into a line, but she climbs onto the ATV behind me. When her arms circle my waist for balance, something tightens low in my gut. I turn the ignition and take off before I can think too much about how her body fits against mine.
The ride is long. The terrain gets steeper; the path reduced to little more than a rutted trail between towering pines. The summer rain from the last few weeks makes everything too soft. But today is bright and drying things out. Roxy holds on, leaning with the vehicle like she’s done this a thousand times, though I know she hasn’t.
When we finally stop at the rendezvous point, a cluster of my men are already waiting. Their serious expressions tell me enough before anyone speaks.
Jesse steps forward. “It’s worse than we thought.”
I climb off the ATV. Roxy does the same, less gracefully, catching herself on a log before she slips. I move toward her just on instinct, but she waves me off.
“I’m fine.”
I don’t argue, though part of me wants to grab her elbow and keep her glued to my side.
Jesse motions us toward a rocky rise that overlooks a clearing. The closer we get, the more my jaw clenches.
A stash.
A large one.
Containers, tarps, stacked crates—and every single item is placed deliberately, systematically. Not my system. Not my arrangement. This is another organization’s signature.
And worse: the ground around it is torn up, a deep rut carved through the moss and underbrush where someone dragged heavy equipment through the forest. A perfect miniature landslide from careless handling. Tree roots exposed. Soil eroded right into the river bend.
I feel my teeth grinding.
Roxy, already watching me, raises an eyebrow. “You look upset.”
“I am.”
“I didn’t know you cared about environmental damage.”
“I don’t,” I snap before I catch myself. “I care when someone destroys land on my territory because they’re too undisciplined to clean up after themselves.”
She blinks. “So you care indirectly.”
“Don’t make this sound sentimental.”
A smile threatens at the corner of her mouth, but she hides it quickly, studying the site instead. “What’s in those crates?”
“Not ours,” I say.
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the answer you get.”
She huffs, pushing a strand of hair off her cheek. The light makes her skin look plush, warm and inviting, where I can see it under the gear. She’s peeled the jacket off and tied it around her thick waist. I force myself to look away.
Jesse gives the report—new tracks, new gear, the scent of campfire smoke still fresh on clothing they found abandoned. The other group is organized, confident, and familiar with the terrain.
Too familiar. And they can’t clean up after themselves; or they didn’t see a point in bothering.
“They’re testing us,” I mutter.
Roxy shifts her weight. “How do you know?”
“Because this is loud.” I gesture to the destruction. “It’s meant to be seen.”
