Landon: Talking to me or yourself?
I clench the phone hard. I don’t respond. I can’t, because he’s right—and that scares the hell out of me.
The line I swore I’d never cross is already in the goddamn rearview mirror.
Landon: Mae incoming. Catch you later.
“He knows about me?” Camille asks.
“Only enough to do the job.” It comes out gruffer than I want, but the exchange with Landon put me off balance.
“Who’s Mae?” She stretches, body arching against me.
I swallow hard.
“Gray Calhoun’s sister. She’s bringing you some things.” I push to my feet, needing the distance. Then reach for her hand and draw her up beside me. “You’re safe for the moment. Wildlife took down the fence, not humans.”
“Can I see the pictures?” Her eyes are bright with interest now. Not an ounce of fear.
She’s like no other woman I’ve guarded. I hand her the phone, then lead her out of the closet. I need coffee before I can deal with anything else. Including Mae Calhoun.
I add an extra scoop of coffee to the pot, then turn it on and grab two mugs from the cabinet. They don’t match. I draw the line at towels.
When I turn back toward the fridge, Camille is standing in the space between the hall and the kitchen, scraps of lace and satin clenched in her hands.
She steps forward gingerly and lays the wedding gown on the counter. “I don’t know what a tracker looks like,” she says quietly. “Can you help me?”
I move to her side, but instead of touching the dress, I take her hand. Her shoulders are tight, her eyes searching my face like she’s bracing for bad news.
“I’ll help. And even if we find something, we’ll handle it. You’re not dealing with this alone.”
“I trust you, Bronco. More than anyone.”
The words land heavier than they should. Just yesterday, that place belonged to her sister.
I squeeze her hand. “First, let me check your injuries.” If we have to run, I want to make sure she can.
Pulling out the closest bar stool, I settle my hands on her hips.
Her lips part, and her gaze collides with mine.
Time stops.
This close, with her scent in my lungs… I swallow down the desire to dip my head and kiss her.
Focus, King.
But damn, I don’t want to admit how difficult it is.
I lift her onto the stool, then kneel to take her right foot. “How do they feel?” The cut beneath the bandage is red but not swollen. There’s a dark bruise on her instep and a fainter one on her heel. I stroke my thumb slowly over the tender skin, careful not to tickle her there.
“Sore, but better. The bandages cushion the cuts.”
Her left foot looks similar, with no infection setting in. Her other scrapes and bruises are minor. “Can you walk if we?—”
“I can run,” Camille says, her spine straight and her voice determined.
My hand slides to her ankle, feeling soft skin. I think that’s what I find so attractive. She’s delicate beauty over steel. She trembles but doesn’t break.
