Boone’s boots scraped against concrete as he closed the distance between them. For a long moment, he just watched Anson work, the silence more grating than any lecture.
“They’re nosy, meddling bastards, but they’re right,” he finally said, voice pitched low so only Anson could hear. “You fuck this up with Maggie, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. So don’t fuck it up, Sutter.”
twenty-nine
Three hours.
Bear McKenna drummed his fingers against the steering wheel and fought the urge to bang his head against it instead.
Three goddamn hours sitting in his truck outside Haven House while Maggie taught her carpentry class to the women inside.
King’s head dropped onto his shoulder, hot dog breath panting directly into his face.
Great. Even his dog was bored out of his mind.
“Get off me, you moose,” he muttered, shoving the Leonberger’s massive skull back toward the passenger side.
King huffed, offended, then promptly flopped his head back onto Bear’s shoulder.
Bear shifted in his seat, cramped even in the oversized cab of his truck. That was the problem with being six-foot-seven and three hundred pounds— the world wasn’t made for him. His ass had gone numb an hour ago. He rolled down the window a crack, letting in the crisp December air. Montana winters didn’t fuck around, and this one was shaping up to be a ball-buster.
He wasn’t built for sitting still. Never had been. Even in prison, he’d worked in the laundry, the kitchen, anywhere they’dlet him move his body. Sitting in a truck playing bodyguard made his skin crawl, and his muscles itched for action.
But he’d promised Anson. And a promise was a promise.
Truth was, he liked Maggie. She had a quiet strength about her. And the way she handled Anson—like a skittish horse that might bolt at any moment—showed a patience Bear himself didn’t possess.
If some asshole was stalking her, the least he could do was sit in his damn truck and make sure she stayed safe.
King whined and pawed at the dashboard.
He reached over and scratched the dog’s neck. “I know, buddy. This sucks for you, too.”
The shelter looked peaceful from the outside. Yellow Victorian with white trim, a wraparound porch lined with rocking chairs, colorful pinwheels stuck in the planters. Nobody would guess it housed women running for their lives. Women who needed protection.
Like Greta needed protection from asshole tourists who didn’t respect boundaries in the backcountry.
“Goddamnit,” he muttered, shaking his head as if he could physically dislodge thoughts of her.
This was getting ridiculous.
Greta Dougherty, with her smart mouth and her absolute refusal to be intimidated by him, occupied way too much real estate in his brain.
He’d first met her last year when her dog got injured on a search-and-rescue operation, and she’d brought it to Lila. He’d been helping out at the clinic that day, holding down a fractious cat while Lila cleaned a wound on its back leg.
Greta had taken one look at him and said, “Jesus Christ, they grow you boys big out here. What are they feeding you, Sasquatch?”
And that had been it. She’d gotten under his skin with two sentences.
He’d successfully managed to avoid her for over a year until Ghost and Naomi got together. But now, as Naomi’s best friend, Greta was always around the ranch. And she popped up in his thoughts at the most inconvenient times. Like when he was supposed to be focusing on keeping Maggie safe.
King suddenly sat up, ears perked, body tense.
Bear straightened, instantly alert. The Leonberger’s instincts were better than any security system he’d ever known. “What’s wrong?”
The answer came in the form of screeching tires. A battered sedan came flying around the bend in the road, going way too fast. The driver overcorrected, sending the car fishtailing across the icy pavement. For a heart-stopping moment, Bear thought it would flip, but then the vehicle skidded off the road and into Haven House’s front yard, the bumper stopping just short of the porch steps.
Bear was out of the truck before the car’s engine died, King right behind him. The driver’s door swung open with a protesting creak, and a woman emerged, moving as if every inch of her body hurt. She was small, maybe five-two, with light brown hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. And she looked like she’d gone twelve rounds with a champion boxer and lost every one.
