"Or got lost," Ransom added, but the joke fell flat when neither Knox nor I laughed.
The worry inside me grew with each passing minute, pressing against my ribs like it wanted to burst out. Dan wasn't the type to get lost. He was careful, methodical—things I recognized because they were the opposite of how my own mind worked most times. And he had promised to be here.
"I'm going to check the road," Knox decided, already moving toward the truck. "Harlow, stay put with Ransom."
I bristled at the command—the same tone Ma used when she thought I couldn't handle something. "I'm coming too," I insisted, falling into step beside him before he could argue.
We drove in silence to the fork in the road, Knox's face set in hard lines I recognized from childhood—his thinking face, the one that meant he was working through a problem. He killed the headlights as we approached, rolling to a stop just before the split in the logging road.
The moment Knox's flashlight hit the ground, I saw it. Fresh tire tracks veering right instead of left. Deep, distinctive treads I recognized immediately as Dan's truck.
"He went the wrong way," I said, confusion washing over me. Dan knew to turn left at the fork—I'd told him exactly that.
Knox crouched, examining the tracks more closely. "No," he said after a moment, voice tight. "Look at the pattern. Clean turn, no hesitation. He chose this direction."
Understanding hit me like a punch to the gut. Dan hadn't made a mistake. He'd gone right on purpose, leading whoever was following him away from where we waited. Away from me.
"He's protecting us," Knox said, standing up and brushing dirt from his hands. "Smart move, actually. If he'd come to the clearing, he would have led trouble straight to us."
"He's protecting me," I corrected, something hot and uncomfortable rising in my chest. "Because he thinks I need it. Like everybody else."
Knox's expression softened slightly, rare for him. "That's not it, Harlow. He's a cop. It's instinct to keep civilians out of the line of fire."
"I'm not a civilian," I argued, the words coming out sharper than I intended. "And I don't need protecting. Dan does. They already tried to kill him once."
Ransom pulled up behind us in his truck, cutting the engine and joining us in the road. Knox quickly explained what we'd found.
"So Deputy Boyfriend's playing hero," Ransom said with a low whistle. "Didn't expect that."
"We need to help him," I said, already turning toward the right fork. "Now."
"Hold up," Knox cautioned, grabbing my arm. "We can't just go charging down that road. If Dan's being pursued, we'll be walking into the same trap."
I pulled free of his grip, frustration building inside me. "So what do we do? Leave him out there alone?"
A look passed between my brothers that I recognized instantly—the silent communication they'd perfected over years of getting into and out of trouble together.
"There's another way," Ransom said slowly. "Remember that shortcut we used as kids? The one that cuts through the crown of pine trees and comes out near the dead end?"
"The poacher's trail," Knox nodded, a glimmer of approval in his eyes. "It's overgrown now, but it should still be passable."
"It'll put us ahead of them," Ransom added, turning to me. "We can set up before they even know we're there."
I felt a surge of relief. We knew this land better than anyone—had played on it, hunted on it, worked it our whole lives. If Dan was in trouble, there was no better place for him to be than McKenzie territory.
Without another word, we slipped into the woods, moving with the certainty of men who could navigate these trees blindfolded. Knox led the way, Ransom bringing up the rear, with me in the middle. The dense forest swallowed us immediately, branches and undergrowth closing in behind like we'd never passed through.
The childhood path was narrower than I remembered, nearly invisible to anyone who didn't know exactly where to look. But my body remembered, feet finding the way even in the growing darkness, stepping over the same fallen logs, ducking under the same low branches that had been obstacles when we were boys.
Knox raised his fist suddenly—the military signal for stop that he'd taught us after coming back from service. We froze instantly, barely breathing. In the silence, I heard it—the distant pop of what could only be gunfire.
Birds scattered through the treetops overhead, dark shapes against the darkening sky, fleeing the sound that didn't belong in these woods.
"Move," Knox whispered, his voice barely audible. "Fast but quiet."
We picked up our pace, moving through the forest with urgent stealth. No more casual childhood journey—this was a rescue mission now. Knox's hand signals guided us through the thickening trees, communicating what words might reveal to unfriendly ears: Stay low. Watch your step. Enemy ahead.
The shortcut wound through a ravine before climbing a gentle slope that would put us near the dead end where the right fork terminated. As we neared the crest of the hill, another shot rang out, closer this time. Knox dropped to a crouch, motioning us down beside him.
