Outside, the wind howls louder. Inside, the fire crackles. And for the first time since I started running, I don’t feel quite so alone.
TWO
COLT
I watch her sleep like a damn fool.
She’s curled on the couch under the wool blanket I threw over her, one small hand tucked under her cheek, the other resting on her bandaged ribs. The firelight paints her skin gold, catching in the dark strands of hair that fell across her face when she finally gave in to exhaustion. Her breathing is slow now, steady. No more chattering teeth. No more wide-eyed terror every time the wind rattles the shutters.
She looks… fragile. Breakable. And that pisses me off more than it should.
I’ve spent years up here teaching myself not to give a damn about anyone who isn’t me. People come, people go—hunters, lost hikers, the occasional Forest Service guy checking permits. I patch them up, point them downhill, shut the door. End of story. No attachments. No complications.
But this one?
This one showed up bleeding on my porch in the middle of a whiteout, looking like she’d run straight through hell to get here. And the second I touched her—when I hauled her inside and felt how cold she was, how she trembled under my hands—something cracked open inside my chest I didn’t even know was still there.
I want to keep her.
Not just safe. Mine.
The thought hits like a gut punch. I scrub a hand over my face, beard rasping against my palm, and force myself to look away. She’s hurt. Scared. Running from men who cut her open without blinking. Last thing she needs is a rough bastard like me staring at her like she’s something I could claim.
But Christ, she’s beautiful.
Not the polished, city kind of beautiful. The real kind. Soft mouth, long lashes, freckles scattered across her nose like someone flicked cinnamon on her. Even with the dirt and dried blood smudged on her cheek, even with the exhaustion carving shadows under her eyes, she’s the prettiest thing that’s ever crossed my threshold.
I shift in the chair, boots scraping the floorboards. The rifle stays within reach—loaded, safety off. I’ve checked the windows twice already. The storm’s still raging; no tracks will hold in this wind. If anyone’s stupid enough to follow her up here tonight, they’ll be dead before they reach the tree line. Hypothermia or a bullet. Their choice.
She makes a small sound in her sleep—half whimper, half sigh—and my hand twitches toward the blanket like I could shield her from whatever nightmare’s chasing her even now.
I stand before I do something stupid, like brush the hair off her face. I move to the kitchen instead. Pour the last of the coffee into my mug, black and bitter. It’s cold now, but I drink it anyway. Need something to do with my hands besides hover over her like some lovesick kid.
The kettle’s still warm on the stove. I fill it again, set it back to heat. She’ll wake up soon—probably starving, probably hurting. I dig through the pantry: canned peaches, jerky, a half-loaf of bread I baked three days ago. It’s still good. I slice it thick, slather it with butter from the cold box outside, set a plate on the low table near the couch.
She stirs when the kettle whistles.
Her eyes flutter open—hazel, flecked with green and gold in the firelight. For a second she just stares at me, disoriented, then memory slams back. She sits up too fast, winces, hand flying to her side.
“Easy,” I say, voice low. I stay where I am, across the room, giving her space. “You’re still here. You’re safe.”
She exhales, shaky. Nods. Her gaze darts around the cabin—door bolted, windows shuttered, rifle by my chair—then lands back on me. “How long was I out?” she asks.
“Not long.”
She looks at the plate I set out. Hunger flickers across her face before she schools it.
“Eat,” I tell her. “You lost blood. You need fuel.”
She reaches for the bread, tears off a piece, chews slowly like she’s forgotten how. I watch her throat move, watch the way herlips close around the crust, and have to look away before my thoughts go somewhere they shouldn’t.
“How’s the arm?” I ask instead.
“Stings. Ribs too. But better than before.” She swallows. “Thank you. For… everything.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” I cross my arms, leaning against the counter. “Storm might last two days. Maybe three. You’re stuck with me till it clears.”
Her lips curve—just a little. First hint of a smile I’ve seen on her. “Could be worse.”
