The wind tries to rip the hat off my head the second I step off the porch, but I jam it down harder and push into the whiteout. Snow’s up to my thighs in the drifts, each step a goddamn battle. I left the snowshoes by the barn yesterday—stupid move—but I’m not turning back now. Not when Willa’s inside, trusting me to make sure no one followed her up this mountain.
I start with the tree line, rifle slung across my back, gloved hand on the grip. Visibility’s maybe twenty feet. Every few steps I stop, listen. Nothing but the howl and the creak of branches heavy with ice. I sweep the ridge where the old logging road cuts in, kicking through drifts, looking for broken snow, boot prints, anything.
Nothing.
I circle the barn next. The horses are fine—Stamp and Whiskey nickering at me through the half-door, warm and dry, hay still piled high. I top off their water, check the latches. No fresh tracks around the corral. No sign anyone tried to sneak up under cover of the storm.
By the time I hit the south ridge, my beard’s crusted with ice and my lungs burn. I climb the last switchback on all fours, boots slipping, then drop to one knee at the overlook. From here you can usually see the valley clear to the county road. Today it’s just a wall of gray. I pull the binoculars from my coat anyway, scan what little I can. No headlights. No movement. No black truck like the one she described.
They didn’t make it up.
Not yet.
Relief hits me so hard my shoulders drop. Then the other feeling slams in right behind it—possessive, dark, hungry. She’s safe. For now. Under my roof. Wearing my shirt. Sleeping in my bed.
Mine to protect.
I shake it off and head back down, legs aching, coat stiff with frozen snow. The cabin light glows through the shutters like a beacon. I stomp my boots on the porch, knock twice so she knows it’s me, then push inside.
Warmth rolls over me like a wave. The fire’s roaring. She’s at the table, folding bandages from the kit I left out, her dark hair loose and shining in the lamplight. My flannel swallows her, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hem brushing those bare thighs again. She looks up, hazel eyes lighting up like I hung the damn moon.
“You’re back,” she says, soft and relieved.
“Told you I would be.” I shrug out of my coat, hang it by the door, kick off my boots. Snow melts in puddles on the floorboards. “No sign of them. Storm kept ‘em down low.”
She exhales, shoulders relaxing. “Thank God.”
I cross to the sink, wash the ice off my hands, then turn and catch her staring at my chest again—the way the thermal clings after I peel off the outer layer. Heat crawls up my neck, but I ignore it.
“Arm and ribs first,” I say. “Before they stiffen up worse.”
She nods, stands, and follows me to the couch. I grab fresh gauze, tape, the antiseptic. She sits, then hesitates. “Shirt off?” she asks, voice small.
I swallow hard. “Just lift it. I’ll work around it.”
She does, pulling the shirt up to just under her breasts. Pale skin, the purple bruise blooming across her ribs, the clean line of the cut I stitched last night. My hands feel too big, too rough, as I peel the old bandage away. She hisses when the tape tugs.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“It’s okay.” Her breath brushes my forearm. “You’re gentle.”
I’m not. But for her I try. I clean the wound, smear on more ointment, wrap it snug but not tight. My knuckles graze the underside of her breast by accident and we both freeze. Her skin is warm silk. I yank my hand back like it burned me.
“Arm now,” I say, voice rougher than gravel.
She holds it out. The gash looks better already—no swelling, edges knitting. I rewrap it quick, trying not to think about how small her wrist is in my grip, how her pulse jumps under my thumb.
When I’m done she lowers the shirt but doesn’t move away. We’re close. Too close. I can smell my soap on her skin.
“Better?” I ask.
“Much.” She looks up at me through her lashes. “You’re really good at this.”
“Lots of practice patching myself up.” I stand before I do something stupid, like kiss the top of her head. “Dinner. I’ll cook.”
She helps anyway—chopping potatoes while I fry venison steaks I pulled from the freezer. We don’t talk much. Just the sizzle of meat, the clink of plates, the storm still battering the roof. Every time she reaches for something her shirt rides up and I have to look away.
We eat at the table. She moans around the first bite of steak, and my cock twitches hard against my zipper. I grip my fork tighter.
