Then finding her at the bottom of that ravine, twisted and bloody and too goddamn still. The relief when she opened her eyes hit harder than any punch I've ever taken. She was alive. Hurt, maybe broken, but breathing.
Now she's here, in my truck, heading to my home because she chose me. Out of three men who'd burn this town down for her, she picked the one who's been keeping his distance. The one who doesn't have Colt's easy charm or Beau's quiet intensity.
"It's beautiful out here," she says softly, watching Montana roll past her window. Mountains shouldering the sky in the distance, valleys carved by glaciers and time and the kind of patience only nature possesses. "So peaceful."
"Wait until you see it in full daylight." I glance at her, catch the small smile that transforms her bruised face. "Different from New York, I'd imagine."
The words slip out before I can stop them, and I watch her spine stiffen. Most people would miss it, but I've made a career of noticing what others overlook. The way her hands still in her lap, how her breathing changes.
"You know I'm from New York?" Her voice goes carefully neutral, but there's wariness underneath like thin ice over deep water.
"Your accent shows when you're tired or stressed." I keep my tone conversational, non-threatening. Don't mention that her license plates told the same story, or that I've been building a profile on Lucy Reid since day one. "I'm trained to notice details. Part of the job."
She's quiet for a long moment, processing this. I can practically hear the wheels turning, wondering what else I've figured out, what other secrets I might have uncovered. I file that reaction away with all the other pieces of the puzzle that is Lucy Reid.
"Very different," she finally says, and I let it drop. For now.
The truth is, I've been putting together an unofficial background check since she walked into town. Young woman, alone, no permanent address, paying cash for everything, jumpy around authority figures. Classic pattern of someone running from something. The question is what, and whether it's going to follow her here.
There's an innocence to her that doesn't fit with criminal activity, but there's also bone-deep fear of being found that speaks of real danger. Someone hurt her. Someone she's still afraid of.
The Cutter brothers already let her see their faces, know she can identify them. That's not their usual MO, they prefer to stay shadows. They're getting sloppy, desperate. Which makes them dangerous in ways I can't explain to Lucy without sending her into a panic.
"Thank you," she says suddenly, breaking into my dark thoughts. "For letting me stay with you. I know it's an imposition."
"It's not." The words come out rougher than intended, and I clear my throat. "You need somewhere safe to recover. I have the space."
And you need protection, though I won't tell you that part yet.
When she chose me at the hospital, something in my chest loosened for the first time in years. Not because I think I have some kind of claim on her, but because she trusts me enough to be vulnerable around me. That means something. More than it should.
I think about Colt and Beau's history, how they shared someone before everything fell apart. The way they both look at Lucy, the careful dance they've been doing around her and each other. Could I be part of something that complicated? That emotionally risky?
The answer should be no. I don't share. Don't do complicated. Learned that lesson with Katherine.
But then I remember how all three of us worked together to save Lucy, no thought of rivalry or possession. Just desperate need to get her out of that ravine alive.
Maybe some things are worth the risk.
We turn onto the dirt road that leads to my place, gravel crunching under the tires. It's not much yet, but it's mine. A modest ranch house I've been rebuilding piece by piece, fixing what the previous owner let rot. New roof last summer, wraparound porch this spring. The barn still needs work, but the bones are solid.
Functional but rough around the edges. Like me, I suppose.
"Gabriel, this is..." She trails off as we pull up, and something in her voice makes me look at her properly. Her eyes are wide, taking in the hand-carved porch railings, the fresh white paint, the way the setting sun hits the windows just right. "Did you build all this yourself?"
"Most of it." I come around to help her out, careful of her ribs. She leans on me more than she probably wants to. "Bought it as a project. Still working on it."
"It's perfect." She means it, I can tell. There's something in her eyes as she takes in the view of the Rockies, the silence that wraps around us like a blanket. Like she's seeing something she didn't know she was looking for.
I help her inside, trying to see it through her eyes. Living room with the stone fireplace I rebuilt by hand after the old one nearly burned the place down. Kitchen with new cabinets but original hardwood floors that took me three months to refinish. Down the hall to the guest room, which suddenly seems too small, too plain for her.
"This is yours for as long as you need it." I set the bag of hospital supplies on the antique dresser I found at an estate sale. "Bathroom's across the hall. My room's at the end if you need anything."
"This is really too much, Gabriel." She touches the handmade quilt my mother sent last Christmas, fingers gentle on the fabric before settling on the bed. "But what about your work? Your life? You can't babysit me around the clock."
"Already arranged for coverage." I lean against the doorframe, trying to ignore how right she looks in this space. Like she belongs here instead of just visiting. "When I'm on duty, either Colt or Beau will be here."
I watch her process this, see the protest forming on her lips.
