She studies my face for a long second. I don't know what she sees. Whatever it is, she lets out a breath and her eyes close again and her head settles back against my shoulder like she's decided I'll do.
That hits something in me I don't have time to name.
I tighten my grip and keep moving.
At the truck I get her into the passenger seat, buckled in, blanket tucked. Ghost jumps into the footwell at her feet and plants himself there like he's been given a new job. Maybe he has.
I pull the door shut, circle the hood, get in.
Radio to my mouth.
"Dispatch, this is Hawk. Got the female. Alive. Ankle's trashed, head wound, possible rib damage. Also got a second party on the ridge, armed, tracking. Get Parker on the line. I'm taking her off-grid. My cabin. Nobody comes up that road without my say."
I hang the radio and look over at her.
Braid unraveling. Blood at her temple. Face slack with exhaustion and whatever painkiller her body's pumping out to keep her from feeling the ankle.
And my chest is doing something it hasn't done in a long time.
I put the truck in gear.
2
DELILAH
Iwake up to firelight and the smell of coffee.
For a second I don't move. My body's doing inventory without me. Left ankle throbbing inside something wrapped tight. Ribs sore enough that breathing deep is a bad idea. Head pounding at the temple where it hit rock. Bandage there too, taped clean.
Somebody took care of me.
I force my eyes open.
Low ceiling of exposed timber. Stone fireplace across the room throwing heat and amber light. Wood floor. A ranger station patch framed above a gun rack. And in a worn leather chair pulled close to the couch where I'm laid out, a man.
He's watching me.
Black hair cropped close. Jaw shadowed with stubble that's seen more than one day. Dark eyes that don't waste motion, taking me in the way a person reads a map. Big shoulders. Sleeves pushed up over forearms that look like they've done real work. A gray dog with a white muzzle lying across his feet.
I remember his voice in the dark saying I got you.
My throat's raw. "Water."
He's already moving. Hands me a glass, supports the back of my head with a palm that's warm and steady. I drink too fast. Cough. He doesn't tell me to slow down. Just waits.
When I stop, he eases me back against the pillow.
"Where am I?"
"My cabin. Backcountry. Nobody's getting up here without me knowing."
"How long?"
"Found you at four this morning. It's a little past noon."
Eight hours. I lost eight hours. I try to sit up and the room tilts hard. He puts a hand flat against my shoulder and presses me back down. Not rough. Not negotiable.
"Don't. You've got a hairline fracture in that ankle. I splinted it. Two ribs are bruised, not broken. Head wound's surface. You were dehydrated and in shock. You're staying horizontal for a while."
