He saw his words sinking in and took another step closer, his voice lowering. “Mars’s out there—he’s in the wind, and he wants revenge. Rio and Crew tracked him to a trapper’s cabin,but he stole a car, and now he’s gone. You think he’s just gonna forget you chased him?”
“Jericho—”
“Give it up. You know I’m right. I’m not arguing about this.” His voice softened. “Please, Harley.” Shoot, that just sort of spilled out.
But she swallowed and sighed. “Fine. But just until tomorrow.”
“We’ll see.”
Orlando picked right then to walk up and nose her hand as if he, too, agreed.
Harley’s gaze flicked to his dog, her expression softening, her voice dropping. “Is he okay? I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to drag him into this.”
“The shot really spooked him.” Jericho put his hand on the dog’s flank. “He’s already skittish around big noises. It was probably too soon. Let’s go.”
He put his hand on her arm, and she didn’t shrug it away as she stepped forward. So, they’d reached a ceasefire, maybe.
They made their way down the hall, past the nurse’s station where a nurse in pastel scrubs waved goodbye.
Outside, the snow fell faster, thick flakes catching on Harley’s hat as they crossed to his truck, the asphalt slick under their boots, the air sharp with the scent of an impending blizzard.
So, no hunting down Mars tonight. Or maybe tomorrow. Good. Maybe long enough for Harley to clear this concussion.
And for him to shake free of the dangerous lure she had on him.
He helped Harley into the passenger side, her movements slow, wincing as she settled into the seat. Orlando jumped into the back, curling up.
Jericho climbed in, started the engine. Beside him, Harleyleaned her head back. His hands tightened on the wheel as he pulled out of the lot, the wipers swiping at the flakes.
And the thought flashed through him again that maybe God had brought him back for this reason.
To finish this, to keep her safe. And maybe, somewhere in that, to be the man he’d left behind.
6
The Bowie familyhome smelled like cedar and woodsmoke, sounded of laughter. Her chest ached with the familiarity of it all. After all, the boys next door had been like brothers, or at least all but one.
Maybe she could blame the bruising from the shot.
Okay, probably not.
She walked down the hall of the lodge, willing herself steady, wearing one of Kennedy’s borrowed sweatshirts. She’d taken a bath in her grand en suite tub, trying to stave off her headache with hot water.
It helped, at least a little, and maybe this wasn’t a terrible idea. And something about Jericho’s tone behind his words—“Forget it,HT. Thisisn’t a request”—had found its way into her heart.
Was it worry?
Now, she entered into the great room, lured a little by the smell of garlic and roasting beef in the kitchen.
Such a grand room. It soared two stories, with massive log beams crisscrossing overhead, the fading afternoon light filtering through tall windows that overlooked the half-frozen Copper River.
It was not the grand Bowie estate where they’d grown up, but Hudson and Malachi had done well recreating the feeling of their old home. A cozy elegance paired with a towering river rock hearth that stretched to the ceiling with a crackling fire and worn comfortable leather furniture—clearly moved from the old house—formed a conversation area around a thick braided wool rug.
She’d been transported in time.
Her fingers touched her sternum, testing the tenderness. The bruise probably looked impressive by now, all purple and black where the vest had caught the shot.
“You should sit down before you fall down.”
