Page 35 of Breaking His Exile

The splinter under Rainey’s skin twisted deeper. She recognized the feeling, and hated herself for this hot, stupid rush of jealousy that had no right to exist.

She had no claim on Evander Cole.

None, whatsoever.

She swallowed it back. “She sounds important to you.”

“She’s my friend,” he said, apparently reading her mind. “One of two.”

Rainey looked up. “Who’s the other?”

“You.”

Rainey’s face burned. She ducked her head, pretending to adjust the tin of coffee holding down the corner of the map. Her fingers trembled. She pressed them flat against the table.

“It’s been almost forty-eight hours,” she said. Her voice came out steadier than she deserved. “The rain won’t last forever, so let’s re-evaluate. We need a plan.”

Evander crossed to the table and stared down at the topo map. His wet hair had darkened to near-black, water beading along his jaw. He looked younger like this. Less like the man who’d put a knife in Rux Granger and more like someone who might have had a life before the woods claimed him.

“Two routes.” His finger traced a line north of Solace. “Main approach follows County Twelve to the west gate. Fastest. Most exposed. The Sons will have it watched.”

“Not an option.”

“Second route cuts east, then north along the fire road. Washed out in spring. Steep. Five miles on foot from where the road ends.” He looked up. “Your ribs won’t like it.”

“My ribs don’t get a vote.” She leaned over the map. His shoulder was warm beside hers. She could smell the rain on his skin, pine and cold water and something underneath that was just him. “What about communication? River needs to know I’m alive.”

“There’s a high point on the north ridge. Clear line of sight to Valor Ridge. We can signal from there. Morse. Simple code. Ghost will understand.”

“Ghost?”

“Owen Booker. The ranch’s security guy. Scary good at what he does.”

“Okay.” Knowing their next steps settled some of her nerves, but the rain kept coming. Harder now, driving against the windows in sheets. The stove threw heat against the damp, and the smell of wet wool and woodsmoke filled the small room.

She grumbled and pushed out of her chair to pace. Ugh, she needed a distraction. She scooped up her guitar. But when she strummed a chord, the low E string buzzed against the fret and died with a flat, metallic thud. The saddle had slipped in its slot again, and the bridge pin under the low E had backed out a hair.

Evander straightened away from the table and looked at the guitar in her hands. “Let me fix it.”

She blinked. “What?”

“Your guitar. The saddle’s walked out of its slot and that pin’s not seated. I can reset both. Won’t be a permanent fix, but it’ll hold tune until you can get it to a luthier.”

Rainey looked from him to the guitar. “You know what a luthier is?”

“I’m not a caveman.”

“Do you play?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just held out his hand, palm up, patient as if she were Sable pressed against the back wall of the lean-to.

Rainey hesitated. The guitar had been her father’s before it was hers—one of the only things she’d taken when she left, one of the few good memories she had of her dad. Letting someone else touch it felt like handing over a rib.

But the saddle kept slipping, and the low E wouldn’t hold tune for more than a verse, and Evander was still standing there with rain dripping from his hair, waiting.

She passed him the guitar.

He took it carefully with both hands like he understood how precious it was. He sat at the table and turned it over, studying the damage with the same quiet focus he’d given the topo map.