Page 20 of Ranger Devotion

As Annie had promised, three UTVs sat under an awning. The number 3 dangling from the key ring matched the wooden sign mounted above a red-and-black Polaris Ranger. It had a windshield and a roof, which would provide some protection from the elements, but not much.

Tate fired up the machine. The engine roared to life, drowning the howl of the wind. He backed out carefully, the tires crunching on the grass, and pointed the UTV toward the path leading to the cabins.

The world had gone gray and hostile. Tate tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his ungloved hands already turning red and stiff from the cold. He was glad he’d convinced Annie to stay back at the main lodge. It was freezing out here. More importantly, he wanted her safe. If Caleb left because he’d done something to Kayla—or if the killer had hurt Caleb—Tate didn’t want Annie anywhere near it.

The UTV bucked over a frozen rut in the path, jarring his teeth. Tate squinted through the windshield, past the curtain of sleet and skeletal trees, as Cabin 9 came into view. Light showed in the front window. So Caleb had made it back after all. Tate eased across the muddy ground and parked the UTV under the branches of an old maple tree. Rain beat against his cowboy hat as he raced toward the small porch. He pounded on the door with a numb fist. “Caleb? It’s Tate.”

Nothing. He tried the knob, found it unlocked, and pushed the door open with his shoulder. “Caleb, I’m coming in.”

Only the wind answered. Still, Tate sensed someone was there. Hairs on the back of his neck rose. His hand went to the holster at his hip, but he didn’t draw his weapon. “Caleb? It’s Tate.”

His cell phone beeped with a text message. Annie? Evan? The portable radio hung from his belt, but with a flash of chagrin, Tate realized he’d neglected to turn it on. Rookie move. He turned the dial while pulling the phone from his pocket.

His heart stopped.

The sender’s name glowed on the screen: SETH MORRISON

Impossible. Seth was dead. Had been for twenty years.

But the message was there, stark and accusing.

You should’ve protected me, Tate. Stood up for me when Preston revealed my secret. Instead, you were just like all the others, and you deserve to pay for that.

A whisper of sound was all the warning Tate had before the prongs of a stun gun dug into the bare patch of skin at the base of his skull. The burst of electricity turned every muscle in his body to fire, and he dropped to his knees. A scream clawed up his throat, but he couldn’t push it out. All that existed was the pain.

The stun gun was yanked away, and Tate collapsed forward, his body refusing to obey. His cell phone and hat clattered to the floor beside him. Through blurred vision, he saw a figure in black—ski mask, gloved hands—reaching for his holster.

No.

Tate’s arm shot out, fingers closing around his attacker’s wrist before the gun cleared leather. The figure jerked back with a grunt of surprise. Tate tried to rise, but his legs wouldn’t cooperate. The electric shock had scrambled every signal between his brain and his body. The attacker tore free and drew Tate’s Glock, but instead of firing, switched it to his left hand.

The right hand pulled a hunting knife from a belt sheath.

The same knife that killed Kayla.

Tate rolled sideways as the blade came down, narrowly missing his throat. It sparked against the tile floor where his head had been a second before. His muscles were starting to respond again, the effects of the stun gun fading, but not fast enough. The attacker came at him again.

Tate rolled the other way and rammed into a side table next to the couch. Pain cracked through him as a lamp tumbled onto his head and shattered. Glass tangled in his hair, and blood from a slice in his scalp ran into his eye.

Air moved beside his face. He jerked his head to the side just as the blade kissed his ear. He barely felt it. Instead, he focused on getting to his feet, but as he scrambled up, the knife swept up in a vicious arc. Tate put up a hand to block it.

The blade cut deep into the meat between his thumb and forefinger. Blood sprayed. Tate yanked his hand back with an uncharacteristic curse, cradling it against his chest, and lashed out with his foot. It caught the man square in the ribs. The other man stumbled back, but raised the stolen handgun.

Tate dove for the hallway as the first shot reverberated through the cabin. Wood splintered from the doorframe beside his head. A second shot punched through the drywall. His injured hand left a smear of blood on the bathroom doorknob as he wrenched it open and threw himself inside. He slammed the door and twisted the lock, ducking aside just as a fresh bullet tore into the wood.

Tate slumped against the sink, his right hand throbbing, blood soaking through his jacket sleeve. He wrapped his left hand around the wound, applying pressure, but the cut was deep. The edges gaped.

Bang. Bang.

Two more shots. The bullets ripped through the cheap hollow-core door but went high, embedding in the wall above the toilet.

Then it went quiet.

Tate’s legs trembled like a newborn fawn’s. Black spots danced in his vision. Nausea threatened, and for a long moment, he feared he might pass out or throw up. Or both. Adrenaline was keeping the pain at bay, but it was wreaking havoc on his nervous system. He fumbled for the radio on his belt, but his fingers only brushed fabric. It must’ve fallen off during the fight.

He dragged in air, trying to clear his vision. Where was the killer? Tate heard noises, but couldn’t make sense of them.

A sharp, acrid smell assaulted his nose.