Page 9 of Her Mountain Man Protector

She tips her head against the seat, eyes bright and combative. "Keep noticing. Maybe you'll learn my first name without a hired gun spelling it for you."

"Oakley. I learned it the first time you said it. I used Vega because they used it. That's called paying attention."

"Careful. That almost sounded like a compliment."

"It wasn't."

"Sure."

The track spits us onto a wider county road. Fog thins enough that I can see the painted line. I ease off the gas without dropping our speed below useful. My hands stay tight on the wheel. In the mirror the mountain eats the cabin and keeps the rest.

Oakley twists to look back, then faces forward again. "They're not following."

"Yet."

"Comforting."

"I'm not here to comfort you. I'm here to keep you from collecting a matching set of bullet holes."

"You could do both. Multitask. Shock the class."

I glance at her. Dirt on her cheek. Hoodie snagged. Yellow jacket still bunched in her lap because she grabbed it on the way out the window like fashion was a survival skill.

"Give me the jacket."

"It's cold."

"It's yellow and it reads like a flare. Give it."

She holds it out like she's doing me a favor. I work the hem with one hand on the wheel, then the collar, then the facing along the zipper. Midway down the right side I feel it. A hard little bead stitched into the seam, no bigger than a vitamin.

I hold it up between us.

Oakley goes still. The fight in her face doesn't vanish. It sharpens.

"That's been in there since Chicago," she says. "Every motel. Every trail I thought was far enough."

"Then they didn't find you on the ridge. They rode along from the minute you left."

"And you were going to lecture me about walking into your search. Cute. I've been the search."

"You've been wearing a leash and calling it a jacket."

"Call me leashed again and I'm throwing this camera at your head."

I crack the window and flick the bead out into the ditch. Then I drop the jacket in her lap. "Wear it if you want. It's dumb. It's also yours."

"You're a real comfort, Hawthorne."

"Already covered that."

She yanks the jacket on anyway, chin up, like putting it back on is a vote against me.

I pull the middle burner and call Banks. He answers like he's been staring at the phone.

"Talk."

"Cabin took fire. Two or three. Helix. They knew her name. We're out in the truck. Tracker in her jacket hem, Chicago vintage. I dumped it. Heading into Woodbridge Falls."