Page 15 of Rescued

Listening to happy death music.

He gave a little snort. “You’re one weird chick.”

She didn’t open her eyes. “Look who’s talking.”

Switch shook his head and went back to his project. The dying cowboy died, and the next song came on. The music was kind of soothing, all about rounding up cattle—which were called ‘dogies’ for some bullshit reason—and riding ponies into the sunset. And death. Like, half the songs on the album were about death. Switch had never realized cowboys were so depressed.

But the little smile stayed on Breanna’s face, and when he looked over at her when the album ended, she was asleep.

Later on, he put some coals from the woodstove into a covered skillet and ran the hot pan under the covers in her bed, warming them the old-fashioned way. Then he carried her in and slid her between the sheets, all nice and cozy, and threw an extra blanket on top.

He looked down at her, all soft and helpless, her honey-blond hair tumbled on the pillow. He shook his head. She was right—those eyes could make a guy do things.

Feel things.

Fucking doe eyes.

Chapter 7

Just before dawn, Switch woke up on the couch with a crick in his neck and cold feet, because he was too damn tall to fit and they were hanging off with no blanket over them.

Not getting involved was good. Being a gentleman sucked. And tonight he was sleeping as a wolf. Assuming Breanna was still here.

Although, to be honest, he was surprised he’d slept much at all. He usually didn’t, lately.

It was light out, but the sun wasn’t up over the mountains yet, and the fire had burned down in the woodstove. He built it up again. He needed to get more firewood—or better yet, he needed to get this human girl out of here before the doe eyes took over his entire will and he became her minion.

First thing—talk to his Underground Railroad contacts. He had a bad feeling about the ones who were supposed to have met Breanna in Pennsylvania.

Then put out feelers on this Quentin Moreno guy.

For that, he needed the computers in the command center. If he were home, he could hack into anything anywhere, but he didn’t have his full setup here.

Maybe he should go home, and leave Breanna for Gunn and Michelangela to take care of. She was a complication he didn’t need in his life.

Maybe he’d go tomorrow. Or when Mikey got back.

He was going to head out, but something compelled him to go look in on her before he did. She was asleep, her hair still all spread out on the pillow. His fingers itched to touch it, to brush it away, drop a kiss on the soft skin of her neck.

Oh, no. He was not getting sucked into her web. She looked soft and helpless, but she was tenacious and annoying and somehow got her own way a lot. He headed for the front door, and then learned that his wolf didn’t like leaving her alone.

Why? he asked.

Because she needs protection.

She’ll be fine as long as she doesn’t go wandering around the compound on her own.

But she doesn’t know not to do that. She is like a cub—she doesn’t know what is wise and what is foolish.

Switch snorted. Nobody ever accused us of knowing that either.

No one ever accused you of knowing it, his wolf said. I am very smart.

And yet here you are, wanting to take care of the human.

He glanced out the living room window, and did a double take. Boomer and his brother were sitting in lawn chairs outside his cabin, drinking coffee.

They weren’t in uniform—if you could even call the fatigues they wore on duty uniforms—but they did have weapons. So this was… what? Official unofficial guard duty?