by Christa Wick
Every Last Touch
- His To Claim Series: Walker & Ashley -
Christa Wick
C.M. Wick
Copyright © 2019 by Christa Wick
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All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, this book and any portion thereof may not be reproduced, scanned, reverse-engineered, decompiled, transferred, or distributed in any print or electronic form without the express written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Participation in any aspect of piracy of copyrighted materials, inclusive of the downloading and obtainment of this book through non-retail or other unauthorized means, is in actionable violation of the author’s rights.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, media, brands, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and registered trademark owners of all branded names referenced without TM, SM, or (R) symbols due to formatting constraints, and is not claiming ownership of or collaboration with said trademark brands. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is purely coincidental.
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Published by Evergreen Books Publishing
Copy edits and line edits by GBI Author Services
Proofreading by Rosa Sharon
Cover design by Violet Duke
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Previously published as Walker Pierce (c) 2017 by Christa Wick.
Contents
Book Description
1. Ashley
2. Walker
3. Walker
4. Ashley
5. Walker
6. Ashley
7. Walker
8. Ashley
9. Ashley
10. Ashley
11. Walker
12. Ashley
13. Ashley
14. Ashley
15. Walker
16. Ashley
17. Walker
18. Ashley
19. Walker
20. Ashley
21. Walker
22. Ashley
23. Ashley
24. Walker
25. Ashley
26. Ashley
27. Ashley
28. Ashley
29. Walker
30. Ashley
31. Walker
Epilogue
Also by Christa Wick
Thank You For Reading & Reviewing!!!
About the Author
Book Description
As far as first impressions go, nearly dropping a tree onto a federal agent is admittedly not the greatest one I’ve ever made. As an opening gambit in pursuit of a feisty, deliciously curvy woman, it’s decidedly the worst.
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Doesn’t help matters that Miss Independence insists she doesn’t have time to get sidetracked with a personal life. Which she stubbornly maintains even while looking at me like she’s the lumberjack and I’m the tree she wants to climb.
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Good thing she’s on a mission to catch the bad guys—her one shot at greatness, she believes—and needs my help to do it. A ride is all she says she wants. And trust me, I’m damn sure it’s more than she’s ever asked any man for before.
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So, of course I’m going to give her a ride.
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…But I’m not promising to behave.
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The HIS TO CLAIM Series
Book 1: Every Last Touch (Walker & Ashley)
Book 2: Every Last Look (Barrett & Quinn)
Book 3: Every Last Secret (Sutton & Maddy)
Book 4: Every Last Reason (Emerson & Delia)
Book 5: Every Last Call (Gamble & Siobhan)
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BONUS FREEBIE (big brother Adler & Sage’s story: Every Last Doubt) available for download at christawick.com/free
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Previously published as Walker Pierce (c) 2017, completely rewritten in first person POV and revised throughout with newly added content, a different extended ending, and a bit more steam (note that this hero makes a point not to rush the heroine—making his gruff patience its own brand of sexy—so the book does start a little tamer than my usual stuff, but it picks up, as it is a Christa Wick book, after all *grin*).
1
Ashley
Life flashing before my eyes, I slammed on the Jeep's brakes, jerked hard on the steering wheel and prayed I didn’t flip. Deciding life would be easier if the vehicle also missed the tree carving its way across the entire width of the road, I amended the prayer an instant before closing my eyes and leaving the rest in Heaven’s hands.
Tires screamed. The smell of over-heated brake plates and burning rubber filled the vehicle, the fumes biting at my nose and throat. For one quiet fraction of a second, everything stopped. Then the Jeep rocked hard, the driver side tires lifted then slammed down. Metal shuddered and groaned before blinking to silence.
Heart jackhammering against my breastbone, I opened my eyes and looked to the right, where my internal compass suggested the tree would be. There, a few short inches from the passenger side window, the end of a massive branch pointed at my face like the tip of a deadly spear. I stared blankly at it for a second then released a shaky breath.
My head dropped to rest against the steering wheel, the engine left idling and my leg locked straight to keep the brake pedal buried against the floorboard until my trembling hands could work the Jeep’s stick shift. When a tap sounded at the driver side window, I ignored it. It didn’t cross my mind that there had been no other cars on the road.
The person tapping stopped and pulled on the Jeep’s door handle.
The lock was engaged. I unclenched my grip on the steering wheel, reached for my sidearm and slid the safety off. Turning to look out the window, I encountered an early thirties male scowling at me through the glass.
With years of memory training behind me, I immediately cataloged the stranger’s appearance. Red flannel jacket over a tan Henley shirt, with a hint of jeans at the bottom edge of the window and a wide black leather belt. Height at least six feet because he had to bend down to glower at me. Hair a black-brown with natural highlights, short, thick and slightly wavy. Trimmed beard kept close to the face. Fair skinned but with the kind of tan that, like the highlights in his hair, came from working outdoors during the summer. Thick brows and lashes, also black-brown. The multi-hued eyes began with a rusty central heterochromia ringed by a mossy green that darkened outward to form a thick, nearly black ring around the iris.
For an eighth of a second, maybe less, I internally acknowledged the beauty of those eyes and the strong face in which they were set. The other seven-eighths of that second were spent sliding my service pistol from its holster and easing the weapon across my lap.
Either the man recognized the stealthy movement for what it was or it finally penetrated his thick skull that the woman he was trying to intimidate was in a vehicle marked with the logo of the U.S. Department of Fish and Wildlife Services, the blocky six-inch letters near the tail end spelling out LAW ENFORCEMENT. Whatever the reason, he stepped back, his hands up in a surrender I hadn’t yet demanded.
“You need to move your vehicle now!” he shouted, hands remaining aloft as he cast an anxious glance up the embankment.
I followed his gaze to see a tall stand of pine like the one that had nearly taken out the Jeep. Behind the trees, heavy equipment stood ready to work, the company name obscured by thick trunks and low branches.
Offering my own scowl, I returned my weapon to its holster, put the Jeep in reverse and
whipped it backward in an arc, returning to the approximate location of where I first slammed on the brakes. Easing onto the road’s narrow shoulder, I threw the vehicle in park, grabbed my logbook and jumped out.
“Who the hell are you and where is your boss?” I demanded, storming toward the man. “I want to speak to him right now.”
One thick brow lifted as his mouth settled into a stubborn line.
“Walker Turk,” he answered, pausing as his gaze flicked to my badge. “And I’m the boss, Agent Callahan.”
He didn’t look like a boss, I thought. Not that he didn’t carry himself like one, but he was young, maybe only a few years older than me. Of course, thirty wasn’t exactly young. At least, in my experience, no one considered it young for females, especially when the woman in question wasn’t married and hadn’t produced any babies yet.
I snorted, shooing away irritation at the double standard as I flipped open my logbook.
“You can chew my butt later,” Turk grumbled as he walked past me. “Right now, I need to block off this road.”
I stared, slack jawed, as he removed one of the road flares tucked into his back pocket, activated it and placed it on the road before walking further away from me and placing two more flares.
From up the ridge came more commotion. Using language that would make a sailor blush, two men half slid, half walked downhill carrying a roadblock sign between them. I decided that the taller of the two would have been better off moving the sign on his own. Standing close to six-five by my estimation, he dwarfed his partner by a good ten inches, ensuring that their steps were always out of sync unless he hobbled his gait.
Whenever he tried to do just that, both men tripped and the sliding and swearing would recommence.
Frowning at the mismatched pair, I looked west along the ridge. Another set of men carried an identical sign to stop traffic traveling in the opposite direction.
“A little late, don’t you think?” I challenged when Turk returned. Catching the flare of his nostrils, I dropped my question with a hot puff of air and got down to business. “Show me your operator’s license—now.”
Turk shrugged off the order then turned to the men who had just finished setting up the roadblock. The taller of the two was hairy as a bear with lots of white salted into his brown beard.
“I got through to Gamble just before that tree went down,” he told Turk.
Hearing the local sheriff’s name, I buried the urge to toss Turk to the ground and handcuff him.
“Bad accident north of Willow Gap,” the giant continued. “Several vehicles involved, so it’s gonna be a couple of hours sorting it out before he can send someone here to investigate.”
“Investigate what?” I demanded. The whole situation was making less and less sense. Why call the sheriff before a tree started bobsledding down the ridge? And how had the men been so quick with the signs and flares?
“Sabotage,” Turk growled, arms folding across his broad chest as he faced me. “Of course, since it’s not on Federal lands, I can’t get any Federal help, can I?”
Heat flamed across my cheeks. Was the man really trying to make this my fault?
Turning, I marched toward the fallen tree. Turk followed fast on my heels, his longer legs quickly bringing him even with me.
“That’s not Federal land, Officer Callahan.”
I flicked my gaze in his direction. Blood flushed his tan skin and a thick muscle flexed along his jaw.
“And it certainly isn’t safe,” he added in a rumbling voice, extending the length of his stride until he was suddenly in front of me and stopped.
We collided, his body hard and immovable. My legs tangled together, threatening to land me face first on the asphalt. Turk grabbed me by the biceps, holding me up without an ounce of strain on his handsome face.
“At least let me get a hard hat on you,” he snapped once I had regained my footing.
Looking up at his uncovered head, I rolled my eyes.
His hands fell away as he shouted an order up the hill. “Two hardhats. Now!”
A few seconds later, a man scrambled down the ridge, pausing every dozen feet or so to check the ground above him. Arriving at the bottom, he offered me one of the hardhats then handed the other to Turk.
“Found another five trees with their bases axed just the same,” he told his boss.
Turk waved his hands, signaling both of the roadblock teams to his side. Finding myself outnumbered six to one, I smoothed a thumb along the edge of my holster.
“You’ll need to lead us up together, Charlie,” he told the man who had delivered the hard hats. “Keep us out of the path of the damaged trees.”
Charlie shook his head. “The others are set up like dominoes. Only way to stay out of their path is to go all the way around. Whoever did this, they were looking to shut down a full quarter mile of road. The west roadblock needs to be further out than what was set.”
“Show them,” Turk barked with a nod at the second team.
Together with Charlie, the two men peeled away and jogged west.
“With me, Agent Callahan,” Turk ordered, his angry steps swiftly delivering him to the base of the fallen tree. He jabbed a finger in the direction of where a third of the tree had been cut at, the marks indicative of an axe being used. The other two-thirds had been ripped apart by the trunk’s weight in the instant before it had plowed its way downhill.
“My team didn’t do this. We’re more than a week late starting cutting operations on this plot because someone gummed up our engines ten days ago.” With a chop of his hand, he noted all the heavy machinery on top of the ridge. “That’s how long all that equipment has been up there sitting idle. Sheriff Gamble was already investigating the vandalism on the vehicles.”
My gun hand finally relaxing, I nodded.
The grizzled man bear came up with his partner and clapped me on the back. “Good thing you have fast reactions. Hitting a tree that size would be like running into a concrete wall.”
“Thanks,” I replied. “But I don’t think my reactions saved me.”
“What then?” he asked.
“Prayer,” I admitted.
Turk laughed, his tone finally easing up a bit. “Yours or mine?”
“Pretty sure all of us sent one up to the Big Guy. So don’t go hogging half the credit, boss,” man bear scolded as he thrust his hand toward me. “I’m Kostya Boag. You Deacon’s replacement?”
“Yes,” I answered as Boag jerked my arm up and down, his grip crushing my fingers. When Kostya was done, his much smaller accomplice offered his hand and a weak shake as he introduced himself.
“Billy,” he said.
I smiled amicably but squirreled away how the man had omitted his last name. In my professional experience, holding back like that usually meant a criminal record or a strong anti-authoritarian streak. When I had a chance to speak to Sheriff Gamble in person, I would find out how much he knew about Billy.
“Where were you headed?” Turk asked. “Into Lewis & Clark?”
My mouth twitched. I didn’t want to talk about where I was headed. More importantly, I didn’t want to talk about why I was headed into the Helena-Lewis & Clark National Forest.
Turk shrugged. “Well, it’ll be close to sunset before we clear the road. Guess you aren’t going anywhere other than back the way you came.”
I stared up the ridge. It was steep, with no good path around for the Jeep to take. Rubicon or not, I would roll it if I tried. Leaving Turk and his men standing at the base of the tree, I walked to the edge of the road and looked down.
“Just what kind of crazy are you?” Turk murmured as he snuck up behind me.
Trying to ignore the effect of his deep baritone on my body, I cast a glance over my shoulder. If Kostya and Billy had heard their boss’s impertinent question, they didn’t show it.
“I don’t have another day to wait—” My mouth snapped shut then twisted as I weighed how much I could say to this arrogant man with his
smirking, black-ringed gaze.
I closed my eyes, lips pursing as I chewed over the dilemma for a few seconds. When I finally looked up, I caught him studying me. Seeing that his perusal had been noticed, Turk shrugged and cocked a bored brow.
Great, just what I need, I thought, another civilian mentally mocking my weight. Can’t be long before he, or someone on his crew, makes a donut joke.
Exhaling, I flashed Turk a tight, professional smile.
“There’s a fox den I need to check on,” I said, my voice low to keep the other men, especially Billy, from hearing. “The cubs should be old enough by now that they’ll be moving on soon.”
If they’re still alive…
“You were seriously considering driving your Jeep down that—” he stopped to point at the steep ravine over which the tree perched. “To look in on some fox cubs? Last I checked, they are far from endangered.”
My hands found my full hips as I glared up at the man. Past the point of simple irritation, I wondered what he would look like in police restraints. Unbidden, a wholly inappropriate image formed in my mind, Turk’s clothes stripped from his muscular body, his wrists bound behind his back and one hell of an erection pointing in my direction.
