The sunlight winked off—yes—her revolver. She scrambled to it. Scooped it up.
Skye screamed. High and bright and horrified.
Stevie turned.
March was writhing and had gotten hold of the tire iron. He used the sharp end to stab Tucker.
Tucker howled, jerked back, and March broke free. He rounded on Tucker, swinging the iron back like a baseball bat.
Aiming for Tucker’s head.
No—no!
Stevie took a breath, aimed the gun, center mass. Shoot the bear, Stevie!
Please, don’t miss.
She pulled the trigger.
The gun recoiled hard, the sound ricocheting through the trees, rebounding back to her as the smell of gunpowder reeked the air.
March fell back, writhing in the dirt, bleeding from a wound in the center of his chest.
Tucker scrambled away from him. Got to his feet.
Shaking, she held the gun on March in case he moved.
“Stevie,” Tucker said, breathing hard. “You okay?”
She nodded, then felt his hands on her shoulders.
She met his eyes. So brown. Soft in hers. Holding her.
“You followed me,” she said, more of a mumble than words.
“You just saved my life.”
She glanced at March. He’d stopped struggling, his body still. “I think I killed him.”
Tucker drew her face back to his, his hand on her cheek. “He killed a lot of people. And he would have killed you.” His gaze went to the hot spot on her forehead. “And he hurt you.”
He wore a bruise on his temple, dirt on his face, a look in his eyes that made her want to stay right here, not move.
“Alone is not better,” she said softly.
“No. It’s not,” he said, and a smile lifted. He might have leaned down to kiss her if she hadn’t heard voices. She looked past him to Skye, who had gotten to her feet.
“Over here!” Skye said, waving, and in a moment a man appeared wearing the blue jacket of a US marshal.
Newt Kennedy. And right behind him, another man from her office—Blake Warner. Newt knelt next to her father, yanking out his radio.
Blake ran over to her, his brown eyes assessing her. “You okay?”
She looked at Tucker, then back to Blake. Mid-thirties, dark-skinned and built like a linebacker, from the Midwest somewhere.
“Yes. But Eugene March is dead.”
Blake glanced at March. “Yeah. Good shot.”
Stevie still trembled deep in her bones. And Tucker must have figured it out because he squeezed her hand.
She squeezed his back.
Then she went over to her father. Newt was calling in a medical extraction as Blake checked her father’s vitals.
“It’s a through and through,” he said, moving him to check.
“I’m fine,” her father said, groaning.
“Don’t be stupid, Dad,” Stevie said. “You’re shot.”
“Yeah, but you’re alive.” He smiled up at her. “That’s all that matters.”
Heat slicked her eyes as she bent next to him. “Dad. Why did you escape?”
“Why do you think, Punk? Because I knew you’d go after him. And I…I can’t stop myself.”
“Daddy. You’re the one who taught me to be tough.”
He shook his head. “That was just in case something happened and I wasn’t around. I didn’t want to fail you.”
“You never failed me, Dad. I failed you—”
He caught his hand around her neck, pulled her down, and kissed her forehead, met her eyes when she drew back. “You saved me that night when you arrested me. That was the right thing to do.”
She swallowed. “I shouldn’t have been with Chad—”
“No. Chad shouldn’t have been with you. And he knew it. And that’s what I told him that night. And before that, too. He was going to hurt you someday, and I couldn’t wait for that.”
“You don’t have to protect me all the time—”
“Says who? I’m your father. That’s what fathers do. Don’t take the privilege away from me. It doesn’t mean you aren’t capable. It just means…” He gave a wry smile, looked away.
“I love you too, Dad,” she said and kissed his leathery cheek.
A man pulled up in an SUV, one of the campers. He got out and ran over to them, carrying a first aid kit. Blond, solidly built, his hair nearly shaved off. “I’m a navy medic. I’m on leave—but maybe I can help.”
Stevie moved away, and he bent over her father, taking his pulse, then examining the wound in his side. “The bleeding has slowed, and it looks like it hit right above his hipbone. No broken bones. I’ll pack the wound, and we’ll get him into an ER, get him stitched up.” He grabbed his bag and pulled out gauze and packing. Blake worked alongside him, examining his foot.
Tucker’s hands curled over Stevie’s shoulders, and he pulled her to himself.
“You should get that knee looked at,” she said.
Newt came back. “There’s a small clinic near Denali Lodge. We’ll meet an ambulance there.”
They began to pack her father up, to load him into the SUV.
“Go,” Tucker said.
She turned. “Not without you.”
“I have a fire to fight,” he said, touching her face.
She caught his hand, wove her fingers through his. “You certainly lit my fire, hotshot.”
He grinned, one eyebrow raised. The words were awful and corny. She wrinkled her nose, her face heating as she looked away.
And then he laughed, the tenor of it sneaking under her skin, warm and rugged.
“Oh yeah, baby.” Then he lifted her chin and kissed her.
And so what that they were standing in the middle of a crime scene, the forest on fire behind them? So what that she hadn’t a clue what tomorrow might bring, if she’d ever see Tucker again.
She’d take right now, this moment in his arms as they closed around her. His mouth sweet on hers, gentle, just a hint of flame in the way he deepened his kiss, quick and delicious. He smelled of adventure, fire, and trouble.
Just what she was looking for.
He eased away from her, met her eyes. “Fun date. Let’s do it again.”
“Maybe without the shooting? The runaway prisoners?”
“Speaking of prisoners…”
Skye.
She’d come up behind them and now Tucker let Stevie go.
“They’re still out there,” Skye said, glancing at the other two marshals, then back to Stevie. “Rio and Darryl and Thorne. They’re out there, and…well, Rio is in big trouble.”
“Yeah, because he’s on the run,” Stevie said. “Our guys will find him.”
But Skye’s expression turned wan, and she shook her head, wide eyed. “I know—that’s the problem. He’s not who he says he is. And he’s in big, big trouble.”
Stevie wanted to roll her eyes. Clearly Rio had done a number on this woman, convincing her of—
Skye dropped her voice, stepped closer. “Somebody is trying to kill him—a guy named Wayne Buttles.”
Stevie stilled. “Wayne Buttles?” She looked at Tucker, then back to Skye. “Buttles is on our Ten Most Wanted Fugitives list. He’s…yeah, he makes March look like a small-town hood. Human trafficking, weapons, drugs—he’s a real prize. Why is he trying to kill Rio?”
“Because Rio—and this guy Darryl—can testify against him.”
Stevie raised an eyebrow.
“Listen,” Skye said. “Rio saved my life a number of times. And I trust him. Worse…I think I saw the guy he’s running from.”
“You saw Buttles?” Stevie shook her head. “How?”
“I’ll tell you, but…I think Rio is walking into an ambush. I know where they’re going, but we have to get to him before Buttles does. Please.”
Oh…
Skye’s eyes filled. “If you don’t help me, I’ll go alone.”
Stevie glanced at her father, now being loaded
into the SUV, Blake and the medic climbing in after him. She turned back to Tucker.
His jaw had tightened. “No, you won’t, Skye.”
“Yeah, I will. Just like you chose Stevie over the fire line, I need to choose Rio.”
Tucker’s mouth tightened. He looked at Stevie. “It wasn’t a choice.”
Oh, Tucker.
“I’ll go alone then,” Skye said.
Stevie met Skye’s eyes, dark and fierce, and oh, she’d seen that look before. In the mirror, actually.
Fine. Steve turned to Tucker. “Alone is not best.” She gave him a small smile, a shake of her head. “So, I guess you haven’t gotten rid of me yet, hotshot.”
Continue the epic adventure with: The Heat Is On
Want a reminder when the next book comes out? Click here to be on the early bird announcement list!
Excerpt from THE HEAT IS ON
It wasn’t Tuesday. Because if it was Tuesday, then Rio Parker wouldn’t be sitting in the Copper County Correctional Facility cafeteria, dressed in the prison orange shirt and gray pants, stirring the gray swill that might be beans.
He wouldn’t feel and smell like a criminal. No, he’d be dressed in a suit, in court seeing justice prevail.
Hopefully. Please.
Most of all, he wouldn’t have to sit on the sidelines watching Jaden Maguire trying to dodge the lockup bullies.
“Step back!”
Rio caught the voice—a tough veneer over a quivering shell, shaky and a little too high to be menacing—from the eighteen-year-old wanna-be thug who’d somehow landed on the wrong side of trouble. Baby-faced and skinny, his head recently shaved to reveal the bumps and scars of a too-white head, Jaden backed up against a pillar, holding his tray like it might be a shield as Boneyard Wells slapped a hand on the cement behind his head.
Rio set his spoon down, his gut knotting.
Around him, the other prisoners seemed unmoved. He glanced at Archer Mills—an older guy he’d pinpointed as former law enforcement the way he knew how to handle himself. No one really messed with Archer. But Archer didn’t mess with anyone, either.
The story was he’d killed a man with his bare hands, but everybody had a story.
Jaden’s story probably included some petty theft, drug running, maybe even a domestic abuse charge. He wore a few scars on his face, and now lifted his chin, tough guy even as he drew his shoulders up.
Boneyard—bald, beefy, tattooed with a swastika on the back of his neck—leaned into Maguire, said something in his ear. Two of his cohorts—a long-haired drug dealer named Ike, and a skinhead with tribal tattoos on his face—stood a few feet away, grinning.
Maguire jerked away from him, but Boneyard grabbed his jaw.
And then he did something that had Rio bouncing to his feet, the adrenaline hot and churning through him.
Boneyard licked the kid. Starting at his jaw, all the way up to his temple. A slimy, spit-filled trail that turned Rio’s gut and left an expression of raw terror on Maguire’s face.
Rio had seen that expression far too often to let the assault happen in front of his eyes. Male or female—it didn’t matter.
Which was why he found his feet moving, the chair scratching along the floor as it slid back. The hum in the room dimmed as Rio came around the table and walked right up to Boneyard.
And somewhere in the back of his head, he heard the voice, the one that had sent him here. Stay cool, lay low. Stay out of trouble and do your job.
Yeah, well, trouble seemed to find him, and frankly, this was his job.
Protecting the helpless. Justice for the victims.
Even if the guy he was supposed to be protecting was sitting in the corner finishing up his fish sticks.
But maybe this was why Rio was here, too. Because sometimes justice needed a little nudge.
“Let him alone, Boneyard.”
The man kept hold of the kid’s face, his fingers white as they gripped his jaw, and turned to face Rio. “Stay out of this.”
Rio lifted a shoulder. “Can’t.”
“What did this kid ever do for you?” Boneyard raised an eyebrow.
And oh, Rio wanted to hit him. Just slam his fist into Boneyard’s face, maybe chip another tooth off. But he kept his hands open, easy. Nothing for Boneyard’s radar.
“He’s the cellie with my buddy Darryl over there. And he doesn’t snore.”
Which was, actually, all true. Rio didn’t glance at Darryl, however, because the last thing Darryl needed was another target on his back. But he knew Darryl was watching.
Maybe if Rio could get Jaden out of this mess, Darryl might start trusting Rio. Believe him when he said he could keep him safe. Alive.
So Rio didn’t move when Boneyard let go of Jaden and turned toward him. The man possessed the breath of a dumpster, a few missing teeth evidence of a life lived outside regular dental checkups. Burled arms from hours in some institutional weight room, a scar that dissected his blond eyebrow, a piercing—now empty—in his ear.
His voice was meant to intimidate, low, like a razor under the skin. “Sit down. You haven’t been here long enough to realize how it works in here.”
“Yes, actually I have.” Two long weeks—and he was counting—but it had taken him all of two hours to figure out who ran the lockup. Less than one hundred short-term inmates, mostly pretrial or transfer holds, but a few nickel sentences in a minimum security setting. Despite Boneyard’s menace and his attempt at a decent rap sheet, he was in for petty theft and carjacking.
The guy wouldn’t last a day in a maximum security joint like Spring Creek.
Fact was, Rio had barely survived. Had the scars to prove it.
No, a guy like Boneyard didn’t scare him. But Rio didn’t want a fight.
It would be hard to protect Darryl from solitary confinement.
So Rio took a breath, met Boneyard’s gaze. “This doesn’t have to be anything. Just walk away from the kid, leave him alone. We’ll all finish our lunch.”
A smile lifted one corner of Boneyard’s face. “I don’t think so, tough guy.”
Aw, shoot. Because now Jaden was looking at the floor, and—was the kid crying? Rio didn’t dare take his gaze off Boneyard, but in his periphery, he saw the kid tremble, heard washboard breaths.
Still… “You’re the tough guy here, B-yard, and we all know it. I think you’ve scared the kid enough.” Rio gave the guy a little nod. “No one is going to mess with you.” Let his ego be assuaged, let him walk away.
Boneyard stared at him, as if not sure what to do with Rio’s words.
Rio listened for movement behind him—any of Boneyard’s thugs creeping up to punch him in the kidneys, turn this into an unfair fight. Boneyard’s chest rose and fell.
Just walk away, man. And probably the words rising inside were for him, but he put them into his expression.
Because as much as Rio wanted justice, he also wanted, with everything inside him, to listen to that voice.
To walk away. Be done. Free.
To know he’d done his part, protected the innocent and stopped a little evil along the way.
Clearly, however, that wasn’t today.
Boneyard’s intentions flashed in his eyes a second before his fist came up, before his punch could explode across Rio’s face, maybe break a cheekbone, or a nose. Instinct more than thought made Rio deflect his punch, move sideways duck, move down and into Boneyard’s body, the punch flying over him.
Rio took him down with a smack to his nasal septum, stepping behind him and flipping him over so fast Boneyard was on the ground before any of his henchmen could move.
He shoved a knee into Boneyard’s shoulder, wrenched the man’s arm back in a submission hold, and bent close to his ear. “Just walk away.”
And it could have simply ended there. With Boneyard nodding, conceding defeat. With Rio getting up, stepping back, and letting Boneyard gather his pride and walk away.
Except.
Except Boneyard wasn’t
the kind of guy to give up, and frankly, Rio should have known that. Should have known that whatever brains Boneyard possessed died when Rio put him on the floor, leaving only an ignited fury.
Boneyard let fly a few choice prison words, probably fueled by the near dislocation of his shoulder.
Unfortunately, Rio hadn’t been inside long enough to make any real friends, the kind to have his back against Boneyard’s crew.
Worse, seeing their boss on the cement floor did nothing for morale. Or better sense.
Just walk away, man. And now his boss was in his head, a final warning, perhaps, before chaos erupted.
But Rio had simply never been good at walking away either.
Which was why he almost relished it when Ike jumped him. When he could, for a brief, dark moment, surrender to the craving inside to lash out against the frustration, the darkness, the despair that had seeped into his pores, made him believe he belonged in this place.
Maybe he did.
He let Ike take him down, rolled, and came up on top of the man, an easy punch into his solar plexus that sucked out Ike’s breath.
He turned to catch Tattoo Face’s kick to his head, deflecting it before it shattered his teeth. He launched into Tattoo—now off balance—lifted him, and slammed him into the ground.
Tattoo lay gasping.
Two down.
Rio turned for Boneyard.
The man’s fist caught him in the jaw. Rio spun, the pain a burst of fire and heat. But he caught himself on a table and reared back knowing Boneyard would be closing in.
He caught Boneyard in the mouth, given the cry, and by the time he turned, blood spurted from the gusher of broken lips.
The man looked battered. But he wasn’t fazed, and Rio had the very real sense of a bullfighter facing an enraged Brahma.
Doors burst open as Boneyard came at Rio.
Rio sidestepped him, pushing one hand away, then the other, and delivered a punch to the man’s ear.
“Step back!”
Boneyard fell like a sack onto the floor and Rio put his hands up.
Guns, his face against the wall, hands zip-tying his, and the guards dragged him away.
They shoved him into a cell.
“C’mon!” Rio said as they stripped off the zip ties. “I didn’t start it!”
“But you finished it.”
He didn’t know which guard said it—hadn’t gotten to know any of them, really. Hadn’t planned on being here long enough to need an inside man.
Light My Fire_Christian romantic suspense Page 13
