But the odds were eventually even a lousy sniper would hit his target.
The thought of a bullet meant for her hitting Price was unacceptable. But there wasn’t a damn thing she could do about it. He was there, and leaving would make him even more of a target.
"Not planning on going for a stroll, you pecker-headed asshat," Price shouted back.
And with that bit of smart-ass, vulgar repartee she was a goner. So not the time, nor place, to ask him out. If they survived, she would. To hell with her mother's rules.A sound must've escaped her, because he murmured in her ear, "It's okay. I've got you."
Yeah, he did. He just didn't know it yet. She definitely wanted him.
How could she not? With bullets flying all around and his ass, literally, hanging out in the wind for the shooter to nail, he could still trade insults with his boss. Humor under fire, now that was a man.
"Price? You got a death wish, píítaa?"
"No," his tone was brusque, "I don't have a death wish." He stroked an impersonal hand over her torso. "You hit anywhere but your arms?"
"No." Well, that wasn’t completely a lie. She hadn't been hit by any bullets, just bits of flying rock. Nothing life threatening.
She wiggled under him. "I need to scooch farther under the overhang so you have more cover."
"No scooching. Just stay still," he growled.
His breath was hot over her ear. Tara jerked and dug her fingers into the dirt so she wouldn't fall into the dark abyss threatening to take her over.
Not now, not now, she mentally chanted as memories of her rapist whispering against her ear threatened to shut her down.
Price muttered something pithy and foul. "Dammit, stop moving."
His terse tone brought her back to the present. She took in a breath and all she smelled was Price, not Miller.
"Sorry." She issued the apology automatically. But she wasn't sorry, because if it weren't for the bullets flying around them—she'd love to lie with him blanketing her body—forever. His voice, his now-familiar scent, had anchored her.
His response was a grunt. He readjusted his body and changed the subject. "Did you just call me a PITA?"
Tara could explain píítaa meant "eagle" and that was how she thought of him since the moment she'd met him—as a warrior, as a hero. She wasn't ready to let Price know that—at least not until she figured out how he felt about her. She didn't want to feel any more vulnerable when it came to Price than she already did. So, she kept her mouth shut and studiously tried to ignore the very large erection nestled against her ass.
And ignoring him was hard. Literally and figuratively.
The hard-on pulsing against her bottom was nothing out of the ordinary after a battle. She recalled her brothers joking about having hard-ons and wanting to fuck after being underfire or jumping particularly dicey fires. But during? Maybe Price was an outlier.
Or he's attracted to you.
Or that. Even more reason to ask him out and see if they could be more than friends.
"What did you see?" Price stroked her arm after tucking her even more under his body when a bullet struck far too close to them.
"What?" she responded, glad he'd moved on from the píítaa-discussion and had drawn her thoughts away from his hard cock and the danger circling around them.
"Earlier. You were moving and warning us even before the shot rang out. What did you see?"
Tara flinched as another bullet hit close by. Price didn't move a muscle. His heart rate was fast, but not unusually so. His breathing was steady but for a slight inhale as another shot hit close by. He'd been hit by…something. “Price?”
"I'm fine." Price smoothed his thumb over the back of her hand in reassurance. “Answer my question.”
She recognized the tone. It was similar to the one her father and brothers used when danger was around and they wanted to distract her and her mother from the predicament. It said something about growing up on a reservation that the commanding tone was used often.
Price was attempting to protect her in both body and spirit. And for this moment, she appreciated his care. There'd be times in the future, especially if they did end up in a relationship, that such a masterful tone would not go over well with her.
Another bullet hit close by, and Price's arm flinched on top of hers. The smell of blood was stronger now.
"I saw a reflection off something shiny," she answered his question. "Then I saw movement and the barrel of a rifle."
"Good eyesight there, firefly." His tone was full of admiration. "The shooter's a good hundred yards or more away from where you were sitting. He's not presenting much of a target or our guys would've nailed him by now."
Firefly? Where had that come from, and more importantly, how did she feel about it? Was firefly an endearment akin to píítaa? The tone had sounded, for lack of a better word, tender. This was the first time he'd used such a tone with her. Maybe she should've gotten shot at sooner?
"Took me back to Kandahar." She shuddered. If her instincts hadn't kicked in, she'd have been seriously wounded or worse. "So I took cover. Better to look foolish than dead."
"That's my motto." Price crowded in closer, his cheek now lying next to hers. Her heart skipped a beat at the action. "I won't let anything happen to you."
"I know."
And she did. Because that was the kind of guy he was. Even though he knew her training and had to recognize her position was as protected as anyone else's on the slope, he'd still rushed to protect her.
"Hold on. Just for a bit longer," Price murmured against her temple, his lips brushing her skin, making her shiver. "It's okay, the cavalry's coming."
Then she heard what Price's ears had picked up—a helicopter headed for their position at top speed. She'd bet it was SSI's Blackhawk with DJ and Vanko at the stick.
Tara wiggled under Price's weight. "You can get off now. If the shooter's smart, he'll be long gone by the time the chopper is over his position."
"If the shooter were smart, he'd have left after he missed his target and our guys returned fire. This guy isn't smart or a trained sniper. Therefore, not moving from this spot until I get the all-clear from Ren, so deal with it,” he muttered.
She wiggled.
Price tightened his hold. "Be still."
“You two can get up now." Ren's voice seemed to come from right above them. "You okay, Tara?"
When Price rolled off her, she twisted her head and smiled at Ren who stood on top of the rock ledge. "Hey, Ren. I'm fine."
Price snorted his disbelief. "Try again."
Taking the hand Price held out, she allowed him to pull her to a standing position. He frowned as he scanned her from head to toe and back again. "Fine, my ass."
Tara shrugged and winced as abused muscles and scrapes and abrasions made themselves known. "Not shot. Aches and pains. Some bruises and some dings from rock splinters. So basically fine. But let's check out your ass. You were the one on top of me and sticking out and all but daring the fucker to shoot you."
She walked around Price and stifled a moan of pain. "You're bleeding, píítaa."
"Just scratches, firefly. And stop calling me a pain in the ass," he grumbled. "I was protecting you."
"It's píítaa. Not pain in the ass. And, yes, you were." Tara moved into him and cupped his jaw with one dirty, bloody, and scraped hand. "Thank you." She brushed a kiss over his lips and moved away.
His blue eyes darkened. Tara swore she saw a flicker of flame in their depths. She saw that look in her father's eyes every time he looked at her mother. Just as Price began to lean down, his gaze focused on her mouth, she was pulled even farther away from him.
"You okay, Tara?" Trent turned her to face him, his hands gripping her sore arms far too tightly.
She gasped in pain.
A growl that sounded remarkably like a pissed-off wolf came from behind her.
Trent's gaze flickered toward Price then back to her. She glared at the
Marine.
The younger man checked her out from top to bottom just as Price had; she'd much preferred Price's perusal. "You need those cuts and scratches looked at," Trent gritted out. "The one on your right shoulder looks fairly deep."
"I—" before she could order him to leave her alone, Price pulled her against his side, his arm around her waist. The look he shot Trent should've melted the man into a puddle of goo.
Trent stared at the two of them for several uncomfortable seconds. "Like that, huh?" The former Marine gave a mock salute and walked off.
"Price—" she began.
He shook his head and gave her waist a light squeeze. "Let's take care of your wounds. We'll talk later."
Chapter 3
Monday, June 1st
Ma's Bar and Grill screamed retro-diner with its black-and-white checkerboard flooring, metal tables with red tops, and a jukebox (21st Century version), sitting in the corner playing oldies. Off to one side, a double doorway led to a much darker room—the bar—where the locals gathered for gossip, heavy-duty drinking, and a game of pool or darts.
"Hey, Tara. Nice to see you," Nick, the owner, shouted as he placed a finished order on the ledge of the kitchen's pass-thru window behind the lunch counter.
"Hey, Nick." She waved. Ignoring the tables in the middle of the room, she snagged the large corner booth, or what she'd come to think of as the "SSI booth." Both the men and women of SSI liked to have their backs covered, and this booth was the only one configured to everyone's liking.
Nick's son, Little Nick, delivered her favorite craft beer as soon as she sat down. "Hi, Tara. You ready to order?"
"Hey, Nick. I'll wait until the others get here."
"Sure thing." Little Nick gave her a smile and hurried off to clear a table for some men Tara recognized as regulars—loggers, maybe?
Tara sipped her beer and idly looked around. Ma's was bustling for a Monday evening. Good thing she'd come early to grab the prized corner table. She'd arranged to meet Ren, Keely, DJ, and Tweeter to see if they could update her on the investigation into the person who'd shot at her two days ago.
Turner, the ranger investigating the incident, along with the Idaho County Sheriff Dan Morgan, wouldn't divulge any information.
His excuse? She was the intended victim.
Tara snorted. His real reason? Turner was a horse's ass, thought he was God's gift to women, and didn't like her because she'd had the temerity to refuse to date him.
She blew out a harsh breath. Some men had such fragile egos, and some men were just assholes. If Turner paid attention to anything but his dick, he'd have noticed Tara didn't date—anyone. But even if she did, he would've been the last on her list.
Not that there had ever been a list—now there never would be one.
She'd met the man she'd unconsciously been looking for ever since she'd been a dreamy-eyed teenager reading category romances. Price had protected her with his body, called her "firefly" in a husky tone that suggested she meant something to him, and told her they'd talk later.
Yet, it was later—and she and Price still hadn't had the talk he mentioned on Saturday. She couldn't get pissed about it since he had a good reason—Fee told her Price had been sent out in the middle of the night on a last-minute personal security job for a regular SSI client. He'd asked his sister to let Tara know and that he'd be back sometime today and he'd call her then.
Now, her brothers had called and left a dozen or so messages, all of which had irritated the hell out of her. Their Marine buddy Trent had reported the Saturday shooting and tattled on her about Price. She'd phoned all three brothers and barely convinced them not to drive to Idaho. She'd also strenuously warned them off poking their noses into her personal life and told them she was not moving back to Montana no matter how many times they ordered her to. Knowing them, she had two days tops before one or all three showed up to check Price out.
Tara definitely planned on kicking Trent's ass later.
She took a sip of beer. All in all, the weekend had been stressful in one way or another.
One of her goals this evening was to get Keely and DJ away from their men for some girl time—and for insider knowledge. They knew Price better than she did. Maybe she'd misread his actions on Saturday.
Insecurity, thy name is Tara.
Yeah. Put her in the cockpit, give her a target, and she had the confidence to follow through. Point her toward a man she actually wanted? Not so much.
Tara nodded and smiled at several of the patrons who called out to her on their way into the bar. Even though she hadn't been in the area for very long, she recognized the majority of those present as locals. Those she didn't recognize were probably campers or hikers. The unseasonably warm spring had brought the back-to-nature crowd out in force to the national forest and the wilderness areas.
The weather had turned cool late yesterday evening and there was now a hint of rain in the wind. What was good news for the wildland firefighters who'd been overwhelmed by the early start to fire season was less so for those reserving camp sites. She'd be surprised if the motels on the outskirt of Grangeville and in Elk City didn't fill up. It was no fun camping or sleeping in the wild in the rain, especially at these altitudes. Hypothermia could all too easily set in without a warning for the ill-prepared.
"You look lonely. Want some company?"
Tara startled. She hadn't seen or heard the man approach. While the corner booth had a good view of the main dining room and much of the bar area, it had one major blind spot: one corner of the high-backed booth was built against the wall separating the dining room from the back hall leading to the restrooms. She was seated with her back against that wall.
"No, thank you." She eyed the man who blocked her easy exit from the booth.He was mid-to-late thirties, just under six feet, stocky, brown and brown, and dressed for the weather in jeans, a faded Grateful Dead tee covered by an unbuttoned flannel shirt, an unzipped fleece vest, and pricey hiking boots. He was slightly inebriated, but not fall-down, sloppy drunk…yet.
As he moved to slide in next to her, Tara said, "No," using the stern tone of voice and cool stare she used when citing an errant hunter who'd violated the restrictions of his hunting license.
Most men would've backed off. This one didn't. He might be drunker than she'd thought.
So, she added with a patience she did not feel, "I'm waiting on friends."
"Maybe I could join you until they get here?" He gave her a smile that she rated as smarmy confidence.
"No…thank you." She spotted Ren and the others approaching. "My friends are here. Have a nice evening."
The man scowled and muttered "bitch" under his breath and stalked toward the barroom. He took a seat at the end of the bar and slammed back a shot of what looked like whiskey, signaled for another shot, then picked up a full beer. Well, Boilermakers were one way to get plastered quickly. Not her problem.
Maybe Mr. Brown-and-Brown, as she'd mentally named him, would get lucky with one of the other patrons. She'd spotted several local women who were known to hook up at Ma's. Dangerous? Yes, and not smart. Getting picked up in bars by strange men was asking for rape, possibly a short trip into sex slavery, or even death.
And sometimes those things happened whether you were trolling in a bar or not.
Tara shuddered, forcing back the dark memories hovering on the periphery of her consciousness.
"Hey, Tara." Keely scooted in to sit next to her and gave her a one-armed hug.
DJ scooted in from the other side. "Was that guy bothering you? Does Ace need to have a word with him?"
"Hi, Keely. Hey, D.J. And no, I let the guy know I wasn't interested." She gave both women a warm smile. It was good to have friends. "Hi, Ren. Tweeter."
Tweeter, or Ace as his wife called him, slid in next to his wife and looked past DJ and smiled.
Ren still hadn't sat down. Instead, he glared at Brown-and-Brown. The man had just slammed back another s
hot and followed it with the beer chaser. Then he turned his head and glowered at her. The look in his eyes was cold and hard—hateful. When Brown-and-Brown noticed Ren staring, he turned away and concentrated on the basketball game showing on the flat screen over the bar.
"He's drunk, Ren." Tara could handle a drunk easily; she did it often on the job.
"Drunks can be dangerous. Especially when they're carrying." Ren frowned. "I may signal Nick that the guy needs to be cut off or at the very least lock his weapons up in his vehicle."
Tara stiffened and glanced at Brown-and-Brown who was once again staring in their direction. "What did I miss? Dammit, it's my job to notice shit like that."
You could get dead not noticing shit like that.
"He's got a back holster tucked into his waist band, covered by his flannel shirt. I saw the bulge when he stretched to grab the nut mix. He also has a knife strapped to his leg. I saw the outline on his jeans, also when he reached. Cut yourself some slack. You weren't looking at him from the same angle or at the opportune moment as I was. We'll keep an eye on him." Ren slid in next to his wife. "If he's still around when we leave this evening, we'll walk you to your car."
"Thanks, Ren." Tara accepted his offer although she figured she could take Brown-and-Brown in a fight—she was also armed.
After what had happened on Saturday, she'd been wearing her personal sidearm whenever she was off-duty and outside of her cabin. Out of respect for Ma's owner Nick, she'd locked her weapon in the gun safe in the back of her Land Rover. However, her Ka-Bar knife, a gift from her brothers, was strapped to her leg. She was just as lethal with the knife as she was with her gun.
It wasn't something the Air Force had taught her. Life on the reservation had.
Tara added, "The guy's just on the make. Someone else will catch his eye soon."
She hoped. As soon as she thought it, a redhead in tight jeans and a low cut, skin-tight sweater sat down next to Brown-and-Brown and gave him a bright smile as she stroked the back of his neck.
"And he scores. Maisie's significant other must be on a long-haul delivery," Ren said. "Someday he'll catch her at it and her catting around will end up being a domestic case for Dan."
Firestorm Page 4
