A ten-by-ten office space had been carved out of the dense foliage, orange pots of every size, and an assortment of hand tools. A small writing desk and rolling chair sat inside the square, and a worn though comfortable-looking couch sat kitty-corner. Lying on the couch, with her feet propped up on the arm, was Riley Kingston.
Earbuds snaked from her ears, and she used a flashlight to illuminate the pages of a well-used spiral notebook she had propped against her thighs. She looked more at ease than he’d ever seen her, yet concentration crinkled the edges of her eyes and the center of her forehead.
Adrenaline drained from his limbs, and he rolled his shoulders to knock out the kinks. Better than anyone, he understood her need for privacy. Except for tonight, every time he’d come across her, she had been alone.
Did she prefer her own company over others’? Or had life dealt her that hand?
On the tail of understanding, anger blew in. Anger that she valued her safety so little. Anger that she didn’t trust his instincts. Instincts that had helped him save lives, time and again.
Except once.
Once, they had failed him, and he would live with the consequences for the rest of his life.
Biting back a curse, he set down his makeshift weapon and strode into her tiny office until he stood six feet away. Folding his arms over his middle, he waited.
It took a full minute—sixty seconds—for her to detect his presence. When she finally glanced up, the notebook slid off her lap and thunked onto the concrete floor. A slip of paper shot from the pages and wedged beneath his boot.
He bent to grab the note, but a feminine hand beat him to it. But not before he read the first line.
EP not ded.
Ded? Who’s EP?
She ripped her earbuds out. “What are you doing here?”
“My exact question for you.”
Her attention shifted to her surroundings as if looking for the answer. “I work here.”
“Do you have any idea what time it is?”
“Of course.” Her voice contained a heavy dose of annoyance. “But I have my doubts that you do.”
“This takes the term workaholic to a whole new level.”
She strode to the desk and stashed the mysterious note into a colorful backpack. The cover on the notebook read Costa Rica: Year Three, Ethnobotanical Findings by Riley Kingston.
“I wasn’t ready to go home, so I came here.”
“After I told you about the guy in the Audi.”
“No, Coen.” Fire swirled in her eyes. “You told my male relatives. Not me.”
He blinked. “Are you pissed at me?”
“Wouldn’t you be if our roles were reversed?” she demanded. “Would you want others deciding what was best for your safety?”
“Maybe, if they were better equipped to deal—”
“Bullshit.”
Gritting his teeth, he changed tactics. “You left the door unlocked.”
“Men are such master deflectors.”
“The world isn’t what it used to be twenty years ago. Lock your damn doors.”
“No one is stalking me. I’m sure the guy was waiting for someone. Or he was an online dater asshole who likes to wait in the wings to see if the woman is pretty enough.”
“If that was the case, why did he almost run me over when I approached?”
Once again, concern entered her gaze as she assessed one end of his body to the other. When she detected no bandages or favored limbs, she said, “A man of your size and bearing no doubt uses his body as a weapon of intimidation. It worked.”
“Doesn’t seem to be working on you.”
“Then you haven’t been paying enough attention.”
Oh, I have. “Maybe in the beginning but not now.”
“Why are you skulking about my greenhouse at this hour?”
“It’s in between the training academy and my tent.”
“Something tells me you didn’t come here to bark at me about working late.” She slung her pack over her shoulder. “You’ve got ten seconds to purge what’s on your mind.”
“It’s not complicated.” He dragged his fingers through his half-inch-long hair. Damn, it was getting shaggy. “I saw a beam of light through the window and decided to investigate.”
“Did you think Audi Guy had broken in to steal my plants?”
“My thoughts hadn’t traveled that far.” Liar. “Seemed someone was where they didn’t belong.”
“What would you have done if I’d been a thief?”
“Asked you to leave.”
“If I hadn’t?”
“I would’ve said please.”
“What if I’d had a gun?”
“Things would’ve turned interesting.”
Shaking her head, she strode away. “If you ever suspect there’s an intruder in the greenhouse, don’t be a hero. They’re just plants.”
“A strange sentiment from a botanist.”
“Ethnobotanist. Saving greenhouse plants isn’t worth a human life.” She peered at him over her shoulder. “Even if the human’s annoying.”
“Where’s your vehicle?”
“I parked it behind the greenhouse.”
“Why?”
Her voice turned into a low growl. “So I wouldn’t be bothered.”
When they passed by the desk, he noticed a thick, rectangular piece of paper folded onto itself. Something so everyday wouldn’t have normally caught his attention.
But the paper appeared to be embedded with… He paused and picked up the rectangle. Teardrop-shaped seeds speckled the surface.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Seed paper.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s growing in popularity. Have you ever come across dung paper?”
“No.” He dangled the sheet from the tips of his thumb and forefinger. “Are you saying this is made from shit?” He sniffed the paper.
She laughed. “I don’t know if it is or isn’t. Poop paper can be found in bookshops and specialty stores. The ones I’ve seen are made from recycled elephant dung.”
He dropped the strange paper. “Are those real seeds?”
“They look real.”
“Why do you have it?”
“A former colleague from Costa Rica wrapped it around a book she sent me.”
“Why?”
“She didn’t say. Maybe to protect the book during shipping, or it was a craft project.”
He nudged the paper. “Are you going to plant this?”
“Hadn’t thought to.”
She studied his profile for so long that he finally turned to her and asked, “What?”
Dropping her backpack on the floor, she said, “Let’s see what kind of plant lurks in the poopy paper.”
“What do you mean?”
She unsnapped the leather case attached to her belt and pulled out a Leatherman multi-tool. “Use the scissors to cut the seed paper into several strips, and I’ll show you.”
He did as instructed and held them out to her.
“Nope,” she said. “This is your project, not mine.” She collected a large, black plastic tray, a bucket of potting soil, a water container, and a pair of gloves, and placed them on the table. “Plant away.”
“I don’t know anything about propagation.”
“Do you know how to pour soil into a tray?”
Ignoring the gloves, he lifted the bucket. A sharp, pungent odor wafted from its depths. “What’s that smell?”
“I added some fertilizer.”
He emptied the contents into the tray and used his fingers to level out the lightweight mixture. It was cool to the touch, almost silken.
“Now carve out grooves wide enough to hold your strips. You’ll want at least two inches of soil covering the seed.”
After tucking in the strips and smoothing the soil back over them, he reached for the water container.
“Give the whole thing a good pat first. You want to remove the air pocke
ts.”
When he finished pressing down the soil, he stared at his handprints. An odd sense of accomplishment washed over him. Had it been so long since he’d made himself useful that burying a bunch of seeds actually felt like he’d done something cool? Pathetic.
Even after realizing the patheticness of the situation, he couldn’t dredge up an ounce of regret. The process had felt normal. She had given him the gift of an untroubled mind.
She held out the water container. When he didn’t immediately take it, she asked, “Everything okay?”
Shrugging off the strange sensation squirreling its way into his bones, he avoided meeting her curious gaze. “Yeah.” He grasped the container’s handle, and his fingers brushed over hers.
Awareness pulsed into the narrow space between them. A squirrel of a different color shot up his arm, arrowed through his torso, and slammed into his groin.
He almost dropped the damn water.
Neither of them spoke for several what-the-hell-just-happened seconds. The botanist pulled herself together first.
“Give the seeds a good dousing.” She began cleaning up the table. “They’ll need a little water every day until they sprout.”
“How long will that take?”
“It’s hard to say. All seeds have different germination periods. Do you need something to help transport your tray?”
“Transport it where?”
Her brows knit together. “Your campsite.”
“I’ll care for it here.” The seed propagation provided him with the perfect cover to keep an eye on her six.
“You want to hike all this way to spend ten seconds watering mystery seeds?”
“My calendar happens to be free at the moment.”
“There’s no need for you to make the trek every day. I can add it to my watering schedule.”
“But it’s my project—and I don’t shirk my duties.”
Her attention darted all around the greenhouse, as if she watched a gang of looters trashing her sanctuary.
Lowering his voice, he said, “I’ll be in and out. You won’t even know when I’m here.” His voice hardened. “Especially since you don’t lock the door.”
She lifted her chin and indicated his tray. “Other than that bit of real estate, the greenhouse and my safety aren’t your concern.” Picking up her bag, she pointed to a utility sink. “Better wash your hands before we go.”
He brushed the dirt from his hands. “They’re fine.”
“It won’t be fine if you get fertilizer in your eyes.”
Setting his jaw, he stalked off to the sink and ran his hands beneath the water.
When he made to shut it off, she called, “With soap.”
Annoyance crackled along his collarbones. But like a good soldier, he pumped a blob of orange gel into his palm and lathered up.
He pictured her angling to the left and right, trying to get a read on how well he was obeying. Such a busybody.
He was a grown-ass man, who’d routed his enemy from one deadly corner of the world to another. He could damn well wash his hands without supervision.
Something new hurtled through his irritation and peered out. Appreciation. She didn’t coo over his perceived heroism or treat him like he was about to fracture into a thousand pieces. To her, he was another male mucking up her world.
Normal.
“Make sure you wash your forearms too. Just to be safe.”
Coen lathered up his arms… and smiled.
27
It was official. Riley lived in Clonesville. She could find little to distinguish one day from the next.
Each morning, she hiked through Steele Conservation Area, cataloguing native and invasive plants while steering clear of Transect L and a certain grumpy soldier.
After lunch, she would head to Kingston Farms to help her parents with the store or whatever else they needed. Then around five she would head to the greenhouse to check on her plant babies.
The only pearl in her routine had been reading to Coen. Some sixth sense had sent her to him when he’d needed a distraction. He hadn’t mentioned anything about it last night. Had he thought it all a dream? In a way she hoped so. Otherwise, she’d be forced to explain what had compelled her to hike through the woods in the middle of the night to be by his side.
At odd moments this morning, she’d caught herself reliving Coen’s accidental touch. She didn’t understand why. The contact had been so fleeting she couldn’t even say if his flesh had been warm or cold, soft or callused. But that zing of awareness? She’d noticed every electrifying inch of it as it shot from her fingers to her toes.
She wondered how he’d measure up to her Anatomy of a Perfect Mate list. No man had ever made it beyond number five. Nick had come close. He’d leapfrogged right over two, three, and four, and landed—and ended—on cinco.
Could that be the reason she’d found the strength of mind to pull away and never go back? Had he spooked a subconscious self-preservation mechanism?
Sighing, she hopped over a narrow spring-fed creek. If a four-inch trickle of water could be called a creek. The temptation to scoop up a palm full of the cool liquid was strong. But she refrained. Even though she’d determined it was spring-fed, Britt had yet to map the watershed. Until he did, she wouldn’t be drinking any untreated water, no matter how refreshing it might be.
Once she finished here, she would head over to the farm and see what needed to be done, then off she’d go to the greenhouse to putter around. Clonesville.
Dear God, she needed to have some fun. Not work fun. Girl fun.
No one would call Steele Ridge a dud town. But no one could say with a straight face that it was a happening place either. Besides, she knew everyone. Nothing unusual, no surprises. More of the same.
AKA Clonesville.
For what seemed like the hundredth time, she rubbed the ridge of vertebrae rippling down her neck. The area had hummed with a strange energy all morning.
If she were the paranoid sort, she’d be scanning the trees for another’s presence. But she wasn’t and she refused to allow recent events to disturb her here in her sanctuary. She’d spent enough hours traipsing into the very core of forests, ones even more massive than this, to know that hers was not the only beating, curious heart within.
When she crested yet another hill, she lifted her gaze from the ground vegetation long enough to take in the vista below. In many ways, the scenery before her was a microversion of her Clonesville life.
More oaks, beeches, and hickories rose into the sky on sturdy, straight legs. Waxy, dark green rhododendrons dotted the understory, and giant, uprooted trees lay silent and rotting on the forest floor.
The only unusual sight before her was the group of three men in camouflage, bending over a beautiful patch of ginseng, one of the most valuable plants on the black market. Using crude digging tools that could be hidden away in the packs on their backs, the poachers stabbed at the ground, searching for the plants’ precious roots.
Fury rumbled in her chest and rose up into her throat. Before logic or reason or self-preservation took hold, she yelled, “Get away from there!” She stormed down the hill, her hand going to the small canister of pepper spray she kept in her pocket. “This is Steele property, and those plants are protected, as you well know.”
The poachers whipped around, bringing up their tire irons and screwdrivers and hand trowels to ward off the coming threat. Their wary eyes fell on her, then searched the area at her back.
Too far gone in her rage, she missed the warning clenching in her gut. The sight of the ragged, upturned earth and too-small roots lying in bleak, haphazard piles at the men’s feet dulled all her other senses.
The medium-built man on the right, with a square jaw covered in two days’ worth of stubble and cruel, narrow-set black eyes, lowered his weapon first. A predatory smile split across his face.
His friends took up flanking positions behind him, their expressions more murderous than salacious. The canister g
ripped in her sweaty hand felt far too small. None of these men were known to her. That meant they had to be from neighboring towns or even counties. Poachers traveled a great distance to plunder patches of Panax quinquefolius.
She held up her phone. “I’ve already texted a picture to 911. You’d best be on your way.” Lord help her if they called her bluff.
Left Flank and Right Flank’s concerned eyes widened before settling on Cruel Eyes. The latter stalked forward, his smile deepening.
“If you’ve already ratted us out, then we have nothing to lose.”
“Don’t come any closer.” The pepper spray canister she aimed in his direction felt way too small. She jammed her phone into her back pocket. Mind racing, she considered her options. Stay and fight or run like hell.
Cruel Eyes jerked his chin in her direction, and the Flanks speared out, moving swiftly despite their beer belly bodies.
Run.
28
Riley shot up the hill, hoping youth and many hours of conditioning on this terrain would give her an advantage over male strength and stamina. Once she reached the summit, she peered over her shoulder to assess their positions.
Her eyes flared when she found Cruel Eyes little more than a car length away. Fear spurred her feet into action.
“Don’t let her get away!” Cruel Eyes demanded.
Even though her heart slammed inside her chest like a caged animal, she willed calm into her mind. Her brother Way had taught her the technique on one of their camping trips years ago. If anyone knew about fear and danger and survival, it was Way.
“A calm mind can still reason, plan, and stay one step ahead. A mind in terror only knows terror.”
She forced her heaving breaths through her nose and commanded her panic-stricken gaze to focus, to search for familiar landmarks. She hadn’t been in this section of the forest in a while, but she had an uncanny internal navigation system.
Three pairs of boots crashed through the underbrush behind her. They were close enough for her to hear their labored breathing, their low, stumbling curses.
“You can’t outrun me, girl,” Cruel Eyes said, mere feet behind her. “I was a long-distance champ three years in a row.”
Searing Need Page 11
