Her Savior (Ember Heart Ridge Search and Rescue #3)

1. Trinity

Chapter One

TRINITY

The bus lurches to a stop, jolting me awake.

My new home. If you can call a place you've never seen before, where you're about to marry a complete stranger, a home.

“Ember Heart next!” the driver calls out.

I lean my head against the cool glass of the window. My stomach growls, reminding me I haven't eaten since yesterday, but the $37 in my wallet needs to last until... until I'm someone's wife.

The thought makes my throat close up. Twenty years old and about to become a mail-order bride. Not exactly the future I'd imagined for myself.

But then, nothing in my life has gone according to plan.

Mom died when I was fourteen, leaving me with a father who found more comfort lost in a bottle than in raising his daughter.

At sixteen, I was the one paying our bills, working after dropping out of high school.

By eighteen, I thought I'd found my escape in Rennick Walsh.

I close my eyes, trying to block the memories, but they come anyway. Rennick's charming smile the first time he sat in my section at the diner. How I felt when a successful thirty-five-year-old businessman noticed me, like I was special.

At first, living in his fancy loft apartment was like stepping into a fairy tale.

He bought me new clothes, took me to fancy restaurants.

I didn’t have to pull double shifts just to make rent.

I stupidly thought his controlling nature was his way of showing he cared.

I stopped studying at night, then my shifts at the diner.

By the time I realized what he really was, it was too late.

The memory of that night still makes my hands shake.

Coming home early to find Rennick in his office with two men I'd never seen before, talking about transporting human cargo.

The look on his face when he realized I was standing in the doorway.

Those cold eyes assessing me like I was a problem to be solved.

Two days later, I was gone. The kindly housekeeper, the only one who saw the bruises Rennick had started leaving, slipped me some money and whispered, “Run, girl. Run far away. Don’t look back!”

I'd been running ever since. Shelters. Cheap motels. Always looking over my shoulder, jumping at shadows. Knowing that if Rennick's men found me, I'd end up a prisoner or worse.

My plan had formed at a women's shelter two states away, when I overheard another woman talking about starting over through a ‘marriage arrangement’ site.

At first, I'd been horrified. But after another night of barely sleeping, terrified that every footstep in the hallway was someone coming for me, a marriage of convenience to a stranger in a remote mountain town started to sound less like rock bottom and more like salvation.

Mike Holloway. Trucker. Age 39. Lives alone on the outskirts of Ember Heart.

Wants a traditional wife. His messages had been brief.

No love talk, just a simple trade: my cooking and cleaning and.

.. other wifely duties... for his protection and a roof over my head.

A new name. A new identity. Somewhere Rennick would never think to look.

The bus driver interrupts my thoughts. “Five minutes, folks!”

My heart slams against my ribs as I gather my courage. I smooth down my faded blue dress. There's no turning back now.

When the bus finally rolls to its final stop on the outskirts of Ember Heart, my legs feel like lead. I let the other passengers disembark first, using the time to steady my breathing. The small bus station is a converted storefront with a bench out front and a ticket window.

The driver looks at me with mild concern. “This is the end of the line. You getting off, hon?”

“Yes. Sorry.” I stand, slinging my bag over my shoulder.

The mountain air hits me as I step down. It’s crisp and clean, nothing like the polluted city I left behind. Mountains rise in every direction. Maybe Rennick really won't find me here.

There are only a handful of people at the tiny station. Most are greeting the other passengers; a silver-haired woman hugging what must be her grandchildren, a woman kissing a man who's clearly her husband. And then there's a tall figure standing apart from the others, scanning the crowd.

Is that him? Mike Holloway?

The man's eyes land on me, and recognition flashes across his face. My stomach tightens as he walks toward me. He's not what I expected. The photo Mike sent was grainy, from a distance, and it made it hard to get a clear impression, but this man is... well, he's gorgeous in a dangerous way.

Tall and broad-shouldered, he has dark hair that falls just past his collar, slightly messy like he just took off a helmet.

He's wearing a worn leather jacket covered in patches, one displaying the Ridge Renegades Motorcycle Club emblem, stretched across shoulders that could only come from years of hard physical work.

Faded jeans with a rip at one knee cling to powerful thighs, and heavy boots that have seen better days complete the look.

But it's his face that catches me off-guard. His strong jawline is covered in dark stubble, a small scar cutting through his right eyebrow. His intense blue eyes seem to stare right through me. There's an untamed edge to him, something wild.

He looks younger than I expected Mike to be, maybe early thirties, and definitely more of a bad boy than the trucker I'd imagined. The kind of man my father would have chased off our porch with a shotgun. That is, if he'd ever have been sober enough to care.

My rehearsed greeting dies on my lips as he stops, towering over me by at least a foot.

“Trinity?” His voice is deep, with a slight rasp that sends an unexpected shiver down my spine.

I nod, not trusting my voice.

“I'm…” he hesitates for just a beat, “Mike. Welcome to Ember Heart.”

Relief washes through me. He’s nothing like the gruff, crude man I'd braced myself for. His smile is genuine, his eyes bright as they take me in. And he’s undeniably gorgeous. Why wouldn’t a guy like this put his face right up front in the photos? He should be beating off girls with a stick.

“You're younger than I expected,” he says, and for a moment, something like concern flashes across his face.

I lift my chin. “I’m twenty. Like I said in my messages.”

“Right, of course.” He reaches for my bag. “Is this all you have?”

“Yes.” No point explaining that everything else I owned was left behind in my desperate escape.

He takes the bag, his expression unreadable. “Truck's this way.”

I follow him to a black pickup truck, shiny and well-maintained.

Not what I'd expect a long-haul trucker to drive around town, but what do I know?

As he loads my bag into the back seat, I notice more motorcycle club patches on the back of his jacket and a bumper sticker for something called ‘Ember Heart Search and Rescue.’

“You're in a motorcycle club?” I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.

A look of surprise crosses his face, followed by something like caution. “Yeah. Ridge Renegades MC. You got a problem with that kind of thing?”

“No.” I actually like the idea. Motorcycles mean freedom. The opposite of being trapped.

He opens the passenger door for me and I climb in, immediately enveloped in the scent of leather and something spicy, like cinnamon or cloves. The truck is immaculate inside, another surprise.

As he slides into the driver's seat, I peek at his profile. His hands on the steering wheel are strong, calloused; working hands, with tattoos peeking out from under his jacket sleeves. The scar through his eyebrow is joined by another one along his jawline, and there’s a third disappearing beneath his collar.

Whatever Mike Holloway does for a living, it clearly isn't just sitting behind a wheel.

A shiver runs down my spine. Have I just jumped from the frying pan straight into the fire?

He clears his throat as we pull away from the station. “Long trip?”

“Twenty-six hours,” I reply, watching the small town pass by my window. It's picturesque, with wooden storefronts and a distinct lack of chain stores. “With transfers.”

He whistles. “You must be exhausted.”

“I'm fine.” I've been running on adrenaline and fear for so long that exhaustion feels normal.

“Hungry? We could stop at the diner before heading to the house.”

The mention of food makes my stomach growl. My cheeks flush.

He chuckles, a warm sound that makes my core flip. “I'll take that as a yes, darlin’.”

As we drive through town, he points out landmarks. The general store. The post office. The bar, a couple of cozy-looking restaurants. I try to pay attention, to memorize the layout of my new prison… no, my new home.

Because that's what this is. A choice I made. A calculated trade of freedom for security. Better the devil you know than the one hunting you.

But as I steal another glance at my future husband, I'm struck by how different he is from what his brief, crude messages suggested.

The rough biker exterior doesn't match the man who'd written about wanting a traditional home life.

There's an edge to him, a hint of danger in the way he carries himself.

Maybe, I haven't jumped from the frying pan into the fire. Maybe Mike Holloway is exactly what he appears to be; a lonely man in a small town looking for companionship.

“Almost there,” he says, turning onto the main road.

Hope flutters in my chest. For the first time since I ran from Rennick, I might be headed to a future that isn't just about survival; one where I might actually be safe.

But I’ve been burned before.

I need to stay on my guard.