Chapter 7
seven
The shift from wanting to tear her clothes off to wanting to kill whoever had done this happened so fast it made Bear’s head ring.
Two minutes ago, Greta had been wrapped around him in the dark, wild and wrecked and kissing him like she wanted to crawl inside his skin. Now she stood frozen with the beam of her flashlight shaking across overturned furniture and smashed glass and those fucking words on the wall.
STOP LOOKING.
He stepped in front of her. “Wait outside with the dogs.”
She didn’t budge. “What? No. This is my—”
“Let me check the rest of the building.” He planted a hand against her sternum, easing her back a pace. “Once it’s clear, you can come in.”
She knocked his hand away. “I’m not waiting outside while you play hero. This is my shop.”
“You don’t know if someone’s still in here.” He kept his voice even, reasonable. “Let me check first.”
“I know every inch of this place, and nobody else is here.” She tried to step around him, but he shifted to block her path. “Move, Bear. Now.”
A week ago—hell, two hours ago—he would’ve hauled her outside over his shoulder and dealt with the fight later.
Now?
She’d already spent the day getting gutted open. He wasn’t taking more control away from her unless he absolutely had to.
“Stay behind me,” he conceded. “And if I tell you to get down, you get down. No questions.”
She scowled, but after a stubborn second, nodded.
He turned and moved deeper into the shop, scanning the space with every skill he’d learned in Special Forces. Greta followed three steps behind him, close enough that he could feel the heat of her at his back, but not so close she’d get in his way if things went sideways.
The back room opened into a narrow hallway that ran the length of the building.
To the right was the main showroom, a spacious area filled with outdoor gear—everything from climbing equipment to backpacks to the kayaks that were Greta’s specialty.
To the left was the bathroom and, beyond that, a storeroom packed with inventory.
He took the main showroom first, clearing each section methodically—behind the counter, the changing room in the corner, the small office visible through the glass partition. No sign of forced entry, no obvious points of access. The front door was still locked, the alarm panel beside it silent.
“The front’s secure,” he told Greta, who was watching him from the doorway. “Alarm’s not tripped.”
She frowned. “That’s impossible. The system’s supposed to call my phone if anything happens.”
He moved past her toward the bathroom, pushing the door open with his boot before stepping inside. Empty. The small window above the toilet was closed, the lock engaged.
The storeroom came next—a cramped space filled with shelves of inventory, boxes stacked three high against the back wall. He checked behind each shelf, under the small desk in the corner, even in the supply closet.
“Clear,” he said, backing out of the room.
“I told you nobody was here.”
He grumbled. Of course Tink wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to tell him “told you so.”
They returned to the front room, and Greta moved past him, dropping to her knees beside the overturned desk.
“My laptop,” she said, her voice hollow. “All my client files, my business records...”
Bear crouched beside her. “We’ll get it back.”
She didn’t answer, just turned back to the mess, hands hovering over the scattered papers as if afraid to touch them.
Bear moved deeper into the room, scanning for threats, for clues, for anything that might explain what had happened.
The desk phone lay on the floor, the receiver cracked.
A lamp had been knocked over, the bulb shattered.
The chair—a simple wooden thing with a padded seat—had been tipped onto its side.
And there, on what remained of the desk, a flyer. The word MISSING blared at the top in bold type, and beneath it, a photograph of Greta’s twin. Alice Dougherty, 16. Last seen at Crooked Creek Campground. $50,000 reward for information.
The flyer had been torn in half, then carefully laid out side by side, as if the person who’d done this had wanted to make sure it was seen.
Bear moved to block the doorway, turning to intercept her, but he was too late.
She’d already seen the flyer. He watched her face change—the momentary confusion giving way to understanding, then to fury.
She spun away and walked back down the hall toward the front of the shop, her back straight, her steps measured.
Bear followed, giving her space but keeping her in sight. She stopped at the front window, arms crossed, staring out at the dark parking lot. Her reflection in the glass was pale, her eyes too bright.
He surveyed the wreckage again, and his gaze landed on the wall.
STOP LOOKING.
He thought of the hairstylist who’d walked into the shop with her convenient lead about Glenhaven. Thought of the two-hour drive north that had forced Greta to close for the day, giving someone all the time they needed to slip in undetected.
The meanness of it bothered him. Someone had taken their time here, had wanted to hurt her.
He pulled out his phone and dialed X’s number.
“Yo,” X answered after the second ring. “What’s up, big guy?”
“I need a favor.”
“Shoot.”
“Greta’s had a break-in at her shop. I’m taking her to the sheriff to file a report, and I don’t know how long it’ll take.” He kept his voice low, keeping one eye on Greta. “Can you pick Logan up from school and take him to the ranch for me?”
“Sure thing.” X’s tone shifted, the teasing edge giving way to genuine concern. “Everyone okay?”
“Yeah. Just some vandalism.”
“Uh-huh.” A pause. “Bear? Be careful.”
They had been at Valor Ridge long enough to know that “vandalism” was rarely just that when it happened to people connected to the ranch.
“Thanks,” Bear said, and hung up. He let himself have a moment with the guilt—he should be picking Logan up. But he couldn’t leave Greta to deal with this alone.
And, right now, Logan probably preferred X over him.
He’d make it up to the kid. Somehow.
Greta was still at the front window with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, her shoulders rigid. He moved to stand beside her, but didn’t touch her.
“We need to report this.”
She shook her head. “It’s probably just some kids. They see words scrawled on a wall in a horror movie and think it’s funny.”
“Kids don’t break into closed businesses and leave specific, targeted messages on the wall.”
“It’s not that specific. Everyone in town knows I’m looking for Alice. Of course they’d write that.”
“Kids take the cash from the register, break some shit, and run.” He motioned to the desk. “They don’t tear up a flyer and arrange it so you find it.”
“It could be random,” she insisted. “Anyone pulling out that drawer would have found those flyers.”
“Greta.” He waited until she met his eyes. When she didn’t, he added, “This wasn’t random.”
She nodded but still didn’t turn to look at him. “I know.”
He wanted to touch her, to pull her against his side and promise that everything would be okay.
But he’d made too many empty promises in his life to make another one now.
He couldn’t guarantee her safety. Couldn’t swear he’d find whoever had done this.
All he could do was stay by her side and try to keep her from getting hurt.
When she finally turned to face him, her eyes were dry, but red-rimmed and exhausted. “Sheriff Goodwin has never listened to me. Why would he start now?”
“We still have to report it. For the insurance claim, if nothing else.”
Her shoulders slumped. “I know, but I fucking hate dealing with that man.”
Christ, she looked… defeated. He couldn’t stand it. This wasn’t his fiery, smart-mouthed Greta, and he wanted to fix it.
He reached for her without thinking. Needed to put a hand on her shoulder, the back of her neck, anywhere. Needed her to know she wasn’t alone in this.
She sidestepped him.
It was such a small motion. A quarter step to the left, a turn of her shoulder, and his hand met empty air.
She didn’t look at him as she did it, didn’t acknowledge it had happened. “Alright, let’s get it over with.”
Fuck.
He dropped his hand and exhaled slowly as she pushed through the front door into the cold evening air. She didn’t wait for him to catch up. Just whistled for the dogs, ushered them into the backseat, then climbed behind the wheel and started the engine.
He’d seen men in worse shape pretend they were fine—men with gaping, spurting wounds, men who’d just lost the guy on their left—and the look was always the same. The mind locked down to keep from spinning out.
Greta had that look now. She was holding herself together by the sheer force of her stubbornness.
He should say something. Something to bridge the distance she’d just put between them. But what?
Don’t shut me out.
He had no right to ask that.
I’ve got you.
He’d just promised himself not to make promises he couldn’t keep.
She leaned out the window. “You coming or not?”
“Yeah.” No way in hell was he letting her face that bastard Goodwin alone when she was already this raw. Goodwin would smell blood and go straight for it.
He got in the passenger seat, the Jeep’s suspension groaning under his weight. Greta threw it in gear and pulled out of the parking lot without a word.
The cab was silent except for the dogs settling in the back—King’s heavy panting and Atlas’s sigh as he settled down, head resting on his paws, worried gaze on the back of his person’s head.
Bear stared out the windshield at the empty road and let the silence sit, because she needed it to.
Because filling it would only push her further away.
Whatever had started between them in that turnout was gone, shattered by the wreckage of her office and the words on her wall.
STOP LOOKING.
As if she ever would.