Chapter 2
LEDGER
Saving an annoyingly attractive park ranger from a freak storm and bringing her back to my cabin was not on today's agenda.
I yank open my dresser drawer harder than necessary, pulling out thermal layers and wool socks. Behind me somewhere, she's still standing in the main room shivering like a wet chihuahua, probably trying to figure out if she should be more worried about hypothermia or being alone with me.
Smart money's on both.
The logical part of my brain—the part that kept me alive in prison and functioning out here alone for eight years—knows I did the right thing. You don't leave people to die, no matter who they are or what they want from you. Ethics 101.
But the rest of my brain is angry as all get out that I just brought the enemy into my home. My hideaway. The one place in the world where I don't have to see people looking at me like I'm a bomb waiting to go off.
And now she's here, in my space, and the second she stops shivering she's going to remember she needs my identification.
"There's a bathroom through there." I emerge from the bedroom, arms full of dry clothes, and thrust them at her. "Change. All of it. You don’t want frostbite."
She takes the clothes with shaking hands, those bright blue eyes huge in her pale face. Up close, I can see the freckles scattered across her nose, the way her soaked braid drips onto my floor…and how obscenely the wet fabric of her uniform clings to her body in ways that have me looking away fast.
She's young. Too young to be out here by herself.
Too young for me to be thinking such filthy things about her.
Stop it, Ford.
"I—" Her teeth chatter. "I need to r-radio in."
"After you change." I turn my back, moving to the fireplace to build up the fire. "You can't hold a radio if your fingers turn black and fall off."
I hear her hesitate, then the sound of wet boots squelching toward the bathroom. The door closes with a soft click.
I let out a long breath.
Bear lifts his head from his bed, gives me a look that clearly says he’s thrilled I brought home a new friend, and then settles back down.
“You’re supposed to growl at strangers,” I mutter, stacking kindling harshly. “You’re lucky you’re useful in other ways.”
Bear's tail thumps once.
The fire catches, and I force myself to focus on practical matters. I change out of my own wet clothes, then put the truffles in the refrigerator.
I need to make sure this cabin stays warm.
Then...what? She knows where I live.
My hands still on the firewood.
And she’ll know my name soon enough, and…what I did.
I mean, she's law enforcement. First thing they do is run names, check for priors, assess the threat level. My record isn't subtle. Assault and battery. Eighteen months in county, then another six months in state when I couldn't keep my mouth shut to the guards.
Two years of my life gone because I couldn't control my temper.
The bathroom door opens.
I stand slowly, bracing myself before I turn around.
My clothes swallow her whole. The thermal shirt keeps sliding off one shoulder, exposing the curve of her neck.
The sleeves are rolled up multiple times, and she's had to cinch the sweatpants tight just to keep them up.
Her hair's loose now, falling in damp waves past her shoulders—more auburn than strawberry blonde when it's wet.
She looks absurd. Like a kid playing dress-up in her dad's closet.
But she’s a goddamned beauty.
The thought hits me sideways, unwelcome and dangerous. I shove it down hard, but not before something hot and possessive unfurls in my chest as I realize she’s in my clothes, my space.
"Better?" My voice rough.
"Y-yes. Thank you." She's still shivering, but not as violently. Her eyes dart around the cabin, cataloging everything—the brewing equipment along one wall, the shelves of books I've collected over the years, the rifle mounted above the door.
Cop eyes, missing nothing.
"I really need to radio in," she says.
"Fire first." I gesture to the chairs I've pulled close to the hearth. "You're still shivering. Five more minutes won't matter."
"It's protocol—"
"Sit. Down."
It comes out harder than I mean it to, sharp enough that her spine stiffens and her hand moves instinctively toward her waist—except her belt, along with her gun, is currently hanging over my shower rod.
The vulnerability in her eyes when she realizes this hits me deep in the guts.
"Look." I take a breath, and try again. Softer. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm not going to stop you from calling your people. But you need to warm up first. So sit by the fire until you can feel your fingers, then you can do whatever ranger things you need to do."
She studies me for a long moment, clearly weighing her options. Trust the big guy who saved her, or...what? Make a run for it into the storm? Good luck.
Finally, she moves to the chair, perching on the edge like she might need to bolt.
Bear chooses that exact moment to heave himself up from his bed and pad over to her, tail wagging.
The traitor puts his head directly in her lap.
"Bear, down." I snap my fingers, but he ignores me completely, gazing up at her with absolute adoration.
She strokes his head tentatively, and his tail wags harder.
"He likes you," I grumble, moving to the kitchen area. "Don't think much of it. He likes everyone."
That’s not true. Bear's friendly, but he's also discerning. Took him three months to warm up to some of the regulars in town where I get my supplies.
But apparently this park ranger gets instant approval.
"Bear?" She's scratching behind his ears now, and the damn dog is in heaven. "That's his name?"
"It seemed fitting, but he’s not nearly as deadly." I fill the kettle, set it on the stove. She needs something hot to drink.
"I love dogs." Her voice has softened, talking to Bear instead of me. "Hey, buddy. You're a good boy, aren't you?"
Something in my chest does an uncomfortable twist. I turn back to the stove, tense. It's been a long time since I've heard a woman's voice in this cabin. Years since I've had any kind of company that wasn't four-legged.
And now I've got a federal officer wearing my clothes, petting my dog, about to call me and my location in.
The kettle whistles. I pour her some chamomile tea—good for warming up—and bring it to her along with a jar of honey.
"Drink." I settle into the other chair with my own mug of coffee; black and strong enough to strip paint. "You'll feel better."
She wraps both hands around the mug, and I watch her fingers slowly turn from white to pink as the heat seeps in. Those freckles stand out against her pale skin, like someone flicked a paintbrush at her face.
She really is pretty. I noticed it in the woods. Hell, I tried not to notice it. Noticing things like that is how you get in trouble.
"Thank you," she says quietly. "I know you didn't have to help me."
"Yeah, I did." I take a drink of coffee, bitter on my tongue. "Leaving people to die isn't my style."
"Even people who were trying to cite you?"
There's a hint of humor in her voice, and I glance at her. She's almost smiling, which seems crazy given the circumstances.
"Especially then," I say. "Can't let you die before you write me that ticket. Wouldn't be right."
Her smile does break through, and fuck me, she's got dimples.
"I'm Sadie," she offers. "Sadie Giles. Since we're going to be stuck here for a while, we might as well use names."
I hesitate. Names make this personal. And personal is dangerous.
But maybe pretending we can keep this impersonal is a joke.
"Ledger Ford."
She takes a sip of tea, and I watch her throat move as she swallows. "Nice to meet you."
I set my mug down carefully, keeping my expression neutral. "Since you’re going to run my name here soon, I might as well tell you why I took off. I don’t want you to be caught off guard.”
“Okay then.” She’s nervous. I can tell by the twitch in her fingers.
I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms. The defensive posture is automatic, armor I've worn so long I barely notice it anymore. "I’m an ex-con. Assault and battery. Did my time. Now I live out here where I don't bother anyone."
She goes quiet, but sits up taller. "Well, you were bothering the truffle population," she points out.
"Didn't realize they had rights."
"Picking them requires permits." She's still got that hint of humor in her voice, but there's something else too. Curiosity, maybe. Like she's trying to figure me out. "Why truffles? Do you sell them?"
I shake my head. "Brewing." The word comes out clipped. "I’m entering a contest. Need truffles for my recipe."
Her eyebrows rise. "You brew beer?"
I gesture vaguely toward my equipment along the wall—the carboys, the bottling station, the careful setup I've spent years perfecting. "Hobby."
She turns to look at my brewing operation. I watch her take it in. I try to keep it clean, organized, and take care in the small details.
"That there is not a hobby," she says slowly. "That's a craft."
Something pulses in my chest and I stamp it out.
"It's something to do," I say flatly. "Gets quiet out here."
"How long have you been out here?" She turns back to me.
"Eight years. Since I got out." I meet her eyes, daring her to judge. "Came out here at thirty-two and haven't left since. Well, except for supply runs."
"That's a long time to be alone."
"It's worth it to not have people looking at you like you're going to snap." The words come out curt. "Like you're doing right now."
"I'm not—"
"You are." I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "You’re sitting there trying to figure out if I'm dangerous, if you're safe here, if I saved you because I'm a decent person or because I had another more nefarious reason."
She bites the side of her cheek. "That's not fair."
"It's accurate."
We stare at each other across the space between the chairs. Bear's ears track back and forth like he's listening to a tennis match.