Chapter 17 Gabriel
Gabriel
Lucy sits curled in the passenger seat of my patrol truck, looking smaller than she has any right to be. More fragile than the woman who walked into Colt's clinic with a dying dog and turned our lives upside down.
The drive from the hospital stretches out in loaded silence.
Every pothole makes her wince, though she tries to hide it behind that stubborn brave face she wears like armor.
I've been reading people long enough to recognize pain in the set of shoulders, the careful way someone breathes when their ribs are screaming.
The need to fix this, to take her pain away, claws at me like something feral. But I can't. Can only drive carefully and hope the road doesn't jar her too badly.
The memory hits sharp again. That moment when I saw the destroyed van, something primitive took over. Not sheriff training, not professional distance. Pure, animal fear that we were too late.
Then finding her at the bottom of that ravine, twisted and bloody and too goddamn still. The relief when she opened her eyes hit harder than any punch I've ever taken. She was alive. Hurt, maybe broken, but breathing.
Now she's here, in my truck, heading to my home because she chose me. Out of three men who'd burn this town down for her, she picked the one who's been keeping his distance. The one who doesn't have Colt's easy charm or Beau's quiet intensity.
"It's beautiful out here," she says softly, watching Montana roll past her window. Mountains shouldering the sky in the distance, valleys carved by glaciers and time and the kind of patience only nature possesses. "So peaceful."
"Wait until you see it in full daylight." I glance at her, catch the small smile that transforms her bruised face. "Different from New York, I'd imagine."
The words slip out before I can stop them, and I watch her spine stiffen. Most people would miss it, but I've made a career of noticing what others overlook. The way her hands still in her lap, how her breathing changes.
"You know I'm from New York?" Her voice goes carefully neutral, but there's wariness underneath like thin ice over deep water.
"Your accent shows when you're tired or stressed." I keep my tone conversational, non-threatening. Don't mention that her license plates told the same story, or that I've been building a profile on Lucy Reid since day one. "I'm trained to notice details. Part of the job."
She's quiet for a long moment, processing this. I can practically hear the wheels turning, wondering what else I've figured out, what other secrets I might have uncovered. I file that reaction away with all the other pieces of the puzzle that is Lucy Reid.
"Very different," she finally says, and I let it drop. For now.
The truth is, I've been putting together an unofficial background check since she walked into town.
Young woman, alone, no permanent address, paying cash for everything, jumpy around authority figures.
Classic pattern of someone running from something.
The question is what, and whether it's going to follow her here.
There's an innocence to her that doesn't fit with criminal activity, but there's also bone-deep fear of being found that speaks of real danger. Someone hurt her. Someone she's still afraid of.
The Cutter brothers already let her see their faces, know she can identify them. That's not their usual MO, they prefer to stay shadows. They're getting sloppy, desperate. Which makes them dangerous in ways I can't explain to Lucy without sending her into a panic.
"Thank you," she says suddenly, breaking into my dark thoughts. "For letting me stay with you. I know it's an imposition."
"It's not." The words come out rougher than intended, and I clear my throat. "You need somewhere safe to recover. I have the space."
And you need protection, though I won't tell you that part yet.
When she chose me at the hospital, something in my chest loosened for the first time in years. Not because I think I have some kind of claim on her, but because she trusts me enough to be vulnerable around me. That means something. More than it should.
I think about Colt and Beau's history, how they shared someone before everything fell apart. The way they both look at Lucy, the careful dance they've been doing around her and each other. Could I be part of something that complicated? That emotionally risky?
The answer should be no. I don't share. Don't do complicated. Learned that lesson with Katherine.
But then I remember how all three of us worked together to save Lucy, no thought of rivalry or possession. Just desperate need to get her out of that ravine alive.
Maybe some things are worth the risk.
We turn onto the dirt road that leads to my place, gravel crunching under the tires.
It's not much yet, but it's mine. A modest ranch house I've been rebuilding piece by piece, fixing what the previous owner let rot.
New roof last summer, wraparound porch this spring.
The barn still needs work, but the bones are solid.
Functional but rough around the edges. Like me, I suppose.
"Gabriel, this is..." She trails off as we pull up, and something in her voice makes me look at her properly. Her eyes are wide, taking in the hand-carved porch railings, the fresh white paint, the way the setting sun hits the windows just right. "Did you build all this yourself?"
"Most of it." I come around to help her out, careful of her ribs. She leans on me more than she probably wants to. "Bought it as a project. Still working on it."
"It's perfect." She means it, I can tell. There's something in her eyes as she takes in the view of the Rockies, the silence that wraps around us like a blanket. Like she's seeing something she didn't know she was looking for.
I help her inside, trying to see it through her eyes.
Living room with the stone fireplace I rebuilt by hand after the old one nearly burned the place down.
Kitchen with new cabinets but original hardwood floors that took me three months to refinish.
Down the hall to the guest room, which suddenly seems too small, too plain for her.
"This is yours for as long as you need it." I set the bag of hospital supplies on the antique dresser I found at an estate sale. "Bathroom's across the hall. My room's at the end if you need anything."
"This is really too much, Gabriel." She touches the handmade quilt my mother sent last Christmas, fingers gentle on the fabric before settling on the bed. "But what about your work? Your life? You can't babysit me around the clock."
"Already arranged for coverage." I lean against the doorframe, trying to ignore how right she looks in this space. Like she belongs here instead of just visiting. "When I'm on duty, either Colt or Beau will be here."
I watch her process this, see the protest forming on her lips.
"Doctor's orders," I add before she can object. "Someone needs to monitor you for concussion symptoms. Make sure you're not getting worse."
It's not the whole truth. Yes, the medical protocol requires observation. But I've seen what desperation drives the Cutters to do. They're not known for leaving witnesses. In their drug-addled minds, she might need to be silenced.
I won't risk it.
"I don't want to be a burden to anyone."
"You're not." The words come out firmer than intended, and she looks up at me in surprise. "Can I ask you something?"
She nods, though wariness creeps back into her expression.
"Why are you living in that van?"
Her shoulders hunch like she's bracing for impact. I see it starting, the scramble for a story, the panic of someone backed into a corner.
Her eyes dart around the room, looking anywhere but at me. The classic tell that means she's about to lie.
"Lucy." I move closer, keeping my voice level and calm. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Lie to me." I crouch in front of her so we're eye level, close enough to see the gold flecks in her brown eyes. "I need you to understand something. In my house, under my protection, you don't lie to me. Ever."
Her eyes widen, and I see fear there. Not of me, but of whatever truth she's carrying.
"If you're not ready to tell me something, say that. If you don't want to answer, I'll respect that." I keep my voice gentle but firm, the tone I'd use with a spooked horse. "But don't lie. I need to know what I'm dealing with by having you here."
I pause, let the weight of the next question settle before I ask it.
"Have you done something illegal? Are you involved with drugs?"
The last word comes out sharp, edged with old pain I thought I'd buried.
Katherine's face flashes through my mind. My high school sweetheart, the girl I was going to marry, dead at twenty-three from pills she hid so well I never saw the signs.
She'd started with prescription painkillers after a car accident. Said they were helping with recovery. What she didn't tell me was that she'd been crushing them, snorting them, chasing a high that eventually required stronger stuff.
By the time I found out, she was buying fentanyl-laced pills from dealers who didn't care if their customers lived or died.
I came home from a late shift to find her on our bathroom floor. Blue lips, no pulse. The paramedics worked for twenty minutes, but she was already gone.
The lies had poison in them. They killed the woman I loved and made damn sure I'd never fully trust anyone again.
"No." Lucy's voice is rock-steady now, her eyes locked on mine. "No drugs. Nothing illegal. I swear on my mother's grave."
I search her face, looking for the tell, the micro-expression that would give away deception. But she's calm, certain. Scared maybe, but not lying. Not about this.
"Okay." I stand, giving her space to breathe. "That's all I need to know for now."
"For now?"
"You're hiding something. Running from something. That's obvious to anyone with eyes."
I move to the window, looking out at the mountains that have always brought me peace. "When you're ready, if you ever are, you can tell me. But no lies between us. Deal?"
She nods slowly. "Deal."
"Good. You should rest. I'll be in the living room if you need anything."
I close the door behind me, leaving her to settle in. But I know sleep won't come easy for either of us tonight.
In the living room, I pour three fingers of Jameson. But don't drink it. Just hold the glass, watching the amber liquid catch light from the stone fireplace. Thinking about Lucy choosing me when she could have had either of the others.
About whether I'm strong enough to be what she needs, or if I'm just setting us both up for the kind of heartbreak that changes you permanently.
The truth is, I want her.
But wanting someone and being good for them are two entirely different things.
What do I have to offer her? A half-finished house and a heart that's forgotten how to let someone past the walls.
But then I think about the way she thanked me for not trying to fix her, just for giving her space to exist as she is.
Maybe that's enough. Maybe that's what she needs right now.
I set the whiskey aside untouched and pull out my phone. Time to make some calls, set up the protection detail.
Colt and Beau will need to understand the rules. No pressure on Lucy. No using their time here to push their own agendas. She needs to heal, not navigate men's complicated feelings.
Though if I'm honest, that includes mine. Because Lucy Reid is under my roof now, under my protection. And the urge to keep her here, safe from whatever she's running from, is stronger than any professional duty I've ever felt.
She says no drugs, no illegal activity. I believe her.
But some part of me—the cop part, the part that's seen too much—stays on high alert anyway.
Waiting for the truth she's not ready to share.
Hoping like hell it won't destroy us both when it finally comes to light.