Chapter 2
TWO
COLT
I watch her sleep like a damn fool.
She’s curled on the couch under the wool blanket I threw over her, one small hand tucked under her cheek, the other resting on her bandaged ribs.
The firelight paints her skin gold, catching in the dark strands of hair that fell across her face when she finally gave in to exhaustion.
Her breathing is slow now, steady. No more chattering teeth.
No more wide-eyed terror every time the wind rattles the shutters.
She looks… fragile. Breakable. And that pisses me off more than it should.
I’ve spent years up here teaching myself not to give a damn about anyone who isn’t me. People come, people go—hunters, lost hikers, the occasional Forest Service guy checking permits. I patch them up, point them downhill, shut the door. End of story. No attachments. No complications.
But this one?
This one showed up bleeding on my porch in the middle of a whiteout, looking like she’d run straight through hell to get here.
And the second I touched her—when I hauled her inside and felt how cold she was, how she trembled under my hands—something cracked open inside my chest I didn’t even know was still there.
I want to keep her.
Not just safe. Mine.
The thought hits like a gut punch. I scrub a hand over my face, beard rasping against my palm, and force myself to look away. She’s hurt. Scared. Running from men who cut her open without blinking. Last thing she needs is a rough bastard like me staring at her like she’s something I could claim.
But Christ, she’s beautiful.
Not the polished, city kind of beautiful.
The real kind. Soft mouth, long lashes, freckles scattered across her nose like someone flicked cinnamon on her.
Even with the dirt and dried blood smudged on her cheek, even with the exhaustion carving shadows under her eyes, she’s the prettiest thing that’s ever crossed my threshold.
I shift in the chair, boots scraping the floorboards.
The rifle stays within reach—loaded, safety off.
I’ve checked the windows twice already. The storm’s still raging; no tracks will hold in this wind.
If anyone’s stupid enough to follow her up here tonight, they’ll be dead before they reach the tree line. Hypothermia or a bullet. Their choice.
She makes a small sound in her sleep—half whimper, half sigh—and my hand twitches toward the blanket like I could shield her from whatever nightmare’s chasing her even now.
I stand before I do something stupid, like brush the hair off her face. I move to the kitchen instead. Pour the last of the coffee into my mug, black and bitter. It’s cold now, but I drink it anyway. Need something to do with my hands besides hover over her like some lovesick kid.
The kettle’s still warm on the stove. I fill it again, set it back to heat.
She’ll wake up soon—probably starving, probably hurting.
I dig through the pantry: canned peaches, jerky, a half-loaf of bread I baked three days ago.
It’s still good. I slice it thick, slather it with butter from the cold box outside, set a plate on the low table near the couch.
She stirs when the kettle whistles.
Her eyes flutter open—hazel, flecked with green and gold in the firelight. For a second she just stares at me, disoriented, then memory slams back. She sits up too fast, winces, hand flying to her side.
“Easy,” I say, voice low. I stay where I am, across the room, giving her space. “You’re still here. You’re safe.”
She exhales, shaky. Nods. Her gaze darts around the cabin—door bolted, windows shuttered, rifle by my chair—then lands back on me. “How long was I out?” she asks.
“Not long.”
She looks at the plate I set out. Hunger flickers across her face before she schools it.
“Eat,” I tell her. “You lost blood. You need fuel.”
She reaches for the bread, tears off a piece, chews slowly like she’s forgotten how. I watch her throat move, watch the way her lips close around the crust, and have to look away before my thoughts go somewhere they shouldn’t.
“How’s the arm?” I ask instead.
“Stings. Ribs too. But better than before.” She swallows. “Thank you. For… everything.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” I cross my arms, leaning against the counter. “Storm might last two days. Maybe three. You’re stuck with me till it clears.”
Her lips curve—just a little. First hint of a smile I’ve seen on her. “Could be worse.”
Heat crawls up my neck. I grunt, turning to pour hot water over fresh grounds. I keep my back to her so she doesn’t see whatever’s showing on my face. When I bring her a mug, she wraps both hands around it, same way she did earlier. Like the warmth is the only thing anchoring her.
“Colt,” she says quietly.
I freeze at the sound of my name in her mouth. Soft. Sweet. Like she’s tasting it. “Yeah?”
“Whoever’s after me… they won’t just stop. They’re not the kind of men who give up.”
I meet her eyes. “Then they’ll die trying.”
She blinks, searching my face like she’s trying to decide if I mean it.
I do.
I’ve killed before—war, then a couple times after, when men thought remote meant lawless. I don’t lose sleep over it. If someone comes for her, they’ll meet the business end of my rifle or the blade I keep strapped to my ankle. Simple.
She doesn’t flinch at my words. Just nods once, slowly. Like she believes me. Something shifts in my chest—tightens and loosens at the same time.
I set my mug down harder than I mean to. “You need the bathroom?”
She glances toward the small door off the main room. “Yeah. If it’s okay.”
I jerk my chin. “Go. There’s clean towels on the shelf. Hot water’s limited—don’t waste it.”
She stands carefully, testing her balance. The blanket falls away. She’s still in just my oversized tee I gave her after I cut her ruined shirt off—hem hitting mid-thigh. Bare legs. Bare feet. Bruises blooming purple on her shins from whatever she crashed through getting here.
My jaw locks.
She notices me looking. Color climbs her cheeks, but she doesn’t cover up. Just lifts her chin a fraction. “I’ll be quick,” she says.
I nod, watching her walk to the bathroom.
She moves slowly, and I clock her movements.
The door clicks shut. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
She’s in my space. Wearing my shirt. Bleeding on my floor.
Trusting me when she shouldn’t trust anyone.
And I’m already thinking about how she’d feel under my hands—not hurt, not scared, just… mine.
I drag a hand through my hair, and force myself to the window again. Snow’s still coming down sideways. No visibility. No tracks. No way anyone’s climbing this ridge tonight.
But tomorrow?
Tomorrow’s another story.
I check the rifle. Chamber a fresh round. Set it back within reach.
When she comes out, hair damp, face scrubbed clean, looking smaller and younger and somehow even more dangerous to my peace of mind, I’m ready.
“Bed,” I say. “You take it. I’ll stay out here.”
Her eyes flick to the single bedroom door, then back to me. “Colt—”
“No argument.” My voice comes out rougher than I intend. “You need rest. Real rest. Not on that damn couch.”
She hesitates. Then nods. “Okay. But… you’ll wake me if anything happens?”
“Promise.”
She crosses to the bedroom, pausing in the doorway. She looks back at me over her shoulder. “Colt?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you. For not turning me away.”
I swallow hard. “Go to sleep, Willa.”
She disappears inside.
I stand there a long minute, listening to the creak of the bedframe, the rustle of quilts. Imagining her sliding between my sheets, her scent on my pillows.
Then I turn back to the fire. I won’t sleep tonight. But I’ll keep watch. And if anyone tries to take her from me? They’ll have to go through hell first. Because she’s under my roof now. Under my protection. And whether she knows it yet or not—she’s mine to keep safe.