Chapter 6
Sadie stared at her phone in frustration. The fifth call, and still no answers. She ended the call with the ranger station and tossed her phone onto Nash’s coffee table.
“No luck?” Nash asked, leaning against the kitchen doorway.
“None,” she sighed. “My contact at the Historical Society isn’t answering.
Neither is anyone at the Mount Olympus Wilderness office who might have been able to tell us more about the Olympus Foundation’s property boundaries.
” She’d been making calls all afternoon while Nash had been working on some legal briefs.
“We could still drive by,” Nash suggested. “Do a reconnaissance mission. No trespassing required.”
Sadie considered this. Her ankle was still tender from her fall in Provo Canyon, but at least the swelling had gone down a bit. “Good idea. Let me get my shoes.”
She pushed herself up from the couch, testing her weight gingerly on her injured ankle. It held. She’d only been at Nash’s home for a few hours, but already it felt more comfortable than her own apartment had in months.
“Ready?” Nash asked, grabbing his keys from the hook by the door.
“As I’ll ever be.”
They headed out the front door of Nash’s home.
Sadie felt conspicuous, like anyone watching would know she didn’t belong here—a feeling that had followed her since entering witness protection.
They were halfway down the front walk when it happened. Her injured ankle rolled on an uneven paving stone, and Sadie felt herself pitching forward.
“Ahh!” she cried out, falling to the ground. The pain was blinding, bringing frustrated tears to her eyes. “Oh, come on!”
Nash was beside her instantly. “Let me see.”
“Wait.” She held up her hand, breathing through the pain. After a moment, she attempted to stand, placing her hand on Nash’s shoulder for support. Her ankle buckled immediately, sending another shock of pain up her leg. “No,” she gasped. “Definitely not weight-bearing.”
Before she could process what was happening, Nash had scooped her up into his arms, cradling her against his chest, just like the day before.
“Put me down,” she protested weakly, even as her arms instinctively wrapped around his neck. “This is ridiculous.”
“It’s practical,” Nash countered, carrying her back toward the house. “And it’s becoming a habit, isn’t it?” He grinned.
She winced. “I don’t like this habit. I don’t like being the damsel in distress.”
Nash grunted. “Well, too bad, because you can’t walk. Plus, I like playing hero.”
The casual comment sent an unexpected flutter through her chest. She’d spent so many years handling everything alone, trusting no one. Having someone—having Nash—step in to help felt foreign. Dangerous, even. But also, somehow, right.
Inside, Nash gently deposited her on the couch and arranged pillows to elevate her leg. He turned on the stereo system, and soft country music filled the room.
“Ice,” he said decisively, heading to the kitchen. “And then I’ll call my brother Chance. His wife, Kelly, sprained her ankle pretty badly last year. He might have some advice.”
Sadie watched him move efficiently around the kitchen, filling a bag with ice and wrapping it in a dish towel. There was something mesmerizing about his confidence, the easy way he handled every situation. Nash Cross, the boy who never seemed rattled by anything.
“Here,” he said, returning with the ice pack and placing it carefully on her swollen ankle. “How’s the pain? Do you need ibuprofen?”
“Probably due for more.”
Nash nodded and disappeared back into the kitchen, returning with water and pills. “So much for our Mount Olympus expedition.”
“I’m sorry,” Sadie said, genuinely frustrated. “I seem to be slowing us down at every turn.”
“Or maybe you’re preventing us from rushing headlong into danger without proper preparation,” Nash countered with a small smile. “Everything happens for a reason, right?”
The comment reminded her of her mother’s constant refrain after they’d entered witness protection. Everything happens for a reason. God has a plan for your life. Easy words when you weren’t the one whose life had been completely derailed.
Nash moved back to the kitchen and began pulling items from the refrigerator—the chicken they’d bought during their grocery shopping trip earlier, along with vegetables and olive oil.
“What are you doing?” Sadie asked.
“Making dinner. We have to eat, and since we’re stuck here for now …” He shrugged. “Might as well make it good.”
Sadie watched as he washed and chopped vegetables with practiced ease, assembling an organic salad with the ingredients she’d insisted on buying. He seasoned chicken breasts with herbs, his movements confident and precise.
“I didn’t know you could cook,” she said.
“One of the many things you don’t know about me,” he replied with a wink.
As he worked and hummed along with the music, Sadie found herself studying him.
The way his dark hair fell across his forehead when he leaned forward.
The concentrated set of his jaw as he sliced vegetables.
The flex of his forearms as he worked. It was undeniable how attracted she was to him—and had been, even all those years ago.
Nash glanced up and caught her staring. “What?”
“Nothing.”
“What?” he persisted, a half smile playing at his lips.
She shrugged, feeling embarrassed at being caught. “Hey, I’ve already told you that you’re handsome. What more do you want from a girl?”
To her surprise, Nash actually blushed, the color rising along his cheekbones. He cleared his throat and quoted, “‘Fair thoughts and happy hours attend on you.’ Shakespeare knew a thing or two about flattery.”
“Oh, you’re quoting Shakespeare now.”
He quickly turned away, picking up the plate of seasoned chicken. “I’m going to put these on the grill,” he said, heading for the back door.
Sadie laughed, not believing that she was thinking this way, that they were falling into such easy banter after everything that had happened. But there was something comfortable about being with Nash—something that felt like coming home, even though she hadn’t had a real home in years.
When he returned a few minutes later, he finished setting the table and putting the final touches on the salad, adding sliced strawberries and almonds.
“You sure are good at cooking for having no food in your house,” she observed.
Nash moved to sit beside her on the couch, checking the timer for the chicken on his phone. “Well, I don’t get to put my skills to use very often because I stay rather busy.”
She nodded. “With law and with this … whole gold hunt of your own. The conquistador gold.” She studied him, wanting to ask so many questions that had been building since she’d recognized his family name in the newspaper article months ago.
He tilted his head to the side. “Are you trying to get me to admit to something?”
“No.” But she was.
He studied her face, and she knew he could see right through her.
She pushed anyway. “What leads do you have with the conquistador gold?” It wasn’t something she’d thought much about when they’d first encountered each other by the cave, too distracted by the shock of seeing him and then by her own concerns about protecting him from whatever had happened to Bill.
Nash shook his head. “Not going to tell you, but—” He stood up. “I might tell you after we eat and you answer some of my questions.” He moved toward the back door to check on the chicken.
“Always the attorney, right?” she called after him.
Nash flashed her a huge grin. “It is my profession.” He disappeared through the door.
Sadie watched him go and figured maybe she should answer some questions, so she could get some answers of her own. The trick would be deciding which parts of her past she could share without putting them both in more danger.
She had survived for eight years by keeping secrets. But looking around Nash’s comfortable home, with country music playing softly and the scent of grilling chicken drifting in from the backyard, Sadie found herself wanting to let go of some of that burden. Just a little. Just with him.
She reached for her phone, checking it out of habit. No missed calls, no texts. No one looking for her, except perhaps whoever had threatened her on the phone yesterday. The thought sent a chill through her despite the warm air coming through the open windows.
The timer on Nash’s phone chimed from where he’d left it on the coffee table. A moment later, he came back inside carrying a plate of perfectly grilled chicken, the aroma making Sadie’s stomach growl.
“Perfect timing,” he said, setting the chicken on a cutting board. “Let me help you to the table.”
“I can hobble,” Sadie insisted, but Nash was already there, offering his arm for support.
She stood carefully, putting most of her weight on her good leg, and leaned into him as they made their slow way to the dining table. It was a beautiful piece—handcrafted from what looked like reclaimed wood, with subtle grain patterns.
“Did you make this?” she asked, running her fingers along the edge as Nash helped her into a chair.
He nodded. “Last summer. When we were growing up, my grandfather taught all of us Cross boys how to work with wood. Porter’s the best at it, but I hold my own.”
There was something both surprising and unsurprising about Nash being good with his hands. She’d known the Cross family were ranchers, of course, but seeing evidence of Nash’s craftsmanship added another dimension to the lawyer she’d reconnected with.
Nash served the food—sliced grilled chicken over the organic salad he’d prepared, with a side of fresh fruit. The presentation was as appealing as the aroma.
As Sadie reached for her fork, Nash put his hand out, palm up, in the center of the table. “Do you want to pray together over the food?”