Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
FORCED SHELTER
LOGAN
Logan Maddox was going to kill Sheriff Grayson.
Slowly. Painfully. Preferably somewhere remote where no one would find the body.
He stared at the dying embers in the fireplace, listening to Avery's breathing even out on the cot behind him. She'd finally fallen asleep an hour ago, curled on her side with one hand tucked under her cheek like a kid.
She wasn't a kid.
That was the problem.
Logan shifted in the chair, his back protesting. He'd slept in worse places, bare ground, transport helicopters, bombed-out buildings in countries whose names he couldn't pronounce. A wooden chair in his own cabin shouldn't bother him.
But knowing she was ten feet away, warm and soft and trusting him not to be the kind of man who'd take advantage of that trust?
That bothered him.
He’d come to Bitterroot Ridge on the advice of someone he trusted…”the mountains don’t judge, but they’ll keep you honest.’ Two years later, Logan still wasn't sure if it was a blessing or a curse.
Mostly curse, tonight.
The storm hadn't let up. If anything, it had gotten worse. Wind howled through the trees, rattling the shutters. Snow piled against the windows in drifts that would take hours to dig through come morning.
Which meant Avery wasn't leaving.
Not tomorrow. Maybe not the day after.
Fuck.
Logan moved to the shelf where his emergency radio sat. He picked it up, keyed the mic.
Static.
He adjusted the frequency, tried again. More static.
The storm was interfering with transmission—not unusual this high up in heavy weather, but damn inconvenient. He could try hiking down to a lower elevation where the signal might be clearer. But that would mean leaving her alone for hours. In a storm. In an unfamiliar cabin.
Everything his conscience screamed against. Logan set the radio down.
He'd try again once the weather cleared.
Logan stood, moving quietly to the window.
Dawn was still an hour away, but he could see the outline of the trees bending under the wind, branches snapping.
The visibility was maybe five feet. Anyone who tried to hike down that trail would end up lost or dead within an hour.
He'd have to keep her here. Keep her safe.
Keep his hands to himself.
The memory of her touch burned through him, her fingers on his forearm, light as a whisper. He'd caught her wrist on instinct, and the feel of her pulse racing under his thumb had nearly broken him.
She'd looked at him like she knew exactly what he was thinking. Like she wanted the same thing.
Sheriff Grayson's daughter. An EMT trainee who needed him for certification, not for…
He shut that thought down hard.
Logan had spent two years in Bitterroot Ridge avoiding exactly this kind of complication. He helped SAR when they needed him, kept to himself the rest of the time, and never let anyone get close enough to ask questions he didn't want to answer.
Like why his hands shook sometimes when the adrenaline spiked.
Like why he'd left the military with an honorable discharge and a Purple Heart he'd never look at.
Like why the last mission, the one where he'd held Martinez's chest together with both hands while the helicopter burned and the extraction team couldn't get through, still woke him up screaming some nights.
He didn't train students because students asked questions. They wanted to know how and why and what happened when. They wanted his expertise, his experience, his trauma wrapped up in neat little lessons they could put in a manual.
Avery would be worse.
She was smart. Stubborn. She'd already cracked through his defenses in under six hours, pushed back when he'd tried to shut her out, and called him a liar to his face.
And she was right.
He was attracted to her.
Had been from the second she'd knocked on his door, muddy boots, determined jaw, curves that made his brain short-circuit. He'd noticed the competence first, the way she carried herself like someone who knew how to handle a crisis. Then he'd noticed everything else.
The way her hair curled at her temples from the hike. The way her eyes lit up when she got angry. The way she'd stood her ground when he'd tried to intimidate her into leaving.
The way she'd touched him like she had every right to.
Logan's hands curled into fists.
He couldn't do this. Couldn't train her. Couldn't spend two weeks in close quarters with a woman who looked at him like he was something other than the broken, dangerous thing he actually was.
Sheriff Grayson had sent her here because he trusted Logan's ethics. Because Rafe had vouched for him. Because everyone in Bitterroot Ridge thought Logan Maddox was the guy who kept his head down and did the right thing.
They were wrong.
The right thing would've been slamming the door in her face. The right thing would've been hiking her back down the mountain before the storm hit, certification be damned.
The right thing sure as hell wasn't standing in the dark, watching her sleep, thinking about the way she'd said his name.
Logan.
Not Maddox. Not sir. Just Logan, like she already knew him.
Behind him, Avery stirred. The cot creaked.
Logan turned, keeping his distance.
She sat up slowly, pushing her hair out of her face. Even rumpled from sleep, she was,
No. He wasn't finishing that thought.
"Morning," she said, her voice rough.
"It's four-thirty."
"Close enough." She swung her legs over the side of the cot, wincing. "God, I'm stiff. How did you sleep in that chair?"
"I didn't."
"Logan…”
"Storm's not letting up." He moved to the stove, giving himself something to do with his hands. "You're not leaving today."
Silence.
He didn't look at her. Didn't want to see whatever expression was on her face.
"I was’t wasn't going anywhere since I’d planned to spend the full 2 weeks with you,. So your’re stuck with me either way" she said finally.
"Looks like it."
"And you're still planning to refuse to train me?"
Logan measured coffee into the pot with more precision than necessary. "I don't train students."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true."
"But you'll keep me here. Fed. Safe." Her voice was closer now. He hadn't heard her move. "You'll do everything except actually teach me."
"That about covers it."
"Why?"
"I told you why."
"No." She was right behind him now. He could feel the heat of her, smell that soft lavender scent that had no business being in his cabin. "You told me you're attracted to me. That's not the same as explaining why you won't train me."
Logan's jaw tightened. "It's enough."
"It's really not."
He turned, and she was closer than he'd expected. Close enough that he had to look down to meet her eyes. Close enough that he could see the determination there, the stubbornness, the intelligence that was going to be a problem for the next however-many days they were trapped together.
"You want to know why?" he said quietly. "Fine. I don't trust myself."
Avery blinked. "With what?"
"With you."
"That's…”
"I'm not a good man, Avery." The words came out rougher than he'd intended. "I've done things. Seen things. I came to Bitterroot Ridge because I needed to be alone, and your father sent you here because he thought I was safe."
"You are safe."
"No." Logan took a step back, needing the distance. "I'm controlled. That's different."
"I don't understand."
"You don't need to." He turned back to the coffee, dismissing her. "Just stay out of my way until the storm clears."
For a moment, she didn't move.
Then she laughed.
Actually laughed.
Logan's shoulders went rigid. "Something funny?"
"You," she said. "You're standing there acting like you're some kind of monster, and all I see is a man who's trying so hard to do the right thing he's tied himself in knots."
"You don't know me."
"I know enough." She moved around him, blocking his path to the stove. "I know you make tea for uninvited guests. I know you gave up your bed even though you're twice my size. I know you're planning to keep me safe even though you don't want me here."
"That's not…”
"And I know," she continued, her voice softer now, "that whatever you think you've done, whatever you think you are, you're not the kind of man who'd hurt me."
Logan's chest tightened. "You can't know that."
"Yes, I can." She reached out, and he froze. Her hand settled on his chest, right over his heart, and he forgot how to breathe. "Because if you were, you wouldn't be fighting this hard."
He should move. Should step back, put the table between them, something.
Instead, he stood there like an idiot while her palm burned through his shirt.
"Avery," he said, his voice wrecked. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't trust me."
"Too late."
"I'm serious."
"So am I." She tilted her head, studying him. "You're going to teach me, Logan. Because we're stuck here, and you can't stand the idea of wasting time, and deep down you actually want to."
"I don't."
"Liar."
There was that word again. The one she'd used last night, the one that stripped away every defense he'd built.
Logan caught her wrist, gently, carefully, and moved her hand away from his chest. But he didn't let go.
"If I do this," he said slowly, "there are rules."
Avery's eyes lit up. "I'm listening."
"You do exactly what I say. No questions, no arguments."
“Where’s the fun in that?"
He didn’t find her response amusing. "You don't touch me unless it's part of the training."
Her mouth curved. "Define 'part of the training.'"
"Avery."
"Fine. What else?"
"You tell me the second you're uncomfortable. With anything."
"I can do that."
"I’ll train you for two weeks and then you leave," he said, his voice dropping, "No matter what happens between now and then."
Something flickered in her expression. "What do you think is going to happen?"
Everything, Logan thought. Nothing. Something I'm not going to survive.
But he didn't say it.
Instead, he released her wrist and stepped back. "We start with the basics. Pulse checks, wound assessment, pressure points. If you already know it, prove it."
"Now?"
"You wanted to learn." He moved to the medical supplies, pulling down a field kit. "Let's see what you've got."
Avery grinned, and the sight of it did something dangerous to his carefully controlled calm.
"Yes, sir," she said.
Logan's hands tightened on the kit. This was a mistake.
But it was too late to take it back.
The storm howled outside. The cabin felt smaller by the second.
And Avery Grayson stood in the middle of his space like she belonged there, waiting for him to teach her how to save lives.
When all he wanted was to figure out how to save himself from her.
Two hours later, Logan was starting to regret every decision that had led to this moment.
Avery was good. Too good.
She knew her pressure points, her wound classifications, her triage protocols.
She'd rattled off the steps for treating hypothermia without hesitation, demonstrated a tourniquet application that would've made his old drill sergeant proud, and correctly identified every piece of equipment in his field kit.
Which meant he had to move on to the practical assessments.
Which meant touching her.
"Pulse check," he said, his voice flat. "Radial first, then carotid. Show me."
Avery stepped closer, holding out her arm.
Logan wrapped his fingers around her wrist, finding the pulse point. Her skin was warm, soft. Her heartbeat was steady, faster than resting, but not panicked.
He counted silently. Fifteen seconds. Multiply by four.
"Seventy-eight," he said.
"Is that good?"
"It's elevated."
"Maybe I'm nervous."
"Are you?"
She met his eyes. "No."
Logan released her wrist and stepped back. "Carotid. Find mine."
He watched her hesitate, just for a second, before she moved closer. Her hand came up slowly, fingers settling against his neck.
His pulse stayed steady, but his damn hands didn’t. And his entire body locked down.
She was so close he could see the gold flecks in her eyes. So close he could feel her breath against his jaw. Her fingers pressed gently, finding the artery, and he had to concentrate to keep his pulse steady.
"Sixty-two," she said quietly. "That's low."
"I run cold."
"Or you have really good control."
"That too."
Her thumb brushed his skin, barely, probably an accident, and electricity shot down his spine.
Logan caught her wrist, removing her hand. "Good. You know the basics."
"What's next?"
"Wound assessment. I'll need to…” He stopped.
"Need to what?"
"Check your range of motion. Make sure you can handle physical stress in the field."
Avery's eyebrows rose. "Okay."
"It'll involve contact."
"I figured." She crossed her arms, and the motion drew his attention to curves he had no business noticing. "I'm not going to sue you for doing your job. Just teach me."
Right. Professional. He could do professional.
Logan moved behind her, keeping his touch clinical. "Raise your arms. Shoulder rotation first."
She complied, and he guided her through the movements, checking flexibility, testing resistance, watching for any signs of old injuries that might complicate field work.
His hands settled on her shoulders, and he felt her breath catch.
"You're tense," he said.
"Am I?"
"Relax."
"I'm trying."
"Try harder."
She laughed, soft, a little breathless. "You're very demanding."
"I'm thorough." He applied gentle pressure, testing her range of motion. "If you can't handle stress positions, you can't work rescues."
"I can handle it."
"Prove it."
He walked her through a series of stretches and holds, each one designed to test endurance and flexibility. She didn't complain, didn't flinch, even when he pushed her to the edge of discomfort.
Competent. Strong. Exactly the kind of partner he'd want in the field.
Exactly the kind of woman he had no business wanting anywhere else.
When he finally stepped back, they were both breathing harder than the exercise warranted.
"You'll do," he said roughly.
Avery turned to face him, her cheeks flushed. "High praise."
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Wouldn't dream of it." She moved to the window, looking out at the storm. "How long do you think we're stuck here?"
"Another day. Maybe two."
"And you're going to keep teaching me?"
"I said I would."
"Even though you don't want to."
Logan was quiet for a moment. Then, against his better judgment, he told her the truth.
"I want to," he said. "That's the problem."
Avery turned, her expression unreadable.
The storm rattled the windows. The fire crackled.
And Logan stood in the middle of his cabin, watching her watch him, knowing he'd just crossed a line he couldn't uncross.
She smiled, small, soft, dangerous.
"Good," she said.
And Logan knew he was in trouble.