Chapter 2
TWO
GAGE
The rain-drenched woman follows me on the mulched trail.
Along the way, she mutters under her breath. Every so often a word or phrase becomes decipherable. I’m pretty sure I hear “Ted Bundy” and “never go to a second location” mixed in there.
I don’t say anything.
People always expect to fill silences. Not me. I’ve always been comfortable with long silences. It’s a good thing to. Most of the animals who live here at the rescue prefer it that way.
Behind me, there’s a scuffle. I cast a glance over my shoulder in time to see the woman catch herself, planting her foot in the mud with a “plop” after tripping over her own feet.
Instinctively, I pause to reach out and help hold her steady. But I stop myself short of offering help. She wouldn’t take it.
Considering how hard it was to get her to follow me, so she could get out of the rain, she probably would’ve screamed bloody murder.
Her gaze flashes up to mine. The amber flecks in her hazel eyes flash wildly. Defiantly. I can almost read her thoughts. They say, “Try to hurt me, and I’ll sic my cat on you.”
The cat who is still watching me closely, curiously, with sage green eyes. I’ve spent enough time around animals to know this is an animal who could quickly become my greatest friend or foe.
He’s just waiting me out.
“You okay?” I ask.
Her wild eyes narrow. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
I roll my eyes and turn back around to resume the hike back to my cabin. As we continue our trek, a vision of how she looked when I first saw her comes to mind. She’d been soaked through. Long strands of reddish brown hair stuck to her cheeks. Her pink lips pressed together in a scowl.
A cat tucked in her sweatshirt, his gray head sticking out next to hers.
I can’t stop the grin from spreading on my face. They’d looked like some kind of two-headed mythical creature.
They’d also both looked ready to attack if I made the wrong move.
Luckily, I know a thing or two about handling wounded creatures. As the primary caretaker here at the wildlife rescue, that’s what I do.
And despite the defiance in her expression—the determination to stand strong—that’s what this woman had been. A wounded creature who has seen better days.
But she hasn’t lost an ounce of her fight. I don’t know if that makes her stubborn or determined. Either way, you have to respect, and even admire, her for it.
Just like you have to admire how well she looked, completely soaked through. Her cheeks flushed. The sweatshirt clinging to her shapely body.
I shake that though loose. God knows I don’t need the complication of lusting after a woman who clearly thinks I mean her harm.
God knows I have enough to do without rescuing someone who doesn’t want to play the part of damsel in distress.
But leaving her and the cat out here alone isn’t an option.
So there’s only one thing left to do. Play nice.
“I’m Gage, by the way,” I call over my shoulder.
“What’s your middle and last name?”
I frown. “Why do you want to know?”
“I’m just curious what your Wikipedia page will be titled someday.”
I shake my head. “And your name is?”
She hesitates a moment. “I’m Tessa. And this is Whiskey.”
“A pleasure to meet you both.”
Neither of us says anything more.
We crest the hill and the cabin comes into view—small but solid, wood siding stained dark from the rain. The side barn is half-covered with tarps where I’ve started repairs. A pair of cedar planks lean against the porch, half-nailed.
Whiskey lets out another yowl as I open the gate.
“Don’t take it personally,” she says. “He’s got opinions about everything.”
“Sounds like a typical cat.”
“He’s protective.”
I lift an eyebrow, but she doesn’t elaborate.
“Here,” I say, pushing the door open and stepping aside.
She hesitates before crossing the threshold, like she expects to find bone furniture inside. Instead, she blinks at the wood-paneled walls, the stone hearth, the smell of coffee and cedar.
“Oh,” she murmurs. “It’s… nice.”
“What were you expecting?”
“I don’t know… Photos and newspaper clippings plastered on the walls. A collection of drivers licenses from missing persons piled up on your table.”
I role my eyes. “I told you, I’m not a serial killer.”
She clucks her tongue. “That’s exactly what a serial killer would say.”
Whiskey wiggles out of his makeshift rain jacket. I reach out, instinctively helping him out of the plastic.
The cat blinks at me. Then, without hesitation, leaps from the bag and sniffs my fingers. After a moment, he rubs his face against my fingers.
“Traitor,” she mutters.
He flicks his tail and jumps down to explore more of the room, making himself comfortable.
I turn to hang my jacket on the hook, hiding the way my mouth twitches. Again.
“Sit wherever,” I say. “I’ll get towels.”
By the time I come back, she’s stripped off her wet hoodie and shoes and is standing in the middle of the living room in leggings and a clingy T-shirt, rubbing her arms for warmth.
Her hair’s a mess. Her shirt sticks to her curves. She’s got freckles on her nose and a heart-shaped birthmark on her shoulder.
I look away fast.
“Here.” I hold out the towels.
As she reaches for them, our hands brush. Just for a second. Calloused and warm, my fingers graze hers. Her skin is soft. Her hand is small in mine.
I pull my hand back fast, as if I’ve been burned. Neither of us says anything about it.
She just takes the towels and nods. “Thanks. Do you have somewhere I could freshen up?”
“There’s a bathroom. Down the hall, second on the left.”
She disappears, and Whiskey jumps up onto the couch and flips over onto his back
I stare at him. He stares back. Then starts kneading the air, as if he’s inviting me to come pet his belly.
Yeah, right. I work with enough animals to know when I’m being set up. The second I touch his stomach, he’ll attack.
When she comes back, she’s towel-dried her hair and tied it into a messy bun. Her cheeks are flushed from the warmth and her eyes look more hazel than brown in the firelight.
“So,” she says, eyeing the room. “What is this place exactly? You said it’s animal rescue?”
I nod. “Mostly wildlife. Rehab and release when we can. Sometimes people bring me their sick goats or injured barn cats. We don’t say no if we can help it.”
She wanders to the window. “And you live here alone?”
“Most of the time.”
“Does it ever get lonely?”
“The animals are good company.” I shrug. “It’s better than being crowded.”
Her expression softens. “Yeah. I get that.”
Something about the way she says it makes me pause. There’s weight behind it. Loneliness disguised as humor. I know the type. I used to be the type.
Still am, most days.
“Are you hungry?” I ask.
Her stomach growls, settling that question.
I head to the kitchen. Pull out the stew I made earlier. I’m not much of a cook, but I can do basics—meat, potatoes, fire. They all combine to make a decent stew. She follows, her nose in the air sniffing. Her stomach growls before she even sits down at the table.
Whiskey trots in behind us and jumps into one of the empty chairs.
I fill two bowls and hand one to her.
She takes a bite and makes a soft moan. My jaw tightens at the sound.
“Holy crap,” she says. “This is delicious. If you ever decide to give up being a serial killer, you should consider running a B&B.”
After opening a can of cat food—just one of the many varieties of pet food I keep in stock for my companions—and setting it out for Whiskey, I take the seat across from her.
“So.” I force my gaze on the bowl in front of me to avoid looking her in the eyes. “What’s your story?”
“Is that your idea of small talk?”
“You were stranded in the woods with a cat. I brought you to my house and gave you a towel—and food. I think we skipped past the small talk.”
She sighs and nods. “Like I said before, I was on my way to stay with a friend.”
“The one marrying an FBI agent?”
I glance up in time to see her full lips twitch. “The very same.”
“You said you were going to stay. Not to visit?”
“I… need a fresh start. I needed to get away from everything.”
“Everything being?”
“My lack of job and abundance of a terrible ex-boyfriend.”
I say nothing.
“He got me fired. Well, his dad did. He’s the one who slept around and treated me like crap, but I’m the one who ends up being punished. That makes sense, right?”
I don’t answer. But I know that gut-punch feeling. Betrayal from the inside. From someone who should’ve protected you.
Her lips twist. “Anyway, I packed up, grabbed Whiskey, and hit the road. I wasn’t planning to stop here, but the car had other ideas.”
“You got someone coming to get you?”
“Nope.” She sighs. “My phone lost signal before I could even try calling for a tow. Now, I have zero signal.”
“You’ll get some closer to town to make a call. I can give you a ride.”
“No, that’s okay. I can walk.” She frowns. “How far?”
“Three miles.”
She groans. “Can I die here instead? It seems peaceful.”
Whiskey meows in agreement.
I lean back, arms crossed. “You can stay the night. There’s a guest room.”
Her eyes widen. “Really?”
“I’m not leaving you out there with the bears.”
“Bears? Are there really bears out there?”
“Do you want to find out?”
She studies me for a moment longer. Probably still trying to work out whether or not I mean her harm. “Thanks.”
I stand, needing to make some space. “You finish. I’ll get the fire started in the other room.”
I escape before I say something I’ll regret.
She’s too pretty. Too sassy. Too… everything.
Besides, she doesn’t belong here. She’s just passing through.
And I don’t need her shaking up what little peace I’ve found.
But as I throw another log on the fire and hear her laugh at something the cat does, I already know: I’m the one who is in danger as long as she stays here.