Wanted

Chapter 2

Frankie

I ripopen the zipper of my coat with a harsh exhale and fan the thick material away from my chest.

“Shit,” I mumble.

I went from cold to burning in what feels like seconds. One minute, I was lying somewhat comfortably on a pile of brush, only to feel like someone suddenly lit a fire beneath my coat. Sweat beads across my forehead despite the cool temperatures.

Incalculable hours have passed since I threw myself out of the car, and the reason becomes fuzzy as time passes. The only thing I know for certain is I trudged through ankle-deep snow until I couldn’t, and after not coming across a single building, road, or person, I found a pile of brush leaning against a tree. The shape of a structure served to protect me from the elements.

Eventually, darkness fell across the forest, tempting my eyelids to do the same, and after fighting sleep for most of the night, I wake up sometime later in the same position with the sun shining through the branches.

I can deduce it’s the next day but have no idea how much time has actually passed. I don’t have a phone on me, and the one time I had a wristwatch, it was stolen. I feel like I could count the seconds by the throb in my broken arm still cradled against my chest.

My stomach rumbles. A near constant reminder that I don’t have any food, and I’m not going to find any by lying on this tangle of branches and brush.

When I ran yesterday, there was nothing to see for what felt like miles. I’m still surrounded by the remnants of a snowy winter and tall pine trees.

Staying put would be smart if I thought someone might actually be looking for me, but nobody knows I’m out here. If Dillon hasn’t already found me, I’m certain he continued to his destination, probably grateful for the blessed silence my quick escape provided him.

But if I walk, I might lose my measly shelter. What if I’m heading farther into a forest rather than toward a town? I try to remember the last place we passed yesterday, but I come up empty. It had to have been more than thirty miles back in the other direction. The memory of the car ride feels just beyond my grasp.

I could return to the highway and flag someone down. The dangers of hitchhiking don’t apply to someone who grew up the way I did. When the scary people live in your own home, it doesn’t leave much material for the imagination.

The snap of a twig out of sight rockets my heart rate. I temper my breathing, quieting my exhale as I listen.

Something shifts, crackling across the snow and buried debris on the forest floor. The heavy grunted exhale of an animal follows.

Listen, I didn’t throw myself out of a moving car just to get eaten by Winnie the Pooh. I wrap my cold fingers around a stick, squeezing until the bark bites into my skin.

“Hey!” I shout in an attempt to scare the bear away. My voice rings in my ears. We might not have grizzlies here, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still become bear food. Especially for a hungry black bear just leaving hibernation.

The next shout gets caught in my throat as a white head of fur appears around the opening of my shelter. The fluffy creature begins to crawl inside.

“Oh no, you don’t! Get out of here. Shoo!” I yell, waving my one good arm toward the dog.

It doesn’t listen. Of course it doesn’t. I grunt and press myself farther inside as the curious animal forces its way inside my shelter.

“You’re going to break it,” I huff as a rapid pulse zips around my veins.

The dog butts against my hand with a cold snout. The front paws tap against the earth as it scoots as close as possible in the small space.

“You better be nice,” I tell it, lowering my palm to the top of its furry head.

Warmth immediately seeps into my skin. The dog presses closer, lowering its snout to my lap.

“You would have come in handy last night while I was cold.” I yawn and stroke the top of its head. “What are you doing all the way out here?”

If there’s a dog, there must be people close, right? The animal seems too nice to live feral in the woods.

“Did someone lose you too?”

Only a handful of hours away from people, and I’m already talking to the animals as if they can respond.

The dog moves closer, swiping a gentle lick over my coat sleeve as if it can detect the injury beneath the fabric.

I sink my fingers into the heavy fur around its scruff, and my tired eyes drift closed.

The dog is gone.

The warmth from its thick coat is the only thing left behind. Sunlight still filters through the branches of my shelter, so it can’t be more than an hour or two later.

My head pounds. The forgotten injury makes itself known. Did I hit it when I jumped from the car? A flash of nausea churns my stomach. I probably have a concussion. Whatever I did rattled a few screws loose.

The muscles in my calves protest as I straighten my legs and grip the ground beneath me in an attempt to stand. My legs wobble, but I regain my footing enough to shuffle from the shelter into the fresh air.

The fog in my head tells me this situation isn’t good.

A playful bark breaks from the surrounding trees, announcing the presence of an animal. My furry white friend from earlier trots out from behind a thick pine tree and brushes against my knees. I balance myself by stabilizing my fingertips on its back.

“You must not have gone far,” I say, stroking its fur.

The dog circles my legs before walking a few paces away. It looks back at me, and the intention is clear.

Follow.

I don’t know how I know that, but I do. This dog probably knows its way to food, and if there’s food, there’s a good chance people are nearby.

At the very least a town.

With my options being to follow the dog or return to the highway, I think my chances are better with the dog.

We go slow. It stays close to my side as it leads me away from my temporary shelter and farther from the road. Or at least the direction I think the road is in. I glance from left to right. I must have gotten turned around.

A new pain in my side kicks in the longer we walk until I’m panting and stopping every few steps to draw in deeper breaths.

“Hang on there, buddy,” I gasp through a sharp jab in my ribs. I palm the nearest tree trunk for support. “I think… I need… a break.”

The dog barks once and circles me, its feet tapping against the icy snow crystals. The wind blows the skirt around my ankles, sending goose bumps skittering up my cold legs. I clench my jaw tight against my chattering teeth.

The next gust sends a tremor so hard through me that I sink to my knees. I connect with the solid ground with a gasp.

Get up. Get up. Get up.

But I can’t.

Emotions rush me at once. I’m angry. I’m scared. I’m tired, and I’m so fucking hungry that I can’t tell if I’m nauseous from the concussion or from a lack of food.

Heat envelops my back as the dog wraps itself around me where I sit beneath the tree.

“Thank you,” I grind out, resolute not to cry. I won’t pity myself. I put myself in this position, and I’m determined to find my way out.

After a quick rest.

The warmth of the animal easily takes the edge off, and within minutes, feeling returns to my fingers and toes. I lean my face against the rough bark of the leafless deciduous tree and close my dry eyes.

Foggy facts dance at the edges of my consciousness. I’m lost. I’m wearing a wedding dress. Dillon and I were on our way to get married because we were going to move.

I startle upright as a prickle of awareness runs up my spine. A scan of my surroundings doesn’t produce a source.

“Get up, buddy.” I nudge the dog, but it remains firmly against my side.

Its head cocks as if to acknowledge my request without actually complying with it.

“You’re going to be stubborn, huh?” I mumble and curl my fingers into its fur. “Any other time, we’d be a perfect pair, but I think right now it’s best if we move.”

It doesn’t.

No amount of nudging gets the dog to its feet.

“Fine. I’ll leave you…”

The rumble of a motor cuts me off. I whip my head in the opposite direction.

“Ashe!” A man’s deep voice carries through the trees.

The dog’s ears twitch beside me.

“Is that your owner?”

I tense and curl tighter into the dog at my side.

The sound grows louder until a four-wheeler appears between two Evergreen trees about fifty feet ahead.

“What. The. Fuck.”

My shoulders curl in tightly at the sound of his cursing, not sure if he’s directing the words at me or the dog or the situation in general. He better not be talking to me or the dog or else I’m grabbing it and making a run for someplace far away from him. The man crawls the machine closer while not taking his eyes off the two of us. If I wasn’t already cold, his stare alone would induce a round of shivers.

The dog doesn’t move from its close position even when the man lifts one leg over the seat and dismounts into the snow.

“Who are you?” His voice thunders through the quiet space between us, fracturing the still air.

The snow crunches beneath his sturdy black boots as his powerful strides bring him close enough to touch me. My mouth falls open as he prowls closer.

The dog finally shows a sign of recognition and wags its tail happily against the ground, sweeping snow and debris out of its path.

But I can’t pay it any attention because I’m struck speechless at the appearance of this man.

He’s annoyingly beautiful in a rugged sort of way. Dark hair peeks out beneath the edge of his black winter hat and contrasts against his pale forehead. His cheeks are red with the cold, at least the parts I can see. Maybe even a little chapped from the wind. The lower half of his face is covered in a neat beard in the same color as the hair on his head except a small gray streak across his lower left cheek.

Silver eyes, finished with a similar scan of my body, flash at me, and I realize he looks really angry.

“What happened to you?”

“Nothing,” I sputter, overwhelmed by him and the questions. I cross my good arm over my chest. “I need to find my way to town if you could help me with that.”

His eyes widen. “Nothing?” He pauses, his chest heaving beneath his coat as he breathes deep and waits for… something.

I grow impatient with his prolonged silence. “Can you point me in the right direction?”

“Point you?” His eyes skate over me where I sit on the ground. “You’re injured.”

“I’m fine.”

His eyes trace the bruising and gash on my swollen lower lip and down.

“You’ve got blood on your… Is that a wedding dress?”

With my good arm, I yank the coat tighter around my middle. I narrow my eyes. “No.”

“Do you mind not being so fucking evasive and instead give me a straight answer about what you’re doing on my property in a dress with my dog, or do I need to call the sheriff?”

The dog leans closer into my side and buries its snout against my thigh.

I smirk despite gritting my teeth together. “I think it likes me more.”

“She does not,” he argues sharply. He settles his palms on his hips and stares down at me with a foreboding look.

Any earlier distress about my situation vanishes in the presence of a person who might be able to help, only to be replaced with a confidence lacking self-preservation.

“Don’t worry. I won’t steal your dog.”

He stretches his fingers and curls them again as if he wants to reach out and get her away from me. “Can you get up?”

I level him with a glare. “Yes.”

Proving to him that I’m not a liar winds up being much harder in practice. With my good hand planted in the cold dirt, I manage to rise into a quarter of a squat before my foot slips. He moves forward to help, grazing his fingers against my broken arm.

My scream shatters the air.

Nothing is flowery or feminine about the sound wretched from my lungs. My heart slams against my chest with the rush of agony accompanying his simple touch.

“Whoa.” The stranger drops onto his knees at my side as if the cold, wet ground is of no consequence to him. “Is it broken?”

A choked sob leaves my mouth, followed by a simple, “Yes.”

His brows snap together on his forehead. “And you knew this before you tried to get up?” Anger vibrates through his tone.

“I didn’t think it was necessary information to impart,” I bite out, though the sound is less tough than I’d like when I hiccup a sob at the end.

I swear he growls between his teeth.

He looks down and grasps the end of my dress in two hands.

Riiiiiiiiiiiip.

The tearing of my dress cuts through the air.

His brows furrow in concentration as he continues pulling until he’s removed the entire bottom edge of lace from my dress.

“What are you doing?” I bite out in shock. I’m less concerned about the ruined gown—it was covered in smears of dirt and blood anyway—and more worried about the way this brute just manhandled my clothing.

He says nothing as he works a knot into one end faster than I’ve ever seen.

“That’s a kinky party trick.”

Even my poorly timed joke doesn’t pull his attention from his hands. He twists the lace around with sure, deliberate movements.

His silver eyes snap to mine and once again, seconds pass between us.

“Can I?”

Those two words scrape against one another abrasively in his gruff voice. I don’t have a clue what he’s asking, but I find myself slowly nodding.

He shuffles closer on his knees until we nearly touch. His fingertips are whisper soft as he draws my broken arm carefully away from my body. The throb beneath his touch has nothing to do with the broken bone.

I hold my breath as he slides the scraps of lace around my sleeve, crossing the pieces and reaching behind my neck.

I lick my lips.

He’s so close I can smell his cologne. Something crisp and fresh. I flick my gaze over his face before dragging it away a second later.

A white, crescent scar decorates the skin beneath his right eye just above a smattering of freckles.

“What’s your name?” The words leave my mouth in a whisper, caught in my throat by his proximity until the second I set them free.

A beat passes. Two. Three.

“Jude Powell.”

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with the information. I suppose I can use it to thank him later once he gets me out of this fricken forest. Send him a gratitude card or something.

“What’s yours?”

My eyes snap back to his face only to find him staring at me with an intensity I find startling.

“F-Frankie. Zelmen. Technically, it’s Franklynn, but I always thought Frankie was more feminine.”

“Your parents named you Franklin?”

He stares at me while he says it. Like he’s both riveted and repulsed by my answer.

I sigh. “My parents were addicts. I suspect they were high when I was born since my dad’s name is Frank and my mom’s name is Lynn so they just put them together. I’ve always been grateful they didn’t name me Frank Lynn. Or Lynn Frank. Can you imagine?” I ramble while Jude stares. “They decided my name was long enough and didn’t give me a middle name. And before you say it, neither one has a sentimental bone in their body. They forgot I existed about the time I could feed and dress myself. In my twenty-eight years, I’ve never even had a birthday cake. So I don’t think it had anything to do with wanting to pass on their names. I think coming up with a fresh baby name was just too hard.”

“You’re twenty-eight?”

“Is that a problem? What are you, like fifty-two?”

He grunts. “Only thirty-nine, sunshine.”

It’s only as his hands drift away from the back of my neck that I realize he finished tying my new sling some time ago and has been holding them motionless while I spewed my life story while practically sitting on his lap. A chill replaces his touch.

He doesn’t say anything else as he stands. My rambling probably gave him second thoughts about helping me.

Jude slides his arms around me and yanks me cautiously into his chest.

Okay,maybe not.

“I can walk.”

I hardly jostle as he pivots toward his ATV.

“Uh, Mr. Powell—”

“Jude,” he mumbles as his long strides eat up the forest floor.

“Put me down, Jude.”

“Quiet.”

“Don’t tell me to be quiet.”

“Well, you keep yapping.”

“Excuse me for yapping when I’m nervous.”

“If you aren’t going to answer any of my questions, then you can do us both a favor and keep quiet.”

Jude throws a leg over his ATV without shifting me from his arms and settles onto the seat.

“What questions?” I grunt as he manhandles me to sit in front of him as if I weigh less than a feather pillow and I’m not a full grown-ass woman, and he pulls my back against his chest. The warmth of him seeps into me and chases away the bone-deep chill. I fight the urge to nestle back to pursue the comforting heat I long to feel.

I didn’t know how cold I really was until I felt his warmth.

His beard scrapes the side of my face, and his breath ghosts across my ear.

“What are you doing on my property, and who put that blood on your pretty dress?”

His voice is a soft timbre, nearly a caress.

I swallow hard against the shameful admissions rising in my throat. “Are you still going to help me if I don’t tell you?”

“Yes.”