Chapter 3
Three
Ilead her through the dense undergrowth, hands raised high enough to show compliance but low enough that I can still navigate the uneven forest floor. The storm is now in full force, beating us down with rain and battering us with wind.
"Watch your step here," I mutter, nodding toward a fallen log. "Camp's just beyond that ridge."
"Eyes forward," she snaps, but I catch the slight tremor in her voice.
I return my mind to cataloging tactical details.
If only to take my mind off my traitorous heart.
Her movements are telling. She’s trained but not field hardened.
My rifle keeps sliding off her shoulder, forcing her to readjust every few steps.
The weight's throwing her balance, making her footfalls heavier on her right side. She's compensating, but barely.
The Glock, though, that she handles with practiced familiarity.
Her grip is textbook perfect, with her finger resting alongside the frame rather than on the trigger.
Someone taught her proper trigger discipline.
Law enforcement or agency training, not military.
Nobody who's humped a rifle through hostile territory for months on end.
If I'm within arm’s reach, I can take her down.
The thought materializes automatically, my brain mapping the distance between us, calculating the milliseconds it would take to pivot and disarm her before that finger could slide to the trigger.
But I don't. Something keeps me walking forward, hands raised, playing the frightened civilian.
"How much farther?" she asks, voice low but urgent.
"Just over that rise," I answer, keeping my tone even. "About two hundred yards."
A branch snaps somewhere to our right, and she flinches—a full-body jerk that nearly sends my rifle sliding off her shoulder. Her eyes dart toward the sound, then back to me, then to our surroundings. Her breathing quickens. She's jumpy, running on fear and adrenaline.
"Just a deer," I murmur. "They're all over these woods."
She swallows hard, then adjusts her grip on the Glock. "Keep moving."
My mind continues to betray me, cataloging details that are in no way pertinent.
The white tank top, translucent from rain and sweat, clings to her frame, revealing the outline of a standard prison-issue sports bra beneath.
I’m sure it wouldn’t be flattering on most, but it does nothing to dim the allure of her breasts.
My eyes trace the curves of her lower body that aren’t dulled by the prison scrubs.
Her eyes catch mine. "What are you looking at?" she demands, those pretty lips pressing into a thin line.
"Nothing," I lie, turning back to the path.
But I continue to steal glances. The storm darkens the day, but the moisture on her skin makes her glow.
Her tank top rides up slightly as she adjusts my rifle on her shoulder, revealing a sliver of toned stomach.
I force my eyes away, surprised by my own reaction.
I've been dead inside for so long that this sudden rush of awareness is almost painful.
We arrive at my campsite. If the cabin I live in is basic, the small tent I pitched is the bare minimum. But her face doesn't hint at any disappointment.
"This is it," I say, watching her eyes dart around the site, clearly mapping. "We should probably get out of the rain. I've got some food in the tent if you're hungry."
I take a single step toward the tent, and she tenses immediately, gun still trained on my back. I raise my hands again, palms out. "Easy."
She motions with the barrel toward the tent opening. "You go first, but slowly."
I do as she instructs and duck inside. She follows, keeping the weapon raised, her body half crouched at the entrance.
The confined space changes everything. Under normal circumstances, this proximity would be a tactical advantage.
The closer you get to someone with a gun, the more options you have.
But nothing is normal about the way my chest tightens when she's this close. Her scent cuts through the musty tent—sweat and wet earth, but something distinctly feminine underneath. I can hear each breath she takes, see the pulse jumping in her throat.
Being this close doesn't make me feel more in control.
It makes me feel less.
I reach for my pack. My movements are deliberately slow. "I'm just getting food." I pull out a can of beans and a battered spoon and offer them to her. "Here."
Her hands shake slightly as she takes the can, fingers brushing mine for a fraction of a second. The contact sends an electric current up my arm that I haven't felt in years.
She sits awkwardly, cross-legged, trying to balance keeping the gun on me while opening the can. My rifle has slipped farther down her shoulder again. It’s a vulnerability I’ve had ample opportunity to exploit.
But again, I don't.
Instead, I watch her eat. She attacks the cold beans like they’ve done her wrong, barely pausing between bites. Despite the circumstance, I find myself charmed by this pretty girl who ain’t afraid to have an appetite.
"When's the last time you ate?" I ask.
She pauses, spoon halfway to her mouth. Probably considering how much information to give me. She begins eating again.
"Yesterday,” is all she says.
I nod slowly. "You must be exhausted." I reach for my canteen, holding it out to her. Another opening presents itself, splitting her attention between the water and the weapon. Again, I let it pass.
She takes the canteen and tilts her head back, gulping frantically. Water spills down her chin, tracking clean lines through the dirt on her delicate, beautiful neck.
When she lowers the canteen, she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "Thanks," she mutters, and her voice has lost some of its edge.
The tent falls quiet except for the sound of her eating and the pelting of rain.
"I'm Walker," I say finally, breaking the silence. "Walker Cole."
She pauses mid-bite, studying my face. After a long moment, she swallows and lowers the spoon.
"Naomi Barrett." Her voice is softer now.
Lightning as bright as day flashes overhead, and the sound of thunder crashes down on us. We both glance up at the tent roof instinctively.
I chuckle. "Guess it's good we got in here when we did. Otherwise—"
In a move as quick as the lightning outside, she drops the beans, pins the back of the Glock to her belly, out of my reach, and aims it at my center mass. "Who the fuck are you?"
Shit. Too friendly. Too calm. I'm just a hunter. Just a guy out in the woods. Of course, if I were, I would be scared. And I haven't been. Get your head right, Walker. Like a normal civilian, I act scared. "What do you mean? I was just out fishing. Came up on a—"
"Bullshit! I thought you were hunting?" I thought she wouldn't pull that trigger. Now I think I was wrong. Her eyes are narrow and furious. "Are you with them?"
"Who?" I ask, my confusion genuine.
She raises the gun slightly. Her knuckles are white around the Glock's grip. "You don't move like a hunter. You don't move like a civilian." She swallows and looks me up and down.
Impressive by her. Foolish by me. The whole time I was reading her, she was reading me.
I nod. "I'm a vet." True enough, yet not nearly by a mile.
But maybe it'll be enough for her. She does seem to relax a little, so I double down.
"There's a grizzly out here that hurt a little boy.
Local officials won't okay putting it down.
And I came out here and…" I shrug, still adopting a nervous tone in the hopes of putting her at ease.
It does. A little. But not completely.
Lightning flashes again, illuminating her pretty but hard features in a pale white light. The thunderclap that follows is immediate and deafening.
"How far is your car from here?" she asks, her voice steadier than her hands.
"It's a hike. A couple of hours." I measure each word carefully. I should be planning an escape, plotting to disarm her. Instead, I'm gauging her needs, trying to understand what drove this woman, clearly not a hardened criminal, to hold a stranger at gunpoint in the Montana wilderness.
The storm intensifies, and it no longer sounds like individual raindrops but buckets being dropped outside. She looks tired. Her belly full, sleep wants to take her now. I think it would be a bad idea for us to try to hike in the dark, in torrential rain, with her this exhausted.
But I don't voice it because my kindness would just make her edgier.
"We'll go in the morning," she states. I nod, relieved but showing only fear on my face. "I have to tie you up," she says coldly. “Do you have something?”
I nod. “In my pack.”
She reaches in and pulls out a paracord I keep for emergencies. The gun comes up, her eyes suddenly alert and hard. "Don't try anything," she snaps. "I will shoot you."
I place my wrists behind my back without argument. She binds my hands with precision, and I feel my opportunity to overpower her and escape slip away with the tightening of each knot. She then binds my feet. Smart. I could still do a lot of damage at my size, even with my hands bound.
Smart. Beautiful. Clever. Desperate.
Sleep takes her quickly. I watch her face, which had been hard with fear and mistrust, soften. And as I do, I realize I was wrong.
I didn't miss my opportunity to escape.
I never wanted it.