Chapter 8 #2
Nimue’s hands gripped her desk edge until her knuckles went white. “I don’t have the money. I turned everything over to the Caleb Group. If you can’t access it, blame them for freezing the account. I’m out.”
“Sorry, darling. You stole it. I want it back.”
“I don’t have that kind of money—”
“Don’t lie to me.” Teresa’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I know about your inheritance.”
Nimue stilled. “If you know about it, you know it’s not four million. Most of it isn’t liquid. It would take weeks—”
“You’re good with computers. Figure it out. And I know you’ve got those files stashed in that rust bucket you call home. You have twenty-four hours.”
Nimue’s heart hammered, but she lifted her chin. “Or what? You’ll put a bullet in me?”
Teresa’s laugh slithered through the speakers, venomous and low. “Why do you keep saying that? Dead, you’re worthless to us. If you don’t deliver, you can work off your debt in the Bratva’s employ. Consider it a career change.”
“That’s a great idea. Send me your access codes. Give me five minutes in your system, and—”
“Your sister would die.”
Nimue swallowed, her mouth tight. “That would be a fun game—Emberly versus the Bratva. Oh wait—” She held up her finger, set it to the side of her mouth. “I think we’ve seen that episode.” She smiled.
“How’s Liam these days?”
Nimue’s breath stopped.
“Who?” Her voice squeaked. Oh, see, she didn’t play this game well!
Teresa smiled. Then photos cascaded across Nimue’s screen—her laughing with Liam by the campfire, their shoulders brushing by his Bronco, his eyes soft and unguarded.
No. Her pulse thundered in her ears.
The final photo wasn’t of her and Liam. It was her sister, Emberly, and Stein, captured mid-laugh at their favorite Florida restaurant. “As for that episode, I think the stakes have changed. Twenty-four hours, Nimue.”
The feed cut to black.
Nimue stared at the empty screen, breath coming in shallow gasps, vision blurring. Four million dollars in twenty-four hours.
She lurched to her feet, pacing the narrow aisle on unsteady legs. Her hands shook as she began opening every banking app she had—savings, crypto wallets, her inheritance. If she liquidated everything, scraped together every penny…maybe two million. Two million short of dead.
She dialed Emberly, routing the call through her VPN. One ring before her sister answered.
“Nim?”
“Teresa found me.” Her voice cracked. “She knows about the files, the money. They want four million in twenty-four hours plus the files. She threatened Liam, you, Stein. They have photos—they’ve been watching us.”
Emberly mumbled something to Stein, then was back. “Okay, listen to me. You need to disappear. Now.”
“The bus’s tire is slashed. I can’t move it—”
“Too obvious anyway. Take Liam. But not his Bronco—they could track it.”
“How do you know he drives a Bronco?”
“You think I wouldn’t background-check the guy who appeared in your life? Doesn’t matter. You both need to vanish. Completely off-grid. Don’t tell anyone where you’re going—not even me. I’ll get backup, but you need to buy time.”
“I can’t ask Liam to do that. He has a job. A life.” Her voice pitched higher. “He doesn’t even know—”
“Ask me to do what?”
Nimue spun, heart slamming against her ribs. Liam filled the doorway, broad frame backlit by afternoon sun, blue eyes locked on her. How had she not heard his Bronco pull up?
“Nim, put him on,” Emberly said.
Nimue hesitated, then extended the phone, her hands trembling. His eyes never left hers as he listened to Emberly, his jaw tightening, the lines deepening around his blue eyes.
“Consider it done.” He handed back the phone. “Pack light. We’re going hiking.”
Nimue stared at him, mind reeling. “Liam, you don’t understand. This isn’t just—”
“I understand enough.” He stepped closer, presence solid and unwavering. “Someone’s threatening you. I’m not letting you handle it alone. Pack. I’ve got gear in the Bronco. Ten minutes.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but something in his expression—the fierceness that had returned, along with something immovable—silenced her protests. She nodded, throat tight.
Liam headed for his truck.
She grabbed her go bag from under the bunk, scanning its contents. Change of clothes, knife, first aid kit. She added extra layers and the sat phone.
She’d tried convincing herself Liam was just a distraction, a temporary connection. But watching him stay calm while her world imploded, remembering the way he’d looked at her by the campfire—something had cracked open in her chest, something she’d kept locked since her mother’s death.
Hope.
It might be the death of her.
Liam reappeared, pack secured, arms crossed. She grabbed her water bottle, filled it, and followed him out.
“Where are we going?”
“The only place I know better than they do.” He pointed toward the canyon. “Over the edge.”
Professional. Clinical. Detached. Those words used to define Dr. Meg Lewis perfectly.
The human body was anatomy, physiology, systems to diagnose and repair.
So why did the memory of walking her fingers down the taut muscles of Noah Wilde’s back refuse to fade after a week?
Meg yanked on her lab coat as she scanned her afternoon patient list.
“Nothing too serious. Should be a slow day.” Sarah tapped at her laptop at the reception desk. “Want to see Noah again?”
“What?” Meg’s spine went rigid, voice sharper than intended. “Why would I want to see Noah?”
Sarah paused, one eyebrow arching as she fixed Meg with a knowing stare. “His back-injury follow-up?”
“Right.” Meg’s cheeks flamed, and she glued her eyes to the laptop screen, willing the heat to subside. “No, unless he reports additional pain. He’s fine.” She glanced up to find Sarah grinning. “What?”
“After two years, has Dr. Meg finally fallen for Hottie-Hiker Noah Wilde?”
“Hottie-Hiker? Seriously?” Meg’s tone was dry, but her pulse betrayed her, thudding hard.
“That’s what the girls call him. You can’t pretend you haven’t noticed.”
Noticed? Meg would’ve needed to be carved from granite not to notice Noah.
His broad shoulders and athletic frame commanded every space he entered—ranger strength forged by years on unforgiving trails.
Those brown eyes pierced straight through pretense, seeing depths she’d rather keep hidden.
That first summer, his sun-bleached hair had been a wild tangle, paired with rare dimpled smiles that lifted the shadows clinging to him.
Three years later, his hair had grown into an unruly mop, thick beard hiding those dimples, but his eyes remained unchanged—searching, vulnerable in unguarded moments.
Like last week, when he’d looked at her with an openness that cracked her carefully constructed walls.
Samson, indeed.
“I’ll take that blush as confirmation that you’ve noticed.” Sarah extended a pen and clipboard. “Sign this…then ask him out.”
Meg scrawled her signature with slightly trembling fingers. “Don’t you have more pressing concerns than my love life?”
“What love life? Nuns date more than you.” Sarah took the clipboard, offering another form.
“Hilarious.” Maybe Meg hadn’t dated since arriving at the North Rim, but the choice was deliberate. She’d fled here to escape, to put distance between herself and potential heartbreak. Dating meant risk she couldn’t afford.
“I can’t believe you two haven’t gotten together yet.” Sarah waggled her eyebrows.
Meg choked on air, face blazing afresh. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that.”
“I know you think he’s cute.”
“Even so, I don’t do casual relationships—as you call it.” Noah didn’t either—at least, she hoped not.
Sure, she’d harbored a crush when they first met.
Who wouldn’t? That first summer, when he’d appeared daily for lodge coffee, she’d waited for him to ask her out.
She’d been prepared to decline—his wedding band’s indentation still marked his finger, grief raw and visible in his eyes.
Besides, she’d moved here to avoid attachment, not court it.
He hadn’t asked, sparing her the refusal.
Two years later, the ring mark had faded, their routine settling into a comfortable rhythm.
He knew her coffee preference—cream and two sugars; her preferred morning pastry—bear claw; and her obsession with Star Wars—original saga, of course.
She knew he liked his coffee black, that he had a hiking obsession, and that his devotion to the Chicago Bears was borderline obsessive.
Beyond that, he remained locked territory that she’d been content to leave unexplored.
Until seven days ago, when she’d insisted he visit her office for his back injury.
That encounter had cracked something open.
She needed to find a way to seal it back up as soon as possible.
“I do need to see Nimue again in a few days to check her stitches.”
“Who?” Sarah rifled through files. “Last name?”
Meg winced. No file existed. She’d bent protocol because Liam had insisted it was either secret professional care or Nimue would attempt DIY superglue repair.
While superglue worked for many applications, palm skin endured too much use for such crude solutions.
Maybe it wasn’t life-threatening, but Meg had wanted proper cleaning and tetanus verification.
“Never mind.” She met Sarah’s gaze. “Contact Liam. Tell him I need to speak with him.”
Before Sarah could respond, the clinic door exploded inward. Noah burst through, shirt drenched in crimson.
What? Meg gasped, and coherent thought vanished. The canyon outside seemed to roar, its vastness mocking how quickly life could slip away.
“Meg! Meg!” Noah’s voice penetrated the fog—distant, then sharp. His large hand landed on her shoulder, anchoring her. “This is Heather. She needs help.”
Meg blinked once, twice, vision clearing. Not Noah’s blood. Noah wasn’t injured. She registered the others—young girl around seven, cradled in her father’s arms, cloth pressed to her forehead, blood seeping through.
Meg drew a shuddering breath, stepping closer to examine the wound. Her voice, when she found it, emerged calm, professional. “What happened?”
Heather’s tear-streaked face peered up, voice barely audible. “The tree was first base for our kickball game, and I slipped running to it.”
“Looks like the tree won that round.” Meg forced a gentle smile. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ll patch you up and have you back to playing ball in no time.” She gestured toward an exam room. “Sarah, prep her please. I’ll be right in.”
Stitches needed. Eight, maybe nine. Meg input details into her laptop.
“You okay?” Noah’s voice, low and close, startled her. He was still here, still bloodstained. Head wounds bled heavily, and Noah had obviously reached Heather first, absorbing the worst of it.
“Fine.” The word shot out too fast for credibility. She focused on the laptop screen, hiding her expression.
He stepped closer, hand rising as if to touch her arm before dropping to his side. “I don’t believe you.”
Meg’s fingers moved across the keyboard, typing gibberish she’d need to correct later. “How did you get involved?”
“I was walking by when she hit the tree. I think she slipped on a patch of wet grass or mud. I carried her to her father and led them here.” He moved nearer, voice softening. “Meg, talk to me.”
“That’s all I need from you.” The words emerged cold, final. She hated their harshness, but he didn’t understand. She had a child to stitch. The image of him blood-soaked had dragged her into a dark spiral, one she couldn’t navigate with him standing so close.
The door clicked shut as he left. Meg released a ragged breath.
Twenty minutes earlier, she’d been wrestling with her growing feelings for Noah, wondering if she could risk opening her heart.
Now, seeing blood covering him had ripped open old wounds, reminding her why she’d fled to the North Rim—to escape the agony of caring, of losing.
What kind of doctor crumbled at the sight of blood on someone they loved?
Her fingers froze on the keyboard. Loved. The word struck her, raw and undeniable. She couldn’t be in love with Noah.
Couldn’t…
Shoot.