Savage Ranger Daddy (Steel Mountain Daddies #5)

1. Hazel

Hazel

I hit publish with a finger that shakes harder than a leaf in a windstorm, and then I just sit there staring at the glowing screen of my laptop like it's about to grow teeth and bite me.

The headline stares back: EXPOSED: The Deadly Smuggling Ring Hiding in Steel Mountain's Shadow.

My byline sits right underneath, bold and permanent and completely irreversible.

Hazel Lowe, investigative journalist, professional troublemaker, and apparently a woman with a death wish the size of Montana.

I should feel like a total badass right now.

I just blew the lid off a multi-million-dollar operation moving illegal weapons and endangered wildlife through the remote passes of the Steel Mountains.

I spent six months digging, bribing sources with coffee and terrible jokes, hiking trails that nearly killed my city-girl ankles, and finally getting my hands on the hard proof.

Photos. Documents. Names. The shipping manifests from a company called Ridgeline Outfitters that turned out to be nothing but a front for moving crates of assault rifles and cages of trafficked animals through a trail network my sources called the Spine. The whole smoking gun.

Instead I feel like I just lit a stick of dynamite and then sat on it for fun.

My heart is doing this ridiculous double-time thump that I swear is loud enough for the entire diner to hear.

The Timber Creek diner is almost empty this late, just two truckers nursing black coffee at the counter and a waitress who looks like she aged a decade in the last hour.

Outside the big front windows, snow falls in fat, lazy flakes that stick to everything they touch.

Main Street is already turning into a white postcard.

Beyond the little town, the Steel Mountains rise up like a jagged fortress, dark pine-covered ridges cutting against the late-afternoon sky.

The peaks look beautiful and completely unforgiving at the same time, the kind of scenery that ends up on calendars right next to the words "Welcome to the wilderness, hope you survive. "

I close the laptop and shove it into my battered messenger bag.

My hands are still trembling. I flex my fingers a few times, trying to will the jitters away.

No luck. Adrenaline is a real jerk sometimes.

One minute you're flying high on the rush of a huge scoop, the next you're wondering if today's the day some smuggler with a gun decides you know too much.

Specifically, a man who goes by the name Voss.

I never got his real identity pinned down, just the alias that kept showing up in every layer of this operation like a signature on the devil's paperwork.

My best source, a retired game warden named Cal Hutchins, told me Voss ran the whole ring from somewhere deep in the range and that no one who got close to identifying him stayed healthy for long.

Cal made me memorize a set of GPS coordinates before our last meeting, then stopped answering his phone three days later. I haven't heard from him since.

I grab my half-empty mug of tea and take a big gulp.

It's lukewarm and slightly bitter, but it gives me something to do with my mouth so I don't start laughing hysterically.

That would be a great look. Local journalist loses her mind right after breaking the biggest story of her career. Front page material for sure.

My phone buzzes on the table. I jump so hard I nearly knock over the sugar shaker. The screen shows an unknown number. Of course it does. My life has officially entered the "unknown number" phase of the thriller novel.

I answer anyway because I'm me and my curiosity has never once chosen the safe option. "Hazel Lowe speaking. If this is about my student loan payments, I already told you people I'm a journalist and therefore broke."

There's a pause on the other end, long enough that I start to wonder if I just insulted a robocaller. Then a voice comes through, so gravelly it feels like it scrapes along my skin.

"Hazel Lowe. This is US Marshal Brock Savage. Pack a bag. I'm coming to get you. Now."

I freeze with the phone pressed to my ear.

My free hand tightens around the mug. "I'm sorry, what?

Who are you again? Because that sounded a lot like the opening line of every romantic suspense novel I've ever binged on a rainy weekend, and I need you to know I'm not currently dressed for a rescue montage. "

Another pause. I can practically hear the man on the other end deciding whether I'm worth the headache.

"I don't do montages, sweetheart. I do extraction. Your story just went live. The people you exposed already know. They're moving. I have a window of maybe twenty minutes before this diner becomes a problem. You have a bag?"

My stomach drops so fast I feel lightheaded. I glance around the diner again. The truckers are still hunched over their plates. The waitress is refilling coffee. No one looks like a smuggler hitman. But then again, hitmen probably don't wear neon signs that say "I'm here to silence the journalist."

"I... yes. I have a bag in my car. How do you even know where I am right now?"

"Because I'm very good at my job. Stay put. Don't leave the building. Don't call anyone. I'll be there in four minutes."

The line goes dead.

I sit there for three full seconds staring at the blank phone screen. Then my brain kicks back into gear with a flood of completely unhelpful thoughts.

Four minutes. A US Marshal named Brock Savage is coming to extract me.

My story just made me the most popular target in three counties.

And I'm sitting here in a diner wearing a flannel shirt with a coffee stain on the sleeve and jeans that have definitely seen better days.

Classic Hazel. Always prepared for the scoop, never prepared for the consequences.

I shove my phone into my pocket and stand up so fast the chair scrapes loudly against the floor.

Both truckers glance over. I give them a weak smile and a little wave like that somehow makes me look less like a woman about to bolt.

Then I hurry to the register, throw enough cash on the counter to cover the tea and a very generous tip, and head for the door.

The moment I step outside, the cold hits me like a slap.

Snowflakes land on my cheeks and melt instantly.

The air is sharp and clean, the kind that makes every breath feel like it belongs on a mountain.

Main Street is quiet under the fresh snow.

Streetlights are just starting to flicker on, casting yellow pools across the white ground.

Somewhere up in those mountains, people are moving illegal goods through hidden trails while the rest of the world thinks this place is just pretty scenery.

I dig my keys out of my bag and start walking fast toward the little parking lot beside the diner. My boots crunch through the thin layer of snow. Every sound feels too loud. I keep glancing over my shoulder, half expecting a black SUV full of angry smugglers to come screeching around the corner.

My car, a ten-year-old hatchback I lovingly call The Disaster, sits under a streetlight with a thin dusting of snow on the roof.

I pop the trunk, grab the duffel bag I packed this morning "just in case," and slam it shut again.

Inside that bag is everything I thought I might need for a few days on the run: clothes, toiletries, my spare notebook, a ridiculous number of protein bars, and the portable charger that has saved my life more times than I can count.

Also a thumb drive with every scrap of evidence I didn't publish.

Cal's coordinates. The Ridgeline Outfitters manifests.

Everything I couldn't fit into one article without putting more people at risk.

I'm just hauling the strap over my shoulder when a big black truck rumbles into the lot and stops right beside me. The engine cuts. The driver's door opens.

And then he steps out.

He's tall. Not just tall. Built like something the mountain decided to carve out of itself and send down to handle problems. Dark hair, thick beard, and eyes that lock onto me the second his boots hit the ground, sharp and assessing.

There's a badge clipped to his belt and a gun holstered at his hip.

Everything about the way he moves says he could end a situation before most people realized one had started.

I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.

"Hazel Lowe," he says. Not a question. A statement. His voice is even deeper in person. "I'm Brock Savage. US Marshal. Your ride."

I manage a tiny wave with the hand that isn't clutching my bag.

"Hi. Yes. That's me. The one who just published a story that apparently has people wanting me dead.

Super fun day. Do you always introduce yourself while looking like you're about to scowl the snow into submission, or is that a special occasion thing? "

One dark eyebrow lifts. Just a fraction. The corner of his mouth twitches like he's fighting a smirk and winning only barely. "You're worse than they warned me."

"They warned you? About me specifically? I'm flattered. And slightly terrified. Mostly terrified. But also a tiny bit flattered."

He steps closer. His gaze drops to the duffel bag on my shoulder, then back to my face. "That everything?"

"Pretty much. Laptop, clothes, snacks, and my dignity. Although I think I left the dignity back in the diner next to the empty tea mug."

He grunts. Actually grunts. A full-on mountain man sound that does something ridiculous to my stomach. "Get in the truck. We leave now."

I glance at The Disaster. "What about my car?"

"Leave it. Keys under the mat. Someone will handle it later." He opens the passenger door and waits. Not patiently. More like a man who has already decided how this is going to go and is simply giving me the chance to cooperate before he decides for me.

I hesitate for half a second. Then I climb in.

The seat is high. The cab smells like pine and gun oil.

The leather is worn but clean. There's a radio mounted on the dash that looks serious and official.

A rifle rack behind the seats. Everything about this vehicle says "I live in the mountains and I am prepared for anything, including you. "

Brock closes my door, walks around the front of the truck, and climbs into the driver's seat. The engine roars back to life. He pulls out of the lot without another word, tires gripping the snowy street with easy confidence.

I twist in my seat to watch Timber Creek disappear behind us.

The little town with its cozy diner and string lights looks smaller already.

Ahead of us the road climbs, winding up into the foothills.

Pine trees close in on both sides, tall and dark and heavy with snow.

The sky is fading toward dusk. Every curve of the road reveals more wilderness.

Sheer rock faces. Valleys filled with shadows.

Distant ridges that look like they go on forever.

I clear my throat. "So. Brock Savage. That's a very on-the-nose name for a guy who looks like he could bench-press a bear and then write a strongly worded ticket about it."

He keeps his eyes on the road. One hand steady on the wheel. The other resting near his hip, close to the gun. "I'm a US Marshal. Ex-Special Forces. I patrol these mountains. Keep the trails clear. Keep the wrong people from using them."

"And now you're stuck with me because I couldn't leave a good story alone." I settle back against the seat, trying to ignore the way my pulse is still racing. "Do you get a lot of journalists needing extraction, or am I a special brand of trouble?"

His mouth twitches. This time I'm almost sure it's a real almost-smile. "You're the first journalist. Most of my assignments don't talk this much."

"Rude. Accurate, but rude." I glance out the window as we climb higher. The snow is falling harder now, swirling in the headlights. The trees grow thicker. The road narrows. "Where exactly are we going?"

He glances over at me for the first time since we left town. Those gray eyes are intense enough to make my breath catch.

"My outpost," he says. "Deep in the range.

Off every map that matters. One road in.

One road out. No cell service. No neighbors.

Just me, you, and enough supplies to wait out whatever storm is coming.

" He pauses. The truck takes a sharp curve and my shoulder brushes his arm for a second.

"And yes. There's one bed. You'll take it.

I'll take the floor. Or the chair. Whatever keeps you breathing. "

I stare at him. My brain short-circuits for a solid three seconds. One bed. Remote outpost. A US Marshal who looks like he was carved out of the mountain itself.

I let out a breath that turns into a slightly unhinged laugh. "Of course there is. Why wouldn't there be?"

He doesn't laugh. But the corner of his mouth lifts just enough to show a flash of white teeth.

"Welcome to Steel Mountain, Hazel," he says, turning his attention back to the snowy road as the wilderness swallows us whole. "Try not to get yourself killed before I decide what to do with you."

I sink lower in the seat, arms crossed over my chest, and watch the dark pines fly past.

This is fine. Completely fine. Just a journalist with a target on her back and a thumb drive full of evidence heading into the middle of nowhere with a marshal who grumbles more than he talks.

What could possibly go wrong?

I glance at his profile again. Strong jaw. Focused eyes. That quiet confidence that says he already considers me his responsibility.

Yeah.

Something is definitely going to go wrong.

And a tiny, traitorous part of me is already looking forward to it.