8. Hazel
Hazel
I don't sleep well.
Not because of the storm, although it's still hammering the cabin hard enough to rattle the windows every few minutes.
And not because of the fear, although the intercepted radio transmission is lodged in my brain like a splinter I can't reach.
The journalist is the priority. Find out where they took her.
No. I can't sleep because I keep touching my lips like a teenager and replaying the kiss on a loop.
The way he closed the distance slowly. The first brush of his mouth against mine, barely there, testing.
The way I grabbed his shirt and pulled him back.
And then the second kiss, the real one, where he tilted my head back and kissed me like he'd been holding his breath for two days and I was air.
My whole body still hums with it. Every nerve ending is wide awake and demanding a follow-up that didn't happen because we were responsible adults who said goodnight and went to our separate sleeping arrangements like mature, sensible people.
I hate being mature and sensible.
I roll onto my side and watch Brock's silhouette on the couch through the low firelight.
He's lying on his back with the sat phone propped on his chest, still monitoring the frequency.
He hasn't moved in a while but I don't think he's sleeping either.
His breathing is too controlled. Too deliberate.
"You're awake," I say into the dark.
A pause. "Yeah."
"Anything else on the radio?"
"Static. They've either switched frequencies or shut down for the night. Storm's probably making their handhelds useless at this range."
I pull the quilt tighter around my shoulders. The fire has burned low, casting orange light across the log walls. "Can I ask you something?"
"You're going to whether I say yes or not."
"True." I sit up against the headboard and tuck my knees under the covers.
"The incident report I found today. Cal's complaint about unauthorized vehicles on the Crescent Fork trail.
It was filed through the proper channels.
Official form, official log number, everything by the book.
And then it just vanished into a drawer.
Someone inside the system made that happen.
Do you have any idea who has that kind of authority at the regional level? "
He's quiet long enough that I think he's not going to answer. Then the couch creaks as he shifts. "A few people. Regional supervisors. District rangers with administrative access. Anyone with clearance to close or reclassify an incident report before it gets flagged for follow-up."
"So it could be someone in your own chain of command."
"Could be." His voice is careful. Measured.
"Which is why we're keeping this between us and Mason until we know more.
I don't like the shape this is taking, Hazel.
A network with established routes, a front company, local infrastructure, and now possible law enforcement cover.
That's not a smuggling ring. That's an operation. "
"I know." I've been thinking the same thing since I opened that folder.
"When the storm breaks, I want to go through the rest of those files.
And I want to cross-reference the GPS coordinates Cal gave me against your patrol routes.
If his coordinates point to one of the active sites you haven't been able to reach, we might be able to confirm what RC North actually is. "
"Tomorrow. Get some sleep."
"I can't sleep."
"Try."
"I've been trying for two hours. My brain won't stop running. It's doing that thing where it cycles between the case and the kiss and the case and the kiss and I can't find the off switch."
Silence. Then a sound that might be a quiet laugh, low and surprised. "The case and the kiss."
"Not in that order. Honestly the kiss is winning by a significant margin.
Which is embarrassing because there are men with radios looking for me and I should probably be focused on survival but instead I'm lying here thinking about how you taste like coffee and how your hand felt on my jaw and I'm fully aware that this is not a productive use of my time. "
More silence. The fire pops. The wind presses against the cabin in a long, low moan.
"Come here," he says.
My heart does something complicated. "What?"
"The couch is closer to the fire. Come sit with me. If neither of us is sleeping we might as well be awake in the same place."
I throw back the quilts, grab the top blanket to wrap around my shoulders, and cross the dark room in my socks.
The wood floor is cold. The fire is warm.
Brock sits up as I approach and makes space.
The couch is too small for both of us to sit comfortably, so I end up tucked against his side with the blanket pulled over my legs and his arm settling around my shoulders like it belongs there.
For a few minutes we just sit. The fire flickers. Snow ticks against the glass. His thumb traces an absent pattern on my shoulder through the blanket.
"Can I tell you something?" I keep my voice quiet even though there's no one to hear.
"Yeah."
"I've never done this before. Any of this.
Not the being hunted part, although that's also new.
I mean the part where someone looks at me the way you do and I actually believe they mean it.
I've had one almost-boyfriend in college who treated kissing me like a homework assignment he wanted to finish quickly.
That's it. My whole romantic history fits on a Post-it note with room left over for a grocery list."
His arm tightens around me. Not dramatically. Just a fraction more pressure, like he's absorbing what I said and holding on a little harder.
"You're not missing much," he says. "Most people are bad at this."
"Are you bad at this?"
"Terrible. I spent twenty-four hours making lists and chopping firewood to avoid feeling what I feel about you. That's not exactly smooth."
I laugh. Quiet and real. His chest rumbles beneath my ear.
"For what it's worth," I say, "the list was adorable. Especially number six. 'Definitely not whipped cream.'"
His whole body stiffens. "You read the list."
"I told you I would. You left it sticking out of your jacket pocket while you were checking the generator. I have very fast hands and zero shame."
"I'm adding a number eleven. Hide all evidence from the journalist with no boundaries."
"Too late. The journalist already memorized it. Number four was my personal favorite. 'Go outside and roll in the snow like an idiot until my dick freezes off.' Very poetic. Very you."
He groans and drops his head back against the couch. "You're going to use this against me for the rest of this assignment."
"Absolutely. It's leverage. Journalists love leverage.
" I tilt my head up to look at him. His eyes are closed.
He's fighting a smile. The firelight catches the edge of his jaw and the curve of his mouth and something about seeing him like this, unguarded, almost laughing, no walls up, makes my chest ache in a way that has nothing to do with fear.
"Brock."
He opens his eyes and looks down at me.
I don't say anything else. I just lean up and kiss him.
It's different from the first time. Softer.
I initiate, which feels important somehow, and he lets me set the pace.
My hand finds his jaw, rough with beard, and I feel him exhale against my mouth like he's been holding something back and just decided to let it go.
He kisses me back slow and deliberate, one hand cradling the back of my head, the other settling on my hip over the blanket.
I shift closer. The blanket slides off my shoulders. His hand moves from my hip to the bare strip of skin between my shirt and my sleep shorts and the contact sends heat racing up my spine. I make a small sound against his mouth and feel his fingers flex in response.
The kiss deepens. His tongue brushes mine and I press into him, hands climbing to his shoulders, pulling myself closer until I'm half in his lap.
His hand slides up my back under my shirt, callused palm against bare skin, and every point of contact feels like a circuit closing.
I've never been touched like this. Like someone is paying attention. Like every response I give matters.
I'm breathless and shaking and it has nothing to do with the cold.
The sat phone screams.
Not a ring. A burst of static followed by a voice, loud and clear in the quiet cabin. Both of us jerk apart like we've been electrified.
"...confirmed the article came out of Timber Creek. Check the motels. Check the rental history. She didn't drive up from Helena for one story. She was staying somewhere local. Find the car and you find the trail..."
The voice cuts to static. Then a second voice, the deeper one from before. "Voss wants this wrapped up before the roads clear. No loose ends. If the marshal's got her, we need to know where."
Static. Silence.
I'm frozen with my hands still on Brock's shoulders. My heart is slamming against my ribs so hard I can feel it in my throat. The warmth from thirty seconds ago has been replaced by something cold and sharp.
"They know about you," I whisper. "They know a marshal has me."
Brock is already off the couch. He grabs the sat phone, checks the frequency, and starts writing on the notepad beside it. His face has gone completely flat. Professional. The man who was kissing me ten seconds ago is gone. The operator is back.
"They know the Marshals Service is involved.
They don't know which marshal or where." He writes fast, recording everything we just heard.
"They're working backward from your movements in Timber Creek.
The car, the motel, the rental history. That's ground-level investigation. It takes time, especially in a storm."
"How much time?"
"Depends on their resources and their contacts.
If they've got someone in local law enforcement, they could pull your rental records fast. If they're doing it themselves, the storm buys us a couple of days.
" He looks at me. "Either way, your car is clean.
I had someone move it within an hour of extraction.
Plates swapped, driven to a lot in Billings.
There's nothing in Timber Creek that connects to this location. "
Some of the ice in my chest thaws. "You planned for this."
"I plan for everything." He sets the phone down and crosses back to me. His expression hasn't fully softened but his voice drops lower when he speaks. "They're not going to find you. Not here. Not while I'm breathing."
I nod. My hands are shaking again. I look down at them and let out a breath that's halfway to a laugh. "Great timing on their part. Really excellent dramatic instinct. Ten out of ten for ruining a moment."
His mouth twitches. Just barely. "The moment's not ruined. Just postponed."
"Postponed." I pull the blanket back around my shoulders and hug it tight. "I can work with postponed."
He crouches in front of me so we're eye level. Takes my shaking hands in both of his, steadying them. "I need to set up a monitoring protocol on that frequency. Log everything and get it to Mason as soon as I can get a clear outbound line. That's going to take the rest of the night."
"I'll help. I can transcribe while you monitor. Two sets of ears are better than one."
He studies me for a second, then nods. "All right. Pull your notebook. We'll take shifts. Anything that comes through, write it down exactly as you hear it. No paraphrasing. Exact words."
"I'm a journalist. Exact words is literally what I do."
He almost smiles. Then he squeezes my hands once, lets go, and moves to the table to set up the sat phone and the notepad side by side.
I grab my notebook and a pen and sit across from him. The fire crackles behind us. The storm howls outside. Between us the sat phone hisses with white noise, waiting for the next voice to break through.
We work through the night. Two more fragments come through before dawn, shorter and more garbled, but enough to confirm that at least three people are actively searching for me and that they're taking orders from someone they only refer to as Voss.
One fragment mentions "the deputy" without a name, which makes Brock's jaw go tight in a way that tells me he's thinking the same thing I am.
Law enforcement contact. Inside the network.
By the time gray light starts seeping through the windows the storm has finally begun to ease. The wind drops from a scream to a moan. The snow thins. I've filled four pages of transcription notes and my eyes are burning from staring at the sat phone's small screen in the dark.
Brock sets down his pen and looks at me across the table. We're both exhausted. Both wired. The case files and transcription notes are spread between us like a map of something dangerous and half-visible.
"You should sleep," he says.
"So should you."
"I will. After I send this to Mason."
I stand, stretch my aching back, and walk around the table to his side. He looks up at me. I lean down and press my mouth to his, quick and certain. Not a passionate kiss. A promise.
"Postponed," I say against his lips. "Not cancelled."
His hand catches the back of my neck and holds me there for one extra second. "Not cancelled."
I straighten up and walk to the bed, crawl under the quilts, and close my eyes. The last thing I hear before sleep pulls me under is the quiet scratch of his pen and the hiss of the radio, standing guard over everything we've built and everything we're about to face.