Chapter 20 Ruger
Ruger
Fuck, this is a mess, I say as I get out of my truck.
Got that right, Glen says as he shines his flashlight down the road.
There isn’t a streetlight for miles, and beyond the reach of his beam, the night swallows everything whole.
The flashlight catches the damage in pieces as Glen moves it over the ground.
Two deep ruts carve through the mud, filled with brown water that reflects the light back to us.
The car Walter mentioned sits ten feet ahead, and the precarious tilt of the car tells me the front end must be the sunken part.
Normally, I don’t mind calls like this. Someone needs help, I have the equipment, why not help out? I can think of worse ways to spend an evening than knee-deep in some mud.
Tonight, though, I’d rather be home with Wrenley.
We kissed less than twenty-four hours ago, but there hasn’t been a moment where we could have a private conversation about it.
I need to talk to her and figure out what the hell we’re doing from here. I know what I want to do, but I have to be certain it’s what she wants too.
Where’s the couple? I ask, removing the cover from my winch.
My deputy took them back to the station for some coffee.
Punishment? I tease.
Glen makes a face. Our coffee isn’t that bad.
It’s certainly not good.
You know, you can help without talking, Glen says as I reach for the winch line.
Where’s the fun in that?
Walter pulls up in his truck, hopping out and digging in the bed. I got the bigger light.
Finally, someone useful.
Fuck off, Glen says with a hint of a smile on his lips.
Glen’s been sheriff for as long as I’ve been a conservation officer, and in a place like Alpine Harbor, our jobs overlap more than people might think.
Missing hikers, wildlife calls that turn into public safety problems—we’ve spent enough nights standing on the side of roads together that giving each other shit is practically professional courtesy.
Walter hauls out a battery-operated floodlight and sets it down on the uneven road, holding on to the pole to keep it from falling over. Harsh white light cuts through the darkness, putting the whole disaster on display.
I let out a low whistle.
The rental is buried worse than I thought.
Mud reaches halfway up the tires, and the passenger side sits lower where the soft shoulder has started to give beneath the weight of the car. Judging by the mess behind it, the driver tried to power their way out.
I crouch beside the front tire. Spun pretty hard, I say.
Glen nods. Yep.
Tourists do this all the time. They rent a vehicle, see the words all-wheel drive on the paperwork, and assume they’ve been handed a vehicle capable of handling anything Alaska throws at them.
It’s great for slick highways and snowy parking lots, but it doesn’t magically give a compact crossover the clearance or muscle of a proper four-by-four.
Once the tires start spinning in mud like this, all you’re doing is digging yourself a grave.
Or in this case, a very expensive hole for the rental company to deal with.
I walk around the vehicle one more time before I drop down to find a solid recovery point underneath.
Mud soaks through the knee of my pants, but I find what I’m looking for and straighten.
I’m going to pull it back the way it came.
Glen, keep an eye on the shoulder. If it starts to give way more, yell.
He nods.
I drag the winch line from my truck, boots sinking into the mud with every step. The cable feeds out behind me as I make my way to the rental and crouch again. Once I’m hooked on the vehicle, I give everything a firm tug and check the connection twice.
I’m all ready, I call.
Glen and Walter make sure they’re positioned so they won’t get in the way.
I return to my truck and open my glovebox, where I keep the controller for my winch. The motor hums as I power it on, the cable tightening between the crossover and my truck.
The rental ever so slightly budges, but the mud sucks at the tire, reluctant to let the vehicle go. I keep the pull slow and steady—that’s the key to these situations—to avoid breaking anything.
It finally jerks free with a wet sucking sound as it slides back onto firmer ground.
There we go, Walter says.
I keep pressure on the controller until I’m sure the car is safe, then release the button. The winch motor falls silent.
Well, Glen says, walking around the vehicle. At least it’s out.
I join him at the front bumper with Walter, light still in hand.
That’s about the best we can say for now, I agree.
The front end is caked in mud, and I don’t need to go underneath to know it’s not driving anywhere tonight.
Glen seems to reach the same conclusion. I’ll deal with the rest at the station. A tow will have to come from Anchorage in the next few days.
Walter and I nod.
If the excitement’s done, I think I’m going to get on home, Walter says. Do you want to hold on to this light?
Not needed. You have a good night, and thanks for your help. Glen gives Walter a wave.
Walter turns off the light and puts it in the bed of his truck before getting into the driver’s seat. I reel in the last of the line while his truck roars to life.
I guess I’m done here too, I say as I return the cover to the winch. Tell that couple next time they rent a vehicle, all-wheel drive does not mean all terrain.
Glen chuckles. It’ll be in the official report. Thanks for coming out.
No problem.
We get into our vehicles and go our separate ways.
By the time I pull into the driveway, the mud on the bottom of my pants has hardened enough for them to feel uncomfortable, and exhaustion has started settling in my shoulders.
Despite that, I’m happy to be home and just hope that Wrenley is still awake and we can talk.
When I pick up my phone from the cup holder, I notice I have a text message.
WRENLEY: Remi is dragging me and Audrey out for drinks. Come to Alpine Brewing when you’re done!
So much for talking.
ME: Just grabbing a shower, then I’ll be there.
WRENLEY: See you soon.
Those three words make me practically run to the shower.
Twenty minutes later, I’m clean and no longer smelling like a mud pit. I pull open the door to Alpine Brewing and am met with the smell of stale beer and the sounds of warm conversation. I barely notice it because I’m looking for Wrenley.
I spot my sister sitting at the bar, so I walk over and gently spin her toward me. Where’s Audrey and Wrenley?
Audrey couldn’t make it, and Wren is— Remi sputters, spraying spit across my neck and chin, then starts laughing as she points to her right. My gaze follows her finger… and lands on Wrenley. I think the drinks and travel exhaustion aren’t mixing well.
She’s in the middle of the room, swaying her hips to the beat, slow and loose, every curve outlined in a fitted black tank and hip-hugging jeans.
Everyone in here knows she’s my fiancée, and yet, they’re looking at her like she’s free to take home.
Something low and sharp coils in my chest. I grab her flannel off the back of a chair and start toward her.
Ruger. Your woman— Timmy Grant, because of course he’s here, starts to say before I cut him off with a glare sharp enough to cut glass.
She’s not my woman, I grind out. She’s my wife. Show some damn respect, you Neanderthal.
Timmy throws his hands up. I’m just trying to say she’s hot. Good job, man.
I don’t dignify that with a response.
Hot is what you call a one-night stand. Wrenley is something else entirely. She’s so beautiful she makes me forget what I’m saying in the middle of a sentence. I could spend the rest of my life looking at her and still feel like I’m seeing her for the first time.
I reach her and take her hand. We should go, baby.
Hey! I’m having funnn, she singsongs, dragging the last letter.
It’s time to go home.
She yanks her hand free and holds it to her chest like I burned her, then goes right back to dancing, eyes locked on mine.
Wrenley. My tone is a warning.
I’m not trying to be overprotective. Wrenley can make her own decisions, but right now, she’s in no state to judge her limits. Maybe she’d keep drinking if I left without her. Maybe she’d be fine. But I’m not willing to gamble with her safety, and I need to know that she gets home alright.
Please, I say, my voice soft.
Fine, she mumbles, grabbing her jacket from me. She fumbles with one sleeve, missing it twice before I take the jacket from her.
Hey, I say. Come here.
I hold the jacket open and wait until she turns, then guide one arm into the sleeve and then the other. You’re drunk, you’re tired, and you’ve had a long couple of days. You need to go home and sleep it off.
The fight seems to drain out of her all at once.
But I was having fun, she repeats her earlier sentiment.
I know. I pull the jacket over her shoulders and straighten the collar. And now you’re going home.
What would Remi think if she saw this interaction? Wrenley asks as she folds the jacket tighter around herself.
She’d assume we were playing our roles, I answer.
Is that what we’re doing? she asks.
Her eyes stay on mine, and for a second, the noise of the brewery around us dulls.
Is that what we’re doing? I don’t fucking know anymore.
I know I needed to kiss her in that elevator, and I’ve spent every second since thinking about doing it again.
As she stands there looking at me, waiting for an answer, the thing I know deeper than anything else is that pretending this is only an act feels like a lie.
My lips part, the answer on the tip of my tongue, but then Remi appears at my side.
You’re taking her home? she whines.
The moment is gone, and even through her alcohol haze, I catch the disappointment on Wrenley’s face when she realizes she isn’t getting an answer.
I feel bad, but maybe that’s for the best. She deserves an answer when she’s sober enough to remember every word of it, and I need to be sure of what I’m going to say.
Instead, I turn my attention to my sister. And you. Come on.