Sheltered By The Mountain Man Ranger (Mountain Man Bodyguard Protector #1)

Chapter 1

GARRETT

"Hawk, you copy? Got a situation on the south ridge."

I'm already moving. Boots on, jacket grabbed off the hook by the door, Ghost at my heels before I've finished swinging my pack over my shoulder.

Twenty years of this and my body still wakes up before my brain does.

Feet on the floor, rifle in hand, three escape routes running through my head before the first question forms.

"Go ahead, dispatch."

"Hiker called in. Says she saw someone down in the ravine off Trail 7. Female, possibly injured. Didn't stick around to confirm. She was hauling ass back to the trailhead when she got bars."

"Location?"

"Mile marker four, east fork. You want backup?"

"Negative. Send Sheriff Parker an update. I'll call it in when I lay eyes."

I don't wait for the response. Ghost jumps into the passenger seat of my truck, gray muzzle settling on the console like he's done a thousand times.

He's twelve and mostly retired. Arthritis in his hips, eyes cloudier than they used to be.

Doesn't matter. He still works better than most active dogs, and he goes where I go.

The engine turns over on the first try. I back out of the station yard and hit the fire road hard, headlights cutting white tunnels through the dark.

South ridge. Trail 7.

That's a dead zone. Ravine runs narrow through granite, steep on both sides, gets flash floods when it rains and rattlesnakes when it doesn't. Nobody with a map goes in there. Which means either the hiker got turned around bad, or she wasn't a hiker at all.

I push the truck harder.

The road narrows to two ruts and then to one, and then it's gone.

I kill the engine, grab my pack, whistle Ghost out.

He drops to the ground beside me and waits for the command.

Classified the world in tactical terms fifteen years ago and never learned how to turn it off. Neither did he. We're a matched pair.

"Find her."

He's off before the word's finished, nose down, moving fast for an old dog. I follow the beam of my headlamp, rifle slung across my chest, the cold bite of predawn mountain air in my lungs.

Forty yards in, Ghost goes still.

Not a point. A freeze. Head low, ears pinned, tail rigid. He's telling me something's here, and it's not just a hurt hiker.

I drop to a knee and sweep the slope with my light.

She's wedged against a deadfall about twelve feet below the trail edge. Dark hair, braid half unraveled, field vest with too many pockets. Not moving. One leg bent wrong, caught under her at an angle that makes my stomach tighten.

But that's not what Ghost was telling me.

I kill the headlamp and go still. Listen past my own heartbeat.

Footsteps. Somewhere above us on the ridge. Slow. Measured. A man not in a hurry because he already knows where his target is.

Son of a bitch.

I signal Ghost down into the brush and drop myself behind an outcropping of granite. Thumb the safety on my rifle. Wait.

The footsteps pass about thirty feet north of my position. Headed toward her. I catch the silhouette when he crosses a gap in the tree line. Single male, moving methodical, something long slung across his back. Not a hiker. Not search and rescue. He's hunting, and she's what he's hunting.

Two choices. Engage him up here and leave her bleeding out in the ravine. Or get her out first and pick up his trail later.

Not really a choice.

I wait until his footsteps fade north, then signal Ghost to hold perimeter. Old dog settles into a crouch that blends him into the dark. If that man comes back, I'll know about it.

I go over the edge of the ravine slow, testing every handhold. Twelve feet down on loose rock in the dark, carrying a rifle, knowing I'm on a clock. My knees aren't what they were at thirty. I don't think about it. Just move.

I reach her and crouch.

She's breathing. Shallow but steady. Pulse at her throat is fast and thready, which tracks with how long she's probably been down here.

Skin cold. Temple scraped up bad, blood dried down the side of her face.

Left ankle twisted under her at an angle ankles aren't supposed to make.

Ribs where I can see under the torn edge of her vest look bruised to hell.

I run my hands over her carefully. No obvious breaks beyond the ankle. No spinal compromise I can feel.

"Ma'am."

Her eyes don't open.

"Can you hear me?"

A breath. A flutter of lashes. Nothing else.

I unclip a canvas pouch from my pack and pull out the emergency blanket. Wrap her. Check her pack, because if that man is looking for something specific, I need to know what he's going to come back for.

Her pack is half open. A Pelican case inside, scraped up from the fall but intact. Rock samples in labeled bags. A field notebook bound in waxed canvas. Camera with a telephoto lens. Compass that looks older than she is, brass, well-used.

Nobody sends a man with a rifle after a geologist unless she found something she wasn't supposed to find.

I zip her pack tight and sling it over my own shoulder. Then I reach down and slide one arm under her knees and the other behind her back. She's solid. Strong legs. I lift her against my chest and brace for the climb.

Her head rolls against my collarbone. She makes a sound. Not a word, just a breath of protest, like her body knows it's being moved and doesn't like it.

"I got you."

I don't know if it registers. Don't care. I keep talking in a low voice because sometimes people hold on when they've got something to hold onto, even if it's just sound.

"You're safe. You're with me. I'm getting you out."

The climb back up is slower than the climb down. Every handhold has to hold both of us. I feel my left knee scream when I haul us over the lip, and I ignore it. Ghost materializes at my side the second my boot hits the trail, ears up, asking.

"North," I murmur. "Stay close."

We move. Fast as I can with her in my arms. I take a low route back to the truck, one that keeps us off the ridgeline, one that puts rock between us and anyone who might be looking down from above.

Halfway there, she stirs.

Her hand comes up, fingers catching in the front of my jacket. Not a grab. A curl. Like she's anchoring herself.

"Not safe," she whispers.

"I know."

Her eyes crack open. Dark brown. Unfocused. Find mine through the dim gray of a mountain coming awake.

"They're looking for it."

"For what?"

She tries to shake her head. Winces. Gives up.

"Notebook. Pack. Don't..."

"It's with me. It's safe. You're safe."

She studies my face for a long second. I don't know what she sees. Whatever it is, she lets out a breath and her eyes close again and her head settles back against my shoulder like she's decided I'll do.

That hits something in me I don't have time to name.

I tighten my grip and keep moving.

At the truck I get her into the passenger seat, buckled in, blanket tucked. Ghost jumps into the footwell at her feet and plants himself there like he's been given a new job. Maybe he has.

I pull the door shut, circle the hood, get in.

Radio to my mouth.

"Dispatch, this is Hawk. Got the female. Alive. Ankle's trashed, head wound, possible rib damage. Also got a second party on the ridge, armed, tracking. Get Parker on the line. I'm taking her off-grid. My cabin. Nobody comes up that road without my say."

I hang the radio and look over at her.

Braid unraveling. Blood at her temple. Face slack with exhaustion and whatever painkiller her body's pumping out to keep her from feeling the ankle.

And my chest is doing something it hasn't done in a long time.

I put the truck in gear.