Chapter Twenty-One
She woke to a silence thick enough to hold weight.
For a second, she didn’t move. She just stared at the plank ceiling above her—beams dark with time, knots like little eyes watching her breathe. Something smelled like cedar. Something else—smoke, maybe? Pine? Her fingers curled in wool. Heavy. Rough. Real.
She blinked.
It was morning—she could tell by the quality of the light. Not gold like dawn, but silvered. Soft. Already late.
Then the watch on her wrist caught the light.
His watch.
Clicking. Ticking. Already a familiar weight.
She turned her wrist toward her, slow as molasses, praying to God he hadn’t given her something fragile.
Waterproof.
Please be waterproof.
09:47
The hands were moving. Still ticked. Stubborn. Steady. Like him.
And now it was nearly ten.
She never slept this late.
She sat up too fast.
The whole world shifted left.
“Shit,” she whispered, palm flying to her temple. The ache bloomed sharp, then dulled like a bad tooth. Her stomach rolled. Her vision lagged a beat behind her eyes.
She sank back into the mattress, bracing. Everything was foggy. Her thoughts came fractured, like trying to piece together the shape of a storm from what it broke.
Horse.
Yes. She’d saddled up. Headed north. Stayed away from the south line.
The ridge. The colors.
Then—wrong turn.
She remembered the old mining road. The way the light fell sideways through the trees. The prickle down her spine like she was being watched.
Truck. Tires. Goggles.
Gun.
Her stomach clenched.
Gunshots.
The stallion spooking.
Running.
Then—
“Creek,” she breathed. Voice raspy, distant.
Freezing water. Her body hitting it like stone. The sharp panic of her limbs not working. The pull of it. Down.
She brought a hand to her throat.
And then—
Ethan.
His voice, first. Like a hook cast into darkness.
His hands.
The way he’d carried her.
The truck.
His jacket over her shoulders.
Saying her name like it was a lifeline.
Her heart kicked once in her ribs.
Now here.
Wherever here was.
She twisted again in bed, slower this time, trying to take it all in. The room was small, but it breathed calm. Walls of old wood, hand-planed and stained. Sparse furniture. Cast-iron stove in the corner. Military neat. Not a thing out of place.
It felt like him.
She touched the watch again, as if in disbelief. Every second sounded like something living.
Yet, no sign of Ethan.
The bed dipped where he’d sat. That much she knew. She could still feel the memory of his palm on her hip, coaxing her back to sleep. And she’d let him. She remembered that now—his voice low, telling her to rest, to let go, that she was safe.
She didn’t know how long she’d slept.
She didn’t know where she was.
But she knew who had brought her here.
And for now, that was enough to quiet the panic trying to take root in her throat.
Amara exhaled slow and deep, dragging the woolen blanket around her shoulders like a shield.
“I’m okay,” she whispered to the empty room. “I’m okay.”
But it didn’t feel like the truth yet.
Amara pulled herself together and made her way out of the cabin. The soles of her boots hit the cold porch boards, and she squinted into the light that fell across the clearing.
There he was.
Ethan Kane.
Sitting in a chair outside by a campfire, nursing a tin mug and writing something in a notebook with an intensity that made the world blur around him. A thermos sat nearby, steam curling. The fire cracked in rhythm with his pen strokes.
Her breath caught.
Even still, even now—he was too much. Too tall for the chair, shoulders hunched in a way that still made them look dangerous.
Broad back covered in a soft, weather-worn plaid shirt rolled to the elbows.
Long legs stretched out, boots caked in forest mud.
That hair—longer than it used to be, sun-warmed brown with a soft curl at the ends that made her fingers ache.
A grizzly beard, trimmed but thick. More mountain man than soldier.
And that face. Sharp where it needed to be. Soft where it shouldn’t be.
Those lips…
The same ones that had claimed her like a confession not long ago. The same ones that had said her name like a vow in the woods last night.
She stepped down from the porch and the sound caught him.
His head turned as she walked closer. He rose to her. Eyes the color of wild things—green and gold, rimmed with something unreadable. She couldn’t tell if it was relief or regret.
There was distance here. And history. Too many things they hadn’t said. Too much of him she didn’t understand. Too much of her he’d walked away from.
But her knees still wanted to bend. Her arms still wanted to wrap around his neck and bury themselves in his beard. Her mouth still remembered how it felt to say his name in the dark.
He crossed the space without a word.
Not romantic.
Not sweet.
Focused.
Cold.
That switch he had—when the soldier came back online. She saw it now, clear as the mountains rising behind him.
He didn’t touch her. Didn’t soften.
He just studied her like she was a report he needed to verify.
“How’s your head?” he asked, voice low, raspy.
She opened her mouth to answer, but her throat caught. She blinked. “It hurts.”
He gave a tight nod. “Vision still blurring?”
“A little.”
“Any nausea?”
“Not yet.”
“Sit,” he said, gesturing to his chair by the fire.
She obeyed without thinking. He was already moving—pouring from the thermos into another tin mug, checking the fire, grabbing the pan from a stone near the coals.
“I made breakfast,” he added, tone clipped. “Best I could do.”
She looked down. Eggs. A slice of ham. A piece of bread toasted on the fire’s edge.
“You’ve been staying here?” she asked, noting the fresh food.
“I have.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I’ve never told anyone about this place.”
She poked at the eggs, even though she wasn’t hungry. It wasn’t fancy, but it was warm. And the care in it—the quiet care—hit harder than it should.
He handed her the coffee first. “Slow. Sip.”
She nodded.
He crouched beside her, scanned her again.
She tilted her head and let him lift her chin with two fingers. His eyes flicked back and forth—assessing, cataloguing. Soldier-mode. Protector-mode.
Not lover-mode.
Not him.
“Ethan,” she whispered.
His jaw ticked.
“You’re angry.”
“Yes… Not just at you.”
That hurt more than she expected.
“You were out there,” he said, voice quieter now. “Alone. No one knew. No one even noticed.”
“I can take care of myself—”
“You could’ve died, Amara.”
She flinched. He stood and turned away like the sight of her was too much. Or maybe not enough.
She sipped the coffee. Let it burn her tongue just to feel something.
“What is this place?” she asked softly.
“My hunt camp,” he said. “My dad’s. Only thing he left me that wasn’t wreckage.”
She looked around. The trees stood close, like sentries. The place felt like a secret—bone-deep and old.
“No woman’s ever been here,” he added, without turning. “Not ever.”
That meant something.
She just wasn’t sure what yet.
Ethan had barely finished tying the tarp tighter over the woodpile when he turned. “Sit tight. Eat. I’ll be back in five.”
No room for discussion. No softness. Just that gravel-and-stone voice, soldier-shaped and bulletproof.
She raised a brow, but didn’t argue. Not yet.
He disappeared down the drive, his broad back vanishing into a ribbon of brush and light. She watched him tug something metal—a rusted tin—from the wheel well of the truck before slinging it under one arm and continuing on foot. Probably a stash. Probably loaded.
Of course he stashes shit in his wheel wells. Of course.
And then he was gone.
She poked at the plate of food he’d made. She swallowed a forkful and winced, not because it wasn’t good, but because she felt terrible. The headache pulsed behind her eyes like a lighthouse beam sweeping the inside of her skull.
Silence returned. Ten minutes passed. Maybe more. The fire crackled low in the pit. Wind ticked against branches. Pine needles whispered like they were trying not to be heard.
And still, he didn’t come back.
Mama.
The thought struck like a tuning fork. Sharp, perfect, panic-laced. The farm. The house. The chores. The bills. The damn stallion.
She stood too fast, the ground tilting like a ride she didn’t ask for. She caught herself on the back of the chair, grit her teeth, rode the wave until it passed.
She had to go.
When Ethan marched up the drive ten seconds later, she was already in motion—halfway to the cabin door to find her jacket.
“You going somewhere?” he asked.
“I have to go home.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Ethan—”
“No.” He strode across the ground like a decision already made. “You’re staying right here until I figure out what the fuck happened last night. Until I figure out who followed you into the woods, who pulled a goddamn gun, and what they were doing near your south line.”
“You can’t kidnap me.”
“I can. And I am.”
“The fuck?”
“You want to fuck around, Amara?”
“I’m not yours to keep on a goddamn leash. I have things I have to do.”
His jaw ticked. His shoulders rose, then stilled. “Brock’s handling the horse. Told you that already.”
She crossed her arms, biting back the tremble in her hands. “And Mama?”
“He’s checking in on the house. Sent someone from Calhoun out—friend of his. Good with horses. Woman named Corrie. Stallion’s gonna be okay. Shot clean through, missed the bone. Vet says he’ll walk again.”
She pressed her lips together so hard they stung.
He dragged a hand through his too-long hair and paced a tight half-circle like a caged animal, like the war machine in him didn’t know what to do with the fragile woman in front of him.
“As much as I like the idea of locking you up on my bed,” he started. “It’s not that. I can’t have you running around like a target while someone out there is making a play.”
“I’m not helpless,” she bit back.
“Didn’t say you were.” He turned, his voice lower now. “But right now, you’re injured. You’re tired. And you’re pissed at me, which makes you reckless.”
“Everything makes me reckless.”
He smiled. Just barely. But there was no humor in it.
“Give me a week,” he said.
“No.”
“Three days.”
“No.”
“Two.”
“One.”
“Two, Amara. Let me do what I came back here to do. Then you can ride off, burn bridges, whatever the hell you want. But give me the time to figure out what I’m dealing with before you end up bleeding in the dirt again.”
His eyes held hers. Not a flicker of softness. Just steel.
And something else.
Something that made her knees want to betray her.
She swallowed hard. “Fine. Forty-eight hours. Then I’m gone.”
He nodded once. “Deal.”
But they both knew it wasn’t over.
Because standing this close, tension crackling like dry leaves in a storm, neither of them had moved.
And her chest ached from how much she wanted to reach out.
He looked down at her, jaw set, pulse ticking in his throat.
“You really think I’d let you go?” he said softly. “After finding you half-dead in the woods?”
“I really think you don’t get to decide.”
His voice dropped another octave. “You think that’s ever stopped me?”
She could taste the danger of him now. Not just what he could do. But what he would do—for her. To her. Around her.
And she hated how much it turned her on.
He leaned in—just an inch—and whispered, “I’m not letting anyone touch you again. Not while I’m breathing.”
She blinked once. Twice. And backed away.
Because if she didn’t, she’d let him kiss her again.
“I need a shower,” she muttered, not quite looking at him. “Or a bath. Something. I’ve still got fucking moss in my hair.”
Ethan’s eyes tracked up, catching on the tangle.
His expression didn’t change much. Just the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. That unreadable thing he did when he was making decisions.
“There’s no plumbing out here,” he said after a pause. “Camp’s off-grid. Gas generator’s good for lights and heat, but not hot water. Not the kind you want.”
“So what—you gonna hose me off like livestock?”
“No,” he said, and the word was quiet. Firm. “I’ll take you to the lake.”
She blinked. “The lake?”
He nodded toward the east. “About a hundred yards through the brush. Cold as shit, but clean. Rain-fed. Still.”
She hesitated. “Cold?”
He gave a small, unapologetic shrug. “It’ll wake you up.”
She snorted, but her body ached for something that wasn’t this—the dried sweat, the creek water crusted to her thighs, the sour reminder of fear still clinging to her skin.
“Fine,” she relented. “Show me the way.”