Page 12 of Wanted

“Don’t tell me to be quiet.”

“Well, you keep yapping.”

“Excuse me for yapping when I’m nervous.”

“If you aren’t going to answer any of my questions, then you can do us both a favor and keep quiet.”

Jude throws a leg over his ATV without shifting me from his arms and settles onto the seat.

“What questions?” I grunt as he manhandles me to sit in front of him as if I weigh less than a feather pillow and I’m not a full grown-ass woman, and he pulls my back against his chest. The warmth of him seeps into me and chases away the bone-deep chill. I fight the urge to nestle back to pursue the comforting heat I long to feel.

I didn’t know how cold I really was until I felt his warmth.

His beard scrapes the side of my face, and his breath ghosts across my ear.

“What are you doing on my property, and who put that blood on your pretty dress?”

His voice is a soft timbre, nearly a caress.

I swallow hard against the shameful admissions rising in my throat. “Are you still going to help me if I don’t tell you?”

“Yes.”

3

Jude

“Ashe, come.”

The four-wheeler growls to life beneath us as I start a slow crawl back to the trail with the mysterious girl tucked tight against me. My chest expands with a deep inhale as I fight the urge to count. Numbers race through my head anyway. One through seven. One through twelve. One through three. One through eleven.

On and on as we travel slowly over icy snow and gravel terrain. I want nothing more than to hit the gas and get home quicker so that the urge to count will stop.

But it doesn’t. It’s been decades since I last felt the harsh pain of a belt tearing my youthful skin, scarring more than my back for the rest of my fucking life. The compulsion won’t stop until my brain is convinced that I’m safe despite the fact there isn’t any actual danger.

And with her tucked against me with a broken arm and who knows what other injuries, I can’t risk hurting her more just because I’m dealing with a little… discomfort.

Uncontrollable, all-consuming, anxiety-ridden discomfort.

I smother a frustrated sigh.

The wind pushes her hair into my face, tickling my cheeks with the loose strands. I sit tense, back straight, eyes aimed over her white-blond head at the path. The trees open and the trail ends, dumping us on the edge of the Sanctuary’s meadow.

She doesn’t say anything as my home and business come into view. The house on the hill with the gated front porch and Adirondack chairs facing the long driveway. The shed to the right and the intake building to the left where all our new dogs spend a few nights to adjust before meeting the rest of the pack.

I thank the foresight to leave the rest of the dogs inside while I searched for Ashe because I don’t have time to round them all up when I have an injured woman I need to rush to Fairview Valley’s local hospital. I’d prefer to call an ambulance and be done with her, but that would only delay her care. Small-town services aren’t as speedy here as in the city.

Tamping down the new sense of urgency isn’t easy as I slow to a stop beside the commercial white van I use for tracking down strays, which is typically the only time I drive other than picking up my weekly groceries.

“Get in.”

Her back tenses against my front, and I fight to ignore how quickly I notice the shift in her posture.

“You’re joking, right?”

“I don’t joke.”

“You have to see how ridiculous this is.” She waves her hand in the direction of my van.

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