Page 16 of Rescued By the Mountain Man

Stepping out of the shower, I dried off and donned my robe. Then went to dress in the room. Warrick had his papers out and was scribbling something down, but as I glanced to the window, I saw another jagged streak of pink lightning cut the sky in half. I reconsidered getting out the laptop. Most of the work was done anyway.

I still jumped at the thunder, though.

“I’m making some tea,” I said. “Do you want some too?”

“I’ll probably make a cup of joe,” he replied, eyes still down on the papers.

“Coffee?” I squawked, “At this time of night? Do you want to sleep?”

He looked up placidly. “I can mainline three cups of coffee and take a nap. Do not underestimate my power.”

Rolling my eyes, I turned back to the kitchen and grabbed the kettle. Filling it, I got it on the stove and searched for the chamomile packets. The silence grated on me. “Was it always your plan to get into ranching? I mean, even after your rodeo career?”

“No.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“Because it needed to be done.”

Getting answers from him is harder than pulling teeth without Novocaine.

“Are you always this talkative?” I dunked the tea bag into the cup and drowned it with boiling water. “I don’t feel like I can get a word in edgewise.”

He looked up. “Good.”

“Water’s ready,” I replied. “I’ll be in my room, praying this storm dies down.”

I didn’t hear his reply—if he had made one at all—and slipped into the bedroom. From the lightning dancing outside the window, shadows swayed over the modest furniture, creating pockets of darkness I would rather do without.

The wooden dresser opposite the bed was worn but well shined. A TV sat on top of it, with the remote I had not once touched. Two nightstands bookended the bed, and across from it, a closet.

Resting the cup on the table, I regretted not grabbing a coaster, but I was not going to go back there. Nope. Not happening.

As the lights flashed and the rain tumbled, I wondered what my old coworkers were doing. Half of them were insomniac workaholics who medicated with coffee and the occasional Xanax. It was after nine, but that newsroom would be bustling—keys tapping, and my editor screaming at his PA to get some judge or police chief on the phone.

I loved journalism.

It was too bad that I would never step foot in that room again. Not until the Feds corralled that could-be killer.

And who knew when that would be.

Could be a day, could be a year. Hell, the case could go cold and then what?

They cannot let this go cold, just as they cannot keep this quiet for much longer. Somebody has got to notice that medical clinic vanishing from Brooklyn. They scammed almost fifteen million from government funds. No one is gonna let that go.

“All this because I dug deep on a simple fluff piece I didn’t need to do,” I sighed.

Peeling the duvet and sheets down, I slid into bed and reached for the cup, sipping.

Guilt ate at me as I got ready to turn in. It didn’t seem right that I was in this comfortable bed, and Warrick was out there in the cold on that relic of a couch. It probably wasn’t good for his back, either. When he thought nobody was looking, he would often go through a series of stretches forward and back, then twist side to side, always with a grimace on his face.

It was painful to watch; secretly, I’d always cringe with him.

Sighing, I sunk to the pillows and tried to find a comfortable spot to sleep. Even with the storm raising hell and the unsettling booms outside, I managed to slip to sleep…

Only to find myself in my old bed, the room dark, the can of mace on the table.

Then…I was struggling and gasping for breath. Thumbs pressed into my windpipe as icy blue eyes stared death into mine. I tried to scream—but no sound came out.

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