Page 3 of Protected By the Mountain Man

A truck rumbled into view, its approach a prayer answered. I waved frantically, every cell in my body screaming for help. “Over here! Hey!”

The truck screeched to a halt, dust billowing up behind it. It was an old beater, clearly used for work more than looks, and the dirt on the windshield meant I couldn’t see who was inside. The only other remarkable thing about the truck was a Semper Fi bumper sticker on the rear windshield. A marine, then…but I didn’t know any marines in Silver Ridge.

I faltered for a split second.

Someone had just shot my brother…and no one had any reason to be out here.

Had I just flagged down the shooter?

The driver's door swung open and boots hit the dirt, heavy and determined. A huge man rounded the corner, bearded and covered in tattoos. At first, I didn’t recognize him—but my heart did a nosedive when I finally realized who it was.

Gabriel Mitchell.

Of all the people in Silver Ridge, it had to be him—the man who nearly sent Ben to an early grave years back.

And with a pang of horror, I wondered if he’d just pulled up to finish the job.

TWO

Gabe

These weren’t exactly the perfect circumstances for a reunion…especially considering the last time Ben Martin had been this hurt, I’d been the one who’d done it.

I rounded the front of my beat-up Ford, heart pounding. Kat Martin, blonde hair wild and unkempt and her face tight with worry, was holding onto her brother Ben like he was the only thing left in her world. The guy was slumped over the horse, shirt soaked in red, painting a grim picture I hadn't seen since Afghanistan.

“Shit,” I muttered under my breath. This was Ben—big, brash Ben who'd sooner spit on my shadow than share a beer with me. And why not? Last time we crossed paths, fists flew and he had ended up in the ER.

Now here he was, hanging onto his sister, looking like death warmed over.

For a second, I froze. My mind rushed back to a time when sand stuck to blood, and cries of the wounded filled the air instead of Montana's whispering winds. But hell, I wasn't that man anymore. I blinked hard, the images blurring, then I snapped back to the present, to Kat's desperate eyes boring into mine.

It was time to rally.

“Kat!” I called. “Hold on, I got you.”

She flinched, her stance going rigid, eyes wild and haunted—like a cornered animal ready to bolt. In that split second, I could see it all—the history between us, the hurt, the hate. She held onto Ben like I would eat him alive, given the chance.

“Did you do this?” Her words were sharp, biting. “Did you shoot him?”

“Jesus, Kat, no!” My hands lifted in defense. “I just came around the bend and?—”

A whine cut through the tension and I looked down to see a dog padding toward me, tail tucked and ears back. “Bandit, don’t!” Kat burst out—but the dog didn't waste any time nuzzling into my palm, leaving a wet trail across my skin.

It was like he was telling me, “Help them.”

And telling Kat to let me.

Kat's fierce gaze faltered, flickering down to where the dog—Bandit, I guessed—pleaded for aid. Kat's body language shifted, her shoulders slumping.

Then she nodded once, sharply, and I took it as my cue.

We moved in tandem to lower Ben from the horse. My arms slid under his limp form, the weight of him heavy and telling. Blood soaked through the fabric of my shirt as we eased him down, the metallic scent thick in the air.

“Careful, careful,” Kat murmured, her voice strained with a terror she was trying too hard to mask.

“Got him,” I grunted. He looked worse up close—too pale, like he already had one foot out the door. I'd seen this before; too many times, too many friends. The wounds…they were bad. Real bad.

“Jesus,” I whispered under my breath, not wanting Kat to hear the dread lodged tight in my throat. She was sliding down from her horse, which—to its credit—stayed put despite the chaos.

---