Page 75 of Protected By the Mountain Man

Gabe

I’d been doing chores for my dad for hours, and all I could think about was Kat.

The house was quiet today; Dad’s nurse hadn’t been able to come in with the snow. That meant I was responsible for getting the driveway shoveled, weatherproofing the house…whatever he needed.

He always liked bossing me around.

When I was a kid, it bothered me; now, I didn’t mind it.

Snow crunched under my boots, shovel in hand, breath misting the cold air. Another snowstorm was coming, but Dad’s nurse had said she’d try to make it over before then—I wanted to make sure she had a place to park. Soon, I would leave here, swing by the diner, and grab food for the girls.

Then, home.

Home with the woman I loved—and who loved me back.

I was heaving another load of powder off to the side when the crunch of tires on snow caught my ear. I straightened, rubbing a gloved hand over my face, and squinted against the gray sky.

Chris's squad car rolled up. Not normal, him coming here without a call first.

My gut clenched. This couldn’t be good.

He killed the engine, the door swung open, and Chris was out before his car had fully stopped humming. In his grip, he held a file, thick and ominous. Snow kicked up from his urgent steps.

“Sorry, Gabe,” he said, voice tight, eyes all business. “Need you to see this. Inside?”

“Sure.”

We trudged through the threshold, me trailing Chris, both shedding snow. The door shut with a thud behind us. Dad looked up from his coffee, a grin on his face that faded fast when he caught sight of Chris's frown.

“Chris,” Dad said, the smile slipping away. “What brings you out here?”

“Morning, Mr. Mitchell.” Chris nodded, but his eyes didn't meet Dad's. “Got something for Gabe.”

“Something wrong?” Dad asked.

“Yeah—I’ll show you,” Chris said and headed straight for the kitchen.

I followed, throwing a puzzled look over my shoulder at Dad. He was close on our heels, quick even with his walker. In the kitchen, the air felt too still. Chris yanked out a chair, motioning for me to sit. I did, slowly, watching him spread papers across the worn wooden table.

“Okay,” I started, “what's all this?”

“Those two goons who broke into Kat’s place,” Chris said, tapping the file, “they're singing.”

“About what?” Dad's voice cut in.

“Trying to dodge a heavier sentence. They've given us something to work with.” Chris's gaze pinned me, steady, serious. “They talked about Kat.”

“Kat?” Her name punched the air out of me. “What did they say?”

“Seems they were hired. And they're willing to deal to avoid going down for something bigger.”

“Who'd hire them to go after her?” Dad asked, leaning forward, knuckles whitening on the tabletop.

“Here's the thing,” Chris said, his voice low, “they don't know much about the guy. But they let slip he mentioned selling land. So I dug around.”

“Selling?” My pulse hammered in my ears. I reached for the papers, trying to make sense of them. “Selling what land?”

“Ben’s,” Chris said, and it was like a jolt through me. “He was planning to sell some property. Might be why he got shot before he could spill too much to Kat.”

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