Page 35 of High Frequency

My attempt is only partially successful as his eyes scan down my body. Then he clears his throat.

“Could be wildlife, could be anything.” His gaze comes up to meet mine. “Why don’t you put some clothes on and we can check it out.”

I suppress a shiver I’m not sure is from his scrutiny, or the chilled air. Either way, I should probably get dressed.

“Turn your back,” I tell him, because if I turn mine first, my ass is going to be on display.

He does as I ask immediately—always the gentleman—and I swing around, reaching for the pile of clothes. As I rush to get dressed, I feel a tingle of awareness running down my spine, and I wonder if he’s peeking.

The idea is tempting; Dan as a gentleman in public, but a beast in bed.

The crash turned out to be nothing more than a large, dead branch coming down, partly on the girl in the body bag.

It was sobering, a reminder someone died here, someone’s daughter. It certainly pushed all earlier thoughts from my mind.

So when I finally duck into the tent—by myself—it’s with the full weight of responsibility to find the person or persons responsible for whatever happened to this girl and to Chelsea Littleton. Because there’s no doubt in my mind the two are connected.

Exhausted, I crawl into the sleeping bag, noting the mat underneath isn’t exactly comfortable, but it’ll have to do for one night. I use the saddlebags as a lumpy pillow and pull the sleeping bag up under my chin. I close my eyes, and try not to think of my baby.

“Night, Sloane.”

His voice startles me, and I catch his shadow moving outside the tent in the lingering glow of the fire. It looks like he’s heading for the hammock, only twenty feet or so away.

“Night,” I call back.

Then I close my eyes again, and try not to think of Dan.

Eleven

Dan

I already have the coffee percolating on the fire when I hear the tent zipper.

I hear her footsteps moving away and glance over my shoulder to see her slip into the woods. Answering the call of nature, I assume. She’s gone a bit longer than I would’ve thought, and I’m contemplating looking for her, when she reappears closer to the creek. Her hair is wet.

“I was about to go in search of you.”

I fill her thermal mug and hand it to her when she joins me by the fire. She takes a deep swig that has to be burning her mouth before answering.

“Had to dunk my head in the water to wake up.” Then she holds up the mug. “This will hopefully clear the cobwebs. I slept hard.”

Shit, I wish I could say I slept at all, but other than dozing off for a few minutes a couple of times, I was awake all damn night. My eyes are gritty but my mind is clear this morning. I had a lot of time to think.

Sloane cups the thermos in both hands, holding it in front of her like some kind of shield she can hide behind. But there’s no hiding the frown on her forehead or the tension around her eyes. She may have slept hard, but it wasn’t restful.

I fucked up.

I have no idea what went through my alcohol-pickled brain eight years ago, but it’s clear I broke something that night.

How ironic, when I distinctly remember deciding, once the dust had settled on Mom’s funeral, I would finally ask Sloane out on a proper date. See if she was interested in something more than the friendship we had, because I sure as hell was.

I’d been biding my time, my life being what it was at the time, I didn’t think I could give her what she deserved. I was afraid she’d reject me right off the bat. So, I waited, and then when she apparently served herself up on a platter, I blew her off.

Unreal.

Of course, now that I know, I’m not going to leave a stone unturned until I have her naked in my bed again. Except this time, I’m gonna make sure she stays. For good.

It’s going to take work though. I’ve got a lot of ground to cover, a lot of time to make up for, and a lot of hurt to set right. But the very first thing I have to do is make sure there is no miscommunication whatsoever about what my objective is.

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