Page 42 of Light My Fire

She’d nearly died as he lay like a dazed trout. The image of her trying to find her breath, the bruises on her neck made his own breathing snag in his chest.

He’d nearly gotten Stevie killed.

Not to mention he could have ignited another out-of-control fire.

So yeah, maybe he should keep his mouth closed, try and silence the buzz that consumed his body, and actually get some sleep.

Except, now his brain wouldn’t shut off because—why?—why had he told her all those things about Colleen? Frustration, maybe. Or exhaustion.

Or just the desire for her to understand why sitting here, even for an hour of rest, felt like he was abandoning Skye.

He might be a screwup, but he didn’t abandon his team.

He lay quiet, listening to Stevie’s breathing, the minutes turning the simmer inside to a burn.

Then he felt her shift. Ever so slightly, she eased away, rolling as if trying not to disturb him. She slipped off the bed, her feet shuffling across the floor.

A creak, and she caught her breath.

He heard the front door latch click, then ease open.

He sat up as it closed.

The so-called midnight hour seeped an eerie gray light into the room. He swung his legs over, ground his jaw as he put weight on his leg, slid into his boots and hobbled over to the door.

He opened it and stood on the porch.

Spotted her just disappearing into the woods, following the path March had taken.

Wait—what? “Stevie!”

He tied his boots, whirled around, grabbed his pack, and slung it over his shoulder. Then he tucked the pain in his knee back into a place where it wouldn’t slow him down and took off across the yard.

The forest at night turned haunted, the trees outlined in black against a hazy purple darkness. In the clearing, it felt almost like daylight, the sun never quite surrendering, a thin streak of orange over the horizon. But in the forest, the shadows thickened, and while he could make out his immediate steps, the growth of hemlock, towering spruce, and white pine shuttered the light.

Still, he knew the forest—at least the Montana forest—and he could make out a natural trail, perhaps a deer path, and followed it.

Picked up his pace.

He spotted Stevie some twenty yards ahead and sped up.

His footfalls must have alerted her because she turned, fishing out her gun behind her from her belt.

“Whoa, it’s me,” he said, holding up his hands.

Her expression fell. “Tucker. You should be sleeping.”

Wow. And that felt like a slap. He slowed, a little winded, stopping five feet from her. “Right. And let you leave to track down March alone?”

She tucked the gun back into her belt. “I’m a federal marshal. You’re not. And I wasn’t going to do it alone. I was going to radio in when I spotted them.”

It took a second, but, “Youtook my radio.”

Her mouth tightened. “Your team knows where you are. They would have found you.”

He just stared at her, no words, a heat bubbling up through him that he didn’t know how to put down.

She must have seen it, because, “Tucker, you’re really hurt—”

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