Page 31 of Light My Fire

He turned to her and ran his hands down her arms, gripped her hands.

“No broken bones?”

“I think you made a good landing pad.”

His mouth tweaked up on one side. “I’m not that padded, I hope.”

Oh no. All hard planes and muscled surfaces. And he’d scuffed his chin. “How’s your knee?”

He reached out, kneaded it. “Fine. Let’s get the bike up.” He grunted, however, as he climbed to his feet. Closed one eye in a wince, hobbling over to the bike.

The fact they hadn’t broken any bones—a shiver went through her. She followed Tucker over, just in time to hear his word of frustration.

“The fuel line broke.” He crouched next to a black puddle spilling onto the earth.

“My mother just replaced it. Maybe she didn’t clamp it on tight enough.” Stevie pressed her hand to her forehead, hot and pulsing against the blood flow of the hematoma.

He noticed and winced. “That looks like it hurts.”

“No more than your knee, liar.”

He hid a smile, gave her a look. “Okay, so we’re both liars.” He got up and half limped, half ran to his backpack. “Let’s get going.”

She retrieved her gun from the bike’s front pouch, shoved it into her belt, and walked over to him.

He was shrugging on the pack.

“Maybe I should carry that.”

“Maybe you should keep up. This is what I do.” Then he headed toward the forest in a wretched, high-speed hobble that had her scrambling.

They walked in silence across the meadow, just the occasional grunt from Tucker to thicken the morning. The sun gilded the field, the sky arched and blue. A wind scurried off Denali to the west, sneaking under her jacket. If Tucker hadn’t given her his sleeping bag last night… Well, she’d spent the night shivering anyway.

“Your dad called me Sport,” Tucker said, and his weird segue had her looking at him.

“He likes you, then.”

He made a tiny harrumphing sound. Walked in silence. Then, quietly, “Can I ask how he ended up in prison?”

She’d known it would come sooner or later, really. Should have been armed, ready with some quick and easy response.He killed a man.

Except, the truth had tangles and barbs and needed unknotting if she were to tell it right.

“It’s my fault,” she said.

He didn’t comment, didn’t pause his steps. Nothing of surprise or even blame in his reaction.

It made it easier, perhaps.

“Involuntary manslaughter. That’s how it played out after the dust settled, although Nate wanted more. Second degree murder at the least.”

“Nate, the guy at the bar.”

“Nate, Chad’s brother.”

“The guy who didn’t stop atno.”

Her lips tightened. “My boyfriend.”

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