Page 32 of Death Valley

The first light of dawn filters through the canvas of my tent, but I’m already awake. Old habits. Years in these mountains have trained my body to rise with the sun, alert and ready. I lie still for a moment, listening. Birds starting their morning songs. The distant babble of the creek. The steady breathing of my crew in their tents.

Yet something feels off.

I slip out of my sleeping bag and pull on my jeans. The morning air is cool against my bare chest as I duck through the tent flap, scanning the campsite. Cole’s and Red’s tents are still zipped tight. Eli’s boots are visible at the entrance to his, one fallen on its side. Everything looks normal.

Except Aubrey’s tent.

The flap hangs open, sleeping bag visible inside. Empty.

My heart rate kicks up a notch, though I tell myself there’s no reason for alarm. Probably just took a walk to do her business. But instinct has me reaching for my gun, tucking it into my waistband as I check the perimeter of our camp.

No sign of her.

No tracks indicating a struggle either, a fact I cling to as I follow the path down toward the creek. The trail is easy to read—one set of boot prints, Aubrey’s size, heading directly to the water. Nothing following her. Nothing dragging or carrying her away.

Relief washes through me, immediately followed by annoyance at my own reaction. She’s a grown woman who went for a morning walk, not some helpless city tourist who can’t handle herself, despite what the others might think of her. Still, something keeps me moving down the trail, drawn by a need to confirm she’s safe with my own eyes.

The sound of splashing reaches me before I see her.

I round the bend where the creek widens into a natural pool, deep enough to submerge in.

And there she is.

Aubrey stands waist-deep in the water, her back to me, morning sunlight turning her wet skin to gold. Water cascades down her shoulders as she lifts a bar of soap, running it along her arm in slow, deliberate strokes. Her dark blonde hair is slicked back, exposing the elegant line of her neck, the curve of her spine.

Fuck me.

I should turn around. Should walk away, give her privacy.

That would be the decent thing to do.

But I’m not a decent man.

I don’t move.

Can’t move.

The sight of her holds me transfixed. Water droplets glisten on her shoulders. The gentle swell of her hips rises from the creek’s surface. When she shifts to rinse, I catch a glimpse of the side of her breast, full and perfect.

My body responds instantly, predictably. Blood rushes south, and I’m suddenly very aware of the tightness in my jeans, the straining of my cock.

Just as I finally gather the will to retreat, she glances over her shoulder. Our eyes lock. I expect anger, outrage at my intrusion. Instead, her lips curve into a small, knowing smile.

“Enjoying the view, cowboy?” Her voice carries across the water, low and amused.

I should apologize. Should leave.

Instead, I find myself answering, “Hard not to.”

Her smile widens a fraction. “Water’s nice. Cold, but the sun is warm.”

It’s an invitation. Has to be. Still, I hesitate, giving her time to reconsider, to tell me to go to hell. She just turns back to her bathing, seemingly unconcerned by my presence or my blatant staring.

Because, shit, am I ever staring. Ogling, more like it.

Before I can overthink it, I’m pulling my shirt over my head, kicking off my boots. I leave my pistol carefully atop the pile, within easy reach. The jeans are last, and I’m acutely aware of my obvious arousal as I wade into the creek.

She’s right, the water is cold, though it could be worse. I barely notice. All my attention is fixed on Aubrey as I move toward her, stopping a respectful distance away.

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