Page 145 of Love Me Steadfast
On the drive home, I pull Charlotte close and she rests her hand on my thigh. The cool evening breeze fills the cab, teasing the strands of her long curls from her face.
“I love you,” I say.
Smiling, she brushes her thumb across my thigh. “I love you too, QB.”
When we get home, I open her door and help her down. Ollie leads the way inside and is curled up on her bed by the woodstove before we’ve slipped off our shoes. I grab Charlotte’s hand and draw her into my arms. She cradles my face, gazing up at me with that soft yearning in her eyes. I brush my lips against hers, and she releases that needy little growl I love. We kiss in the darkness, my heart so incredibly full inside my chest.
She wraps her arms around my neck. “Did you have a good birthday?”
“Best birthday ever.” I lift her up and carry her down the hall to our bedroom. “And it’s not even over yet.”
She laughs, her pretty hazel eyes shining in the darkness. “Lucky me.”
“You’re the best present, blackbird,” I say as I set her on her feet at the edge of the bed. “You’ve always been my end, my sweet refrain I want to listen to over and over, again and again.”
Her eyes tense with emotion. She caresses under my T-shirt, her thumb stroking the little bird who kept my heart safe for her all these years. “We make good music together, don’t we?”
I scoop her up and climb onto the bed. “My favorite kind.”
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Chapter 1
Rowdy
Bitterroot National Forest, Idaho
The distant whineof an illegal chain saw and the muddy prints draws me deeper into the basin. Tito’s ears have been perked for the past ten minutes, but I’ve been on alert since we crossed Crooked Pine Creek. The hard spring rain I woke up to has long since saturated my slicker and dripped into my boots. It cascades off the rim ofmy Stetson, soaking Tito’s withers. A smarter man would have turned back already. Which makes me exceptionally stubborn, or stupid. Probably both.
Crack!
The bullet splats into the muddy dirt somewhere behind us, but I’m already in motion, spurring Tito toward the dense grove of pine and aspen just ahead, my heart knocking into my throat. It was bad enough I’ve been in the saddle for hours in this shit rainstorm.
Now I’m being shot at?
Once we’re deep into the timber, I pull Tito to a stop and dismount to the spongy ground, slipping my rifle from its holster. I’m also armed with a Glock beneath my slicker and wool parka, but the rifle has a sighting scope. Tito’s breathing hard from our climb into the basin and the sprint to safety, steam rising from his rump and neck as I listen for movement, voices. Anything that tells me where these yahoos are and what they plan to do next.
But it’s quiet. No whine from the chainsaw. Only the rain drumming on my head and shoulders, the nearby flooded creek sluicing past its swollen banks.
Engaging in a firefight with illegal loggers alone goes against not just policy but my survival instincts. Yet these assholes eluded me last time. And it’s not just their illegal logging I want stopped. It’s everything they stand for.
If I had radio reception, I’d at least call in my position. A request for backup would earn me a chuckle from our dispatcher because I’m a full day’s travel from the nearest road. And a helicopter would only be authorized to enter a wilderness area if I was dying. Not that any pilot would fly in this weather.
Tito’s ears twitch, and he swivels just enough so I catch the flick of his eyelashes.What’s the plan, boss?his look asks.
I lay the rifle over his flank and lean close to sight through my right eye. Scanning slowly, stripes of the opposite basin emerge like snapshots between the big tree trunks sheltering me. Gray rock and clumps of tall, yellow grass, minty green sage, the stark white of bareaspens, stubborn pockets of grey snow. A flash of red catches my attention, and I swing my scope to follow the movement.
Climbing the opposite side of the basin in a rust-colored parka and tugging on a horse loaded down with giant rounds of freshly cut timber is a giant of a man—well over six feet tall and broad. His partner is dressed head to toe in camo gear and holds a rifle in one hand. Their backs are to me as they hurry, climbing over rocks and dodging around trees. I lunge for my phone to grab a picture of them just as the gunman turns back and squints through the driving rain. Forcing my breathing to steady, I unlatch the safety on my rifle and place him in my crosshairs, ready should he be stupid enough to take a shot at me a second time. But he spins and follows his partner over the ridge, both of them and their pack horse winking out of sight.
With a shaky exhale, I secure my weapon and slide it back into the holster. Then I grip the saddle and let my head drop for a moment to recalibrate my heartbeat. The thick, wet air coats my lungs, and I breathe in the earthy scents of mineral and animal musk, rich pine and rain-slicked granite. The prickle working up my neck drops back, replaced with a shiver that pierces my spine.
With a hard breath that turns to a nervous chuff, I reach over and stroke Tito’s neck.
“I’m getting too old for this shit, boy.”
