Page 74 of Found By You
I shrugged, moving to stand beside her. “There’s still a lot we don’t know about each other.”
“But we’ve got time,” she said, her voice just above a whisper.
My mother coughed discreetly. “I think I left something in the kitchen. Could you help me find it?”
My father looked confused for a moment, then understanding dawned on his face. “Of course. Excuse us, kids.”
When they’d gone inside, I turned to face Azalea.
She was looking out at the night. “They’re not subtle, are they?”
“The Armstrongs aren’t known for subtlety,” I replied, taking her hand into mine. “Are you cold?”
She shook her head. “The quilt helps. Plus, it’s not nearly as cold as I thought Wyoming would be.”
“It’s summer,” I reminded her. “Wait until January.”
She smiled. “So you’re assuming I’ll still be here in January?”
My heart skipped. “I’m hoping.”
“I meant what I said this morning,” she told me, turning to face me fully. “About staying. About us.”
I reached out and took her hand, marveling at how small it felt in mine. “I know we’re moving fast, but?—”
A sharp crack interrupted me.
Both of us froze.
Another sharp noise, like the sound of a branch breaking somewhere in the darkness beyond the porch. My training kicked in immediately. I scanned the tree line at the edge of the property.
“What is it?” Azalea asked.
I put my finger to my lips, listening intently. Another sound, this time like a rustling that didn’t match the rhythm of the wind. Something—or someone—was moving through the underbrush toward the house.
“Get inside,” I said quietly, gently pushing her toward the door. “Now.”
She started to question, but another crack—closer this time—made her eyes widen. She nodded and moved swiftly toward the door.
“Dad,” I whispered as we stepped inside, “get the gun from the safe.”
My father nodded, immediately understanding the gravity in my voice. He disappeared down the hallway while my mother drew Azalea farther into the house.
“What is it?” my mother asked, her voice calm despite the tension.
“Someone’s out there,” I replied, moving to the window. “Call Damon. Now.”
My father returned with his hunting rifle, handing it to me with a grim nod. I checked the chamber—loaded.
“Stay here,” I instructed, my eyes meeting Azalea’s. “Lock the doors behind me.”
“McCrae, don’t—” she began, fear etching lines around her eyes.
“I’ll be right back,” I promised.
My father’s hand landed on my shoulder. “Be careful, son.”
I nodded, then slipped out the side door, staying low in the shadows.
