Page 1 of Hunted

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Aquiet day on the gun range was a good day on the gun range.

At least that was usually Clint Backwater’s philosophy. Today, though, as he wandered around the small showroom of his business, Ask Questions Later Firearms and Training, he couldn’t seem to shake the restlessness inside him.

If he was truthful with himself, he’d have to admit that his skittishness had nothing to do with the slow day at the range and everything to do with the approach of the one-year anniversary of his retirement from the military. Since joining the Navy right out of high school and undergoing training to become a SEAL, he’d always been a busy guy. Busy, but solitary. Relationships weren’t really his thing, platonic or otherwise. Loved ones, in Clint’s experience, had a tendency to disappear. When he’d been in the military, surrounded by his team and other colleagues every day with privacy at a minimum, he’d thought he’d appreciate the quiet peace of being alone.

Now, though, he was lucky if he talked to six people a day, and sometimes things were a bit too… silent. Not that he was a recluse or anything. It was just living by himself out in the Nevada desert, albeit only a few miles outside Las Vegas, meant his penchant for self-sufficiency came in handy, even if it was lonely at times.

Today, his buddy, Devin, was there to talk to as he checked the inventory of ammunition and firearms and accessories for the umpteenth time. Ask Questions Later provided him with a livable income between the sales of stock and the fees he charged locals for using the gun range and for shooting lessons, but he wouldn’t be making the Forbes 500 list any time soon. Clint was fine with making enough to get by. He didn’t need to be rich. He didn’t need much of anything—and he liked it that way.

Clint moved from display case to display case, noting the stock in each, while doing his best to ignore Devin chatting loudly on his cell phone. To call the other man a “buddy” would be too generous. Devin was more like a guy who Clint talked to when he came in to shoot. They sometimes shared a meal at Ritzi’s Diner in town. That was about it. Still, it was more interaction than Clint had with most folks these days.

He finished marking down the sixteen boxes of .45 caliber bullets in front of him, then moved to the next glass-topped case, giving Devin some serious side-eye as he did so.

“What do you mean she won’t go out with me?” Devin whined into his phone. The guy was pretty typical of the sort who came into the gun range. A wannabe cowboy with a Stetson on his head and a holster strapped around his waist. Nevada tended to be a haven for Mavericks and outlaws, due to the wide-open spaces and the mind-your-own-business attitude of the local law enforcement and residents. It was what led to things like LasVegas and the Mustang Ranch and dudes like Devin who fancied themselves Billy the Kid reborn. “I’m everything she said she wanted in her online dating profile.”

Clint gave a snort and shook his head. Devin was harmless enough. Clint had run into lots of guys like him in the military. Gung-ho to preserve life, liberty, and the American way—as long as it didn’t push them too far out of their comfort zone. But everyone had their own comfort zone, Clint supposed. As a SEAL, he’d been accustomed to facing danger the likes of which most people couldn’t imagine. But internet dating, like Devin? Not a chance. That was a risk he wasn’t willing to take.

He shuddered at the thought of connecting with a total stranger and trying to make small talk over dinner and drinks. He’d decided long ago that he was better on his own.

The sound of a car door slamming echoed in the store’s quiet interior. Clint peered past where the sunlight streamed through the glass front door. Outside, a dust-covered black SUV had pulled up. Or backed up, would be more accurate. Through the hazy glass he saw a “Baby on Board” sticker in the rear window.

Not that unusual. Probably another local dad wanting some away time from his wife and kids.

Clint turned to head back behind the counter. He’d just about made it there when he heard Devin behind him saying, “Uh, I think my dream girl just pulled into my life.”

Cringing, Clint gave his buddy a disgusted look over the corny line and was just about to rib him about it when the bells above the door jingled and in walked said dream girl.

Or woman, to be more accurate. A woman with a baby.

Huh. Okay. That wasn’t typical. Clint narrowed his gaze a bit, focusing on her as she stepped closer and moved out of the stream of light that silhouetted her from behind. Mid-twenties, he’d guess, making her about ten years younger than he was. Wavy dark hair, golden bronzed skin. Clint didn’t have a dream girl image in mind, never had. If he did, though, she’d be well on her way to matching that. Except she was scared. Her large dark eyes scanned the shop nervously.

Yeah, definitely scared.

Clint couldn’t shake that thought. He’d never seen her before in his life, but he’d bet his business and everything he owned that he was right about her. His instincts had been honed on the battlefield, and the past year of retirement hadn’t dulled them. After all, you couldn’t afford to get careless when you owned a gun shop.

His conclusions were only confirmed as she moved closer to the front counter and met his gaze. There were shadows in those pretty brown eyes of hers, deep and dark and dangerous. Then there was the fact that her nails looked chewed to the quick and her hands shook slightly as she held a cute kid in one arm. A boy dressed in blue jeans and a baseball hat. Maybe a year, year-and-a-half old, Clint guessed.

“Welcome to Ask Questions Later Firearms and Training,” he said, his words emerging a bit rougher than usual because of the odd constriction in this throat. Not nervousness. Not adrenaline. Attraction. Clint swallowed hard and crossed his arms. “How can I help you today?”

He could guess her answer before she responded. Everything about her spoke of fear—from the way she clutched her son to how her eyes darted around the room. An instinct deep insidehim rose to the surface. He had to help her. It was almost a compulsion that he already knew he wasn’t going to be able to tamp down or deny.

The woman took a deep breath and checked behind her once more before saying quietly, “I need to buy a gun.”

Sure, that might be what she’d convinced herself of. But he knew one thing—guns and fear didn’t mix.

Oh God.

The last place Leila Ortiz ever thought she’d find herself was in a gun store. She wasn’t an aggressive or confrontational person by nature. Just the opposite, in fact. But circumstances—and the fact that the Federal Bureau of Prisons had screwed up her contact information—meant that she and her son needed protection in a major way, and they needed it ASAP.

She eyed the man behind the counter and did her best to look as confident as possible, mimicking that blank, closed-off stare he was giving her. “I’ve heard that Glocks are good for women to use. I’d like to see one of those, please.”

“A Glock, huh?” The guy narrowed his gaze on her then moved forward. Leila stepped back automatically before she stopped herself. Years of abuse had taught her it was easier to retreat than to stand her ground, but that had all changed the day Thomas had been born. Now she had more than herself to think about. Now she had her son to protect. The man looked her up and down. Not in a sexual way, more in a what-the-heck-are-you-doing-in-here way. She checked him out too, again out of habit born from experience—negative experience.

If attacked, it was best to have a good description for the cops. They didn’t take you seriously without it. She noted his short, light brown hair with the military cut. Blue eyes. Maybe five-ten, five-eleven max, but with a muscular build. Good looking—seriously good looking. A hint of a tattoo on his left bicep peeked out from beneath the sleeve of his dark blue T-shirt—a snake perhaps, wrapped around a knife? Weird but an identifier, if she needed it.

You won’t need it, she assured herself. The gun shop and range had been recommended to her by a friend of a friend. She’d be fine here. She’d get what she’d come for, and then she’d leave.

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