“He is trained. He just.” Grunt. “Doesn’t.” Grunt. “Always listen.”
She glanced back just as Bear finally managed to shove King back into the Jeep and close the door. “Then he isn’t trained.”
He grumbled again and joined her at the gate. He didn’t say anything for a handful of beats, studying the gate with crossed arms and a scowl. “You sure about this?”
“No.” The admission came out in a burst, her breath clouding the air in front of her. She sighed. “But I’m not turning back now.”
She squeezed through the narrow opening at the side of the gate, then turned because shehadto see the mountain attempt that. Instead, he gripped the gate with both hands and lifted himself over it. His biceps and tattoos flexed under the faded waffle-knit of his shirt, and her brain short-circuited for a second.
She tried not to ogle. She really did. But the way his shirt stretched across his shoulders and those giant hands just—it was unfair. Nobody needed to be that big. Or that competent. Or that somehow gentle with everything except the laws of physics.
The metal groaned, and Bear landed on the other side of the gate with a ground-shaking thud.
“Whew.” She fanned herself. “You should really sell tickets to that gun show, Sasquatch. You’d make a killing.”
He glowered at her, dusted off his hands on his jeans, and started walking. “Keep pushing my buttons, Tinkerbell. See what happens.”
“Tinkerbell?” she screeched and hurried to catch up. “Excuse me, I amnota Tinkerbell. Come up with something better.”
He grunted and kept walking.
Tall lodgepole pine and leafless aspens crowded the path. Even at midday, the place was dim and cold, and the runoff in the muddy ruts was starting to freeze.
Bear stayed ahead of her. No doubt he thought he was putting his wall of body between her and danger by going first.
Typical alpha male.
But she didn’t mind this instance of over-protectiveness because it allowed her to admire his ass for a few minutes. She was a red-blooded woman after all, and couldn’t help but wonder what he’d do if she just reached out and grabbed two handfuls.
If they were anywhere else, doing anything else, she would have just to see his reaction.
The track bent uphill through a stand of spruce. A handmade sign was wired to a tree: ALL VISITORS REPORT TO OFFICE. Another, scrawled below it, added: ABSOLUTELY NO PHOTOS.
And, suddenly, even Bear’s fine ass couldn’t distract her anymore. Her lungs felt weirdly tight.
Another few hundred yards, and the settlement appeared. It sprawled across a wide valley, a collection of weathered buildings arranged in a rough circle. A central temple dominated the space, its steeple rising above the surrounding structures. Around it, smaller houses—simple cabins with steep-pitched roofs—stood in neat rows. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the scent of woodsmoke and baking bread hung in the air.
This was it. The place where Alice might have been living for fifteen years. The thought made her stomach clench.
“Bigger than I expected,” Bear muttered. “Must be forty, fifty houses.”
“More.” She scanned the compound, looking for signs of life. A few people moved between buildings, women in long skirts and men in plain work clothes. No children in sight, which struck her as odd.
Bear’s hand found the small of her back, a steady pressure that both comforted and annoyed her. “Let me take the lead if things get tense.”
She wanted to snap at him, to remind him she’d been handling herself just fine for thirty-one years, but the tension radiating from his body stopped her. He wasn’t being controlling. He was genuinely worried.
People stopped and stared as they walked toward the temple at the center of town, following the rough wood signs pointing to the office.
A man emerged from the larger house next to the temple—tall and lean, clean-shaven with close-cropped hair, and eyes that missed nothing. He wore a simple button-down shirt andworn jeans. Less Charles Manson than she’d expected, but the set of his jaw said this was his turf, and he was going to defend it.
“Can I help you?”
Greta stepped forward, ignoring Bear’s subtle attempt to hold her back. “I’m looking for someone. Her name is Alice Dougherty. I was told she might be living here.”
The man’s expression remained neutral. “We don’t have anyone by that name.”
“Alyson, then. I was told she goes by Alyson now.”
