Jackson eased forward, staying low, using the trees for cover as he made his way toward the back fence where he’d last seen the movement. Dry leaves crackled under his boots, every sound too loud in the heavy quiet.
He stopped behind another tree, pulse steady but hard. The shape was still there, crouched low near the fence line, half-hidden in the brush.
Whoever it was hadn’t run. That alone made his gut tighten. He adjusted his grip on the rifle, then waited. The wind shifted again, carrying a faint sound he almost didn’t catch. A soft, broken breath.
He moved closer, careful not to make a sound. The figure shifted, and the fading light caught her face.
Jackson froze.
Because it was Avery Hastings.
For a second, his brain refused to believe it. She was crouched low, half-hidden by brush, her blonde hair pulled back but tangled, dirt streaked across one cheek. Her clothes were torn, a jacket zipped wrong, as if she’d thrown it on in a hurry. She looked exhausted. Frightened.
But it was her all right. No question about it.
His pulse thudded in his ears. Avery Hastings wasn’t supposed to exist here, not anymore. The U.S. Marshals had buried her identity deep after the trial, after she’d stood in court and pointed a trembling finger at the man who’d killed her husband.
Evan Hastings. Jackson’s partner. His friend.
The memory hit fast and sharp. Blood on the concrete. A radio call gone silent. Avery’s voice, shaking with grief when she’d demanded answers he didn’t have. Three years hadn’t dulled any of it. He could still hear the echo of the gunfire that ended a good man’s life.
And now she was here, on his land, looking as if she’d clawed her way out of hell to reach him.
He tightened his grip on the rifle, mind racing. If she’d come out of witness protection, there had to be a reason. A bad one.
Jackson took a slow step forward, the sound of the wind rustling through the trees the only thing between them. “Avery,” he murmured.
She said his name on a rise of breath. “Jackson.”
It wasn’t loud, but it hit him like a punch. Three years since he’d heard that voice, and it still slid through his guard like a knife.
He took another step closer, keeping his eyes on her. “What are you doing here, Avery?”
She opened her mouth, but before the words could form, the sound of an engine cut through the quiet.
Jackson stiffened.
It was faint at first, then clearer, the grind of tires over road. He turned his head toward the old ranch trail that wound through the back pasture. It hadn’t been used in months. No one should’ve been out there.
The engine slowed, then stopped.
Avery’s eyes went wide. She dropped the small bag she’d been clutching and grabbed his sleeve. “Get down.”
Before he could ask why, she yanked him down beside her into the brush. The ground was cold and damp beneath his palms. He shifted just enough to see through the tall grass toward the road.
The sound of a car door opening broke the air, followed by another. Two doors. Maybe three.
Avery’s breath came fast, shallow, her fingers tightening on his arm. Her pulse thudded against his sleeve, quick and frantic.
Jackson kept still, watching the tree line where the trail curved toward the creek. The faint click of a weapon being readied carried across the wind.
Whoever was out there wasn’t lost.
They were hunting.
He could feel her fear. It rolled off her in sharp waves, thick enough to taste. Every breath she took trembled against his arm. He wanted to ask what the hell had happened, why she was here,who was out there, but speaking was too big a risk. The wrong sound could give them away.
Questions and answers would have to wait.
