Page 2 of Savage Ranger Daddy

I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.

"Hazel Lowe," he says. Not a question. A statement. His voice is even deeper in person. "I'm Brock Savage. US Marshal. Your ride."

I manage a tiny wave with the hand that isn't clutching my bag. "Hi. Yes. That's me. The one who just published a story that apparently has people wanting me dead. Super fun day. Do you always introduce yourself while looking like you're about to scowl the snow into submission, or is that a special occasion thing?"

One dark eyebrow lifts. Just a fraction. The corner of his mouth twitches like he's fighting a smirk and winning only barely. "You're worse than they warned me."

"They warned you? About me specifically? I'm flattered. And slightly terrified. Mostly terrified. But also a tiny bit flattered."

He steps closer. His gaze drops to the duffel bag on my shoulder, then back to my face. "That everything?"

"Pretty much. Laptop, clothes, snacks, and my dignity. Although I think I left the dignity back in the diner next to the empty tea mug."

He grunts. Actually grunts. A full-on mountain man sound that does something ridiculous to my stomach. "Get in the truck. We leave now."

I glance at The Disaster. "What about my car?"

"Leave it. Keys under the mat. Someone will handle it later." He opens the passenger door and waits. Not patiently. More like a man who has already decided how this is going to go and is simply giving me the chance to cooperate before he decides for me.

I hesitate for half a second. Then I climb in. The seat is high. The cab smells like pine and gun oil. The leather is worn but clean. There's a radio mounted on the dash that looks serious and official. A rifle rack behind the seats. Everything about this vehicle says "I live in the mountains and I am prepared for anything, including you."

Brock closes my door, walks around the front of the truck, and climbs into the driver's seat. The engine roars back to life. He pulls out of the lot without another word, tires gripping the snowy street with easy confidence.

I twist in my seat to watch Timber Creek disappear behind us. The little town with its cozy diner and string lights looks smaller already. Ahead of us the road climbs, winding up into the foothills. Pine trees close in on both sides, tall and dark and heavy with snow. The sky is fading toward dusk. Every curve of the road reveals more wilderness. Sheer rock faces. Valleys filled with shadows. Distant ridges that look like they go on forever.

I clear my throat. "So. Brock Savage. That's a very on-the-nose name for a guy who looks like he could bench-press a bear and then write a strongly worded ticket about it."

He keeps his eyes on the road. One hand steady on the wheel. The other resting near his hip, close to the gun. "I'm a US Marshal. Ex-Special Forces. I patrol these mountains. Keep the trails clear. Keep the wrong people from using them."

"And now you're stuck with me because I couldn't leave a good story alone." I settle back against the seat, trying to ignore the way my pulse is still racing. "Do you get a lot of journalists needing extraction, or am I a special brand of trouble?"

His mouth twitches. This time I'm almost sure it's a real almost-smile. "You're the first journalist. Most of my assignments don't talk this much."

"Rude. Accurate, but rude." I glance out the window as we climb higher. The snow is falling harder now, swirling in the headlights. The trees grow thicker. The road narrows. "Where exactly are we going?"

He glances over at me for the first time since we left town. Those gray eyes are intense enough to make my breath catch.

"My outpost," he says. "Deep in the range. Off every map that matters. One road in. One road out. No cell service. No neighbors. Just me, you, and enough supplies to wait out whatever storm is coming." He pauses. The truck takes a sharp curve and my shoulder brushes his arm for a second. "And yes. There's one bed. You'll take it. I'll take the floor. Or the chair. Whatever keeps you breathing."

I stare at him. My brain short-circuits for a solid three seconds. One bed. Remote outpost. A US Marshal who looks like he was carved out of the mountain itself.

I let out a breath that turns into a slightly unhinged laugh. "Of course there is. Why wouldn't there be?"

He doesn't laugh. But the corner of his mouth lifts just enough to show a flash of white teeth.

"Welcome to Steel Mountain, Hazel," he says, turning his attention back to the snowy road as the wilderness swallows us whole. "Try not to get yourself killed before I decide what to do with you."

I sink lower in the seat, arms crossed over my chest, and watch the dark pines fly past.

This is fine. Completely fine. Just a journalist with a target on her back and a thumb drive full of evidence heading into the middle of nowhere with a marshal who grumbles more than he talks.

What could possibly go wrong?

I glance at his profile again. Strong jaw. Focused eyes. That quiet confidence that says he already considers me his responsibility.

Yeah.

Something is definitely going to go wrong.