Page 4 of Savage Ranger Daddy

"Less. It means people are working on this. You're not alone in it."

"Just alone with you in a cabin in the middle of nowhere."

"Outpost," I correct. "And you could do worse."

She laughs. Short and surprised, like it slipped out against her will. "Fair point."

The last stretch of road is pure mountain. Steep switchbacks. Snow deeper. No other tire tracks, which means no one's been up here since the last melt. Perfect. I ease the truck around the final bend and the outpost comes into view.

It's not a pretty cabin. It's a solid log structure built for function and survival, tucked against a rock face with a clear view of the approach. Solar panels on the roof. A generator shed to the east.A small covered porch with sightlines in three directions. Thick trees on three sides, which is good for concealment but means I'll need to clear them on foot regularly. The single road ends right in front. No neighbors for miles.

I kill the engine. Silence rushes in, broken only by the wind through the pines and the tick of cooling metal.

"Stay in the truck until I clear it," I tell her. I don't wait for agreement. I step out into the snow, boots sinking deep, and draw my weapon. I move to the porch first, checking the door seal. Intact. The thin strip of tape I left across the bottom of the frame last week is still in place, which means no one's opened it. I clear the interior anyway because assumptions get people killed. Main room, clear. Bathroom, clear. Loft, clear. I check the window latches, test the generator connection, and scan the tree line from the front window before I go back for her.

When I return she's already opening her door, duffel in hand, eyes wide as she takes in the place.

"Home sweet fortress," she mutters. "Do all US Marshals live like mountain kings, or is this just a Brock Savage special?"

I take the bag from her without asking. Our fingers brush and the contact sends a jolt straight up my arm that I don't let show on my face.

"Inside. Now."

She follows me up the steps and through the door. I close it behind us and throw the heavy bolt. The outpost is one big main room with a loft above for storage. Stone fireplace along one wall. Small kitchen with a propane stove and stocked pantry. A solid wood table. Two chairs. A worn leather couch. And in thefar corner, the bed. King-sized. Heavy frame. Thick quilts. The only one.

She stops dead when she sees it. Her gaze flicks from the bed to me and back again. A nervous little laugh bubbles out of her.

"Yep. There it is. One bed. Just like the blurb promised. I swear if you start growling about how I'm yours now I'm going to write a very strongly worded letter to the US Marshals Service about workplace romance policies."

I set her bag down. "You're not writing any letters. You're staying right here where I can keep eyes on you. The bed is yours. I'll take the couch."

"That's very direct of you," she says. "Also slightly terrifying. In a hot way. Which I'm absolutely not thinking about while people want me dead. Nope. Focusing on the death part. Very focused."

"Good. Stay focused on staying alive." I hold her gaze and let her see that I mean every word. "Because the second those bastards come for you, I'm going to make sure they regret it. You're under my protection now, Hazel. That's not a suggestion."

She recovers fast. Lifts her chin. That spark of fire I already like too much flashes in her eyes.

"Well then, Marshal Savage. I guess I better unpack. And try not to trip over my own feet while you're busy being all protective and intimidating. Fair warning, I trip a lot. It's part of my charm."

I almost smile. Almost.

"Unpack. Get comfortable. I'm going to secure the perimeter and check the generator. Don't open that door for anyone but me. Understood?"

She salutes with two fingers, completely ridiculous and somehow perfect. "Yes sir. Door stays closed. No wandering. No writing exposés about the marshal who kidnapped me to the mountains. Got it."

I step back out into the snow, the wind cutting across my face, and force myself to focus on the job.

Perimeter first. I move through the trees in a wide circle around the outpost, checking for tracks, broken branches, anything that says someone else has been up here. The snow is clean and undisturbed. I find the motion sensor I mounted on the north approach last month and confirm it's still active, green light blinking steady under its weatherproof housing. The south approach has a natural choke point between two rock faces that I can monitor from the porch. East and west are thick timber, harder to watch but harder to move through quietly too. Anyone coming through those trees in the snow is going to leave tracks and make noise.

I check the generator. Fuel's at eighty percent. I top off the backup cans from the reserve and run a test cycle. Everything turns over clean. Solar batteries are holding a full charge despite the cloud cover, which gives us redundancy if the generator goes down. Good.

I stand at the edge of the tree line for a minute, breath fogging in the cold, and stare down the mountain. The road below is disappearing under fresh snow. By morning it might be impassable without chains, and by the look of that sky we could be in for something bigger than a dusting. Part of me likes that. A storm seals us in, but it seals everyone else out too. No one's driving up that road in a blizzard. It buys me time to get a full threat picture from Mason and figure out how deep this thing goes.

The other part of me knows that being snowed in with Hazel Lowe in a one-room cabin is going to test my self-control in ways no mission ever has.

I push that thought down where it belongs and head back inside. There's a weapons cache to inventory, comm protocols to set up with Mason's team, and a perimeter alarm system I've been meaning to extend to the western tree line. Plenty to keep me busy. Plenty to keep my head in the job and off the woman who just walked into my outpost and made it feel less empty than it has in years.

I climb the porch steps and reach for the door.