Page 48 of The SEAL and the Sheriff

Her chin lifted. “I still don’t have to like it.”

“No.” He tilted his head in agreement.

“I’d still have gone.”

“I know.”

“Would you have stopped me?”

“Yes.”

She looked at him askance, the corner of her mouth threatening to betray her.

They reached the entrance door and stepped out into the afternoon light, the cold sharper out here than inside, a fresh breeze cleansing the stink of fish from his nostrils. Their boat was still tied to the dock exactly where they’d left it.

Shit.

The angle was off, the stern riding lower in the water than it should.

Sarah hurried past him along the dock and dropped to her knees beside the transom before he’d fully processed what he was seeing. He let her go. Boats were her territory, ambushes were his.

While she checked the damage, he turned his attention outward to the shoreline, pilings, and then up to the roof. A sabotaged boat was exactly the type of problem designed to make people stop looking for the next one.

Satisfied there was no immediate threat, he rejoined Sarah. She was running her fingers along the hull below the waterline. She leaned over and peered through the open hatch toward the bilge. Her jaw tightened.

“Drain plug’s gone.” She straightened, already moving to check the fuel line. “And this.” She held up a length of severed rubber tubing, the cut clean and deliberate. “Fuel line’s cut.” She reached for the marine radio. A glance beneath the console confirmed it. “They cut the radio cable too. They didn’t want us limping anywhere or calling for help.”

Hands on knees, she pushed back up to standing. She shoved her hat back and dragged a hand through her hair, breath whistling out of her with force. “I hate losing.”

“Me too.”

Especially when someone else paid the bill. Petey. The ridge. Now this. Every step closer to Cord seemed to have a cost.

“How far back to anywhere?” he asked.

“The track meets an old logging road six miles inland.” Her eyes narrowed as she assessed the already fading light. “We’ll make it before full dark if we walk fast. From there it’s another two miles before we’ll get a signal worth trusting.”

Six miles with the temperature dropping. Another two before they could call for help. His lungs objected before the rest of him did. None of that changed his answer. “Then we keep moving.”

Sarah looked at him as if she’d expected a debate about waiting for rescue or trying the radio one more time.

But there wasn’t one to have.

They moved fast through what was left of the afternoon light, packing only essentials—water, the first aid kit from the boat’s dry box, her radio even though it didn’t work out here, his weapon checked and ready. He took the pack from her and hefted it over his shoulder.

As they left, Hudson looked back at the cannery, at the shadows beneath the windows. That’s where he’d have hidden. But the shadows were motionless, revealing nothing.

He fell into step beside her as they climbed into the trees, keeping himself on the exposed side of the track. His left shoulder toward the forest. His right toward Sarah.

Habit.

If someone opened fire, he’d rather they found him first.

The path climbed away from the point through stands of black spruce, the light going early and blue, the cold deepening with every step. Six miles. Uphill. Cold that would strip heat out of a body, one careful breath at a time.

His lungs would complain long before Sarah knew they had reason to.

He intended to keep it that way.