The Guardian. Cindi Myers
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investigation is over.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not patronizing. I’m just trying to get you to calm down.”
His words only made her more furious. She did not need to calm down. She’d just been shot at and forced to lie on her stomach on the ground for over an hour, and suffered the humiliation of almost flaking out in front of a bunch of strangers—if she didn’t give vent to the tornado of emotions inside of her she might explode. “Shut up,” she said. “Whatever you have to say, I don’t want to hear it.”
He glared at her for a long moment, then turned his attention to the road. The truck rocketed forward, bouncing over the rough two-track so that she had to grip the handle mounted at the top of the door to steady herself. Dust boiled up behind them, and rocks pinged against the undercarriage like BBs. She clenched her jaw to keep from shouting at him to slow down and not be so reckless. But that was what he wanted from her—another reaction. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
She’d already let him affect her emotions too much, his combination of brashness and consideration, strength and tenderness, touching vulnerable places inside her she hadn’t let anyone see. She never talked about the war with anyone, and yet she’d confided in him. She didn’t willingly let others see her scars, but she’d turned her face up to him with only a moment’s hesitation. She didn’t like how open and undefended he made her feel, with all his talk of fate and meaning behind what had to be only coincidence.
After a few miles, he slowed down enough that she could relax back in the seat. She hugged her arms across her chest and stared out at the landscape. Most people probably thought the land was ugly, with its scraggly vegetation and covering of rock and thin dirt. The real treasure lay beneath eye level, in the startlingly deep, narrow canyon that cut a jagged swatch through the high desert, its walls painted in shades of red and orange and gray. People long ago had dubbed it the Black Canyon, since sunlight seldom reached its depths. The silvery ribbon of the Gunnison River rushed through the bottom of the canyon, nurturing lush growth along its rocky banks, creating a world of color and moisture far below the parched landscape above.
But that stark desert held as much interest for Abby as the canyon below. She’d enjoyed discovering the secrets of the twisted piñons and miniature wildflowers, learning about the deer, rabbits, foxes and other wildlife that thrived there. She thought of herself like them—someone who had learned to survive amid bareness, to find the beauty in hardship.
They pulled up in front of headquarters. Her car was the only one in the lot now. She unsnapped her seat belt and her hand was on the door when Michael spoke. “Look. It isn’t safe for you to go into the backcountry by yourself, but what if I went with you? You can look for your plants while I patrol. I can square it with Graham.”
She could only imagine the pushback he’d get from his supervisor when he made that suggestion. Captain Graham Ellison struck her as a man who wasn’t into bending the rules. “Why would you do that?”
He shrugged. “I kind of feel responsible for you.”
Wrong answer. She didn’t want anyone—she especially didn’t want this man—to be responsible for her. She was responsible for herself. She climbed out of the truck and turned to face him. “I get that you saved my life,” she said. “And I’m grateful for that. But that doesn’t give you any kind of special claim on me.”
He held up both hands. “I’m not making any claim on you. I’m just trying to help.”
“I don’t need your help. Thanks anyway.” She turned and stalked away, though she could feel his gaze burning into her all the way to her car.
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