Wyoming Cowboy Marine. Nicole Helm
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propelling him forward. His eyes kept watching for signs of disturbed earth or snow so he could follow her trail.
At three miles, he was 75 percent sure he’d lost the trail or was following someone else’s. How could this woman be walking this long and this far? It might explain the backpack, but it sure didn’t explain anything else.
So, he walked on, following the trail another full mile, cursing himself with every step. But the trail became clearer, as though she’d given up on hiding it. As if she didn’t believe anyone would follow her this far.
As he continued on, he reached a clearing and peered through the edge of tree line where her path went. He frowned at the little cabin in the middle of the clearing. It looked rough-hewn and cobbled together out of disparate pieces. Something out of time, really. He could see some old miner or mountain man living in that shack back in the day, but not a young woman in the 21st century.
More, he was about 90 percent sure this was public land, and he was 100 percent sure there was something very wrong here. A man who didn’t exist and a young woman living in this hideaway cabin on public land.
Cam could only assume the young woman was an innocent bystander. She had reported the man without an identity missing, and unless she was suffering from some sort of mental issue, he imagined she was unaware of whatever was very wrong here.
He surveyed the clearing, the shack, trying to get a sense of things. Not just a layout, but a mental picture. It felt good to put his brain to work this way, even without any plausible answers. Since he’d left the Marines last year, he’d had a floating sense of uselessness, even with solving the case of Frank Gainville’s cows. Something about this felt like being of use.
Some of that disappeared when the woman stepped out of the shack with a flourish, a dog at her side and a gun in her hand. Not the revolver from before. She’d retrieved a rifle. She pointed it directly at him and the dog immediately began growling.
Cam held very still. “That’s a slightly bigger gun than the last one,” he offered, eyeing the animal with some trepidation. It was a big dog, at least part German shepherd. It growled low in its throat, clearly poised to strike at her command or at her letting go of the leash.
She didn’t say anything, and the dog snarling on the chain wasn’t exactly comforting, but there was something familiar in all this. A dangerous situation. Wanting to help. Having to rely on his wits.
He’d missed this.
He breathed in the icy spring air and tried not to smile. He had a feeling she wouldn’t appreciate the smiling stranger who’d followed her home.
“I didn’t get your name back there.”
She didn’t say anything. She kept the gun trained on him and the dog’s leash loose around her wrist. To an extent she matched the cabin: out of time. Her reddish-gold hair was pulled back in a braid and the wind whipped loose strands around her face. She had a sharp nose dusted with freckles, and a glare that would probably scare lesser men. She wore battered jeans and a long, heavy coat that also whipped in the wind, and boots that had seen better days.
Add a Stetson and replace the jeans with a skirt and she could have easily fit in the old Wild West without anyone looking twice.
“Move into the clearing,” she ordered, her voice low and calm with none of the nervousness she’d displayed at the police station.
He did as he was told, stepping forward. He held his arms up. “I’m unarmed and I’m not here to hurt you.”
“You followed me four miles. What are you here to do?”
“Figure out the truth.”
“The truth is none of your business.”
“I only want to help.” As true as it was, he could admit he’d made a misstep here. Just because he sincerely wanted to help didn’t mean a woman should believe a strange man wanted to help her. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
“Except you don’t know me. So you don’t know what might hurt me. That’s far enough,” she said when he took another step toward her.
“Fair point,” he said, pausing in his steps. “But I want to help you find your father.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why?”
“Put down the gun and we can talk about that.”
If anything, she firmed her hold on the rifle. “How about you talk or leave, all while I hold this gun? Do not take another step or I will shoot you,” she said after he’d taken another one closer to her and her dog.
“You’re not going to shoot me,” he said calmly, keeping his arms up as he carefully edged toward her. If he was calm, she’d be calm, and he didn’t think she had enough anger or fear in her right now to shoot him.
But the sound of a gun going off and the sharp sting in his arm happened at just about the same time. He looked down at his arm, the slight tear in his jacket and shirt and the blood now trickling out of a slice in his skin.
“Okay, you are going to shoot me,” he muttered at the mostly superficial wound.
“The next one will be worse,” she warned.
He no longer doubted her.
* * *
HILLY KEPT ALL her panic below the surface. You had to be calm when facing the outside world, and Dad had never believed she could be. That was why she had to stay hidden away. That was why he handled anything that meant leaving the property.
Shooting the man hadn’t been calm, not by a long shot. Especially since she’d only meant to scare him...not actually hit him.
At least she appeared calm from the outside.
On the inside? Panic city. Actually shooting the man advancing on her had been panic, even if she hadn’t exactly meant to.
Could he put her in jail for that? Surely not. She’d warned him, and he’d been coming at her. It was self-defense, intent or not. She hoped.
Where was Dad? Why had he left her alone like this? She didn’t know how to deal with it. With this stranger. Who was now staring at his arm where she’d shot her glancing blow.
It could have gone worse. She could have hit him somewhere vital, done significantly more damage. But he’d been advancing on her and home and...
“You should go get that looked at,” she said. Even though her heart and pulse beat hard in her neck, she sounded calm, and like the kind of woman who shot people every day.
But would he go home and tell everyone about the girl in the shack he thought might shoot people every day?
Oh, this was a mess.
“You’ve shot me now—you can at least give me your name.”
She shook her head, not trusting her voice.
“What are you so afraid of?”
Everything. The fact she wanted to trust the kindness in his voice even though Dad had told her to never trust kindness. The fact she’d somehow involved someone in this. She was very afraid of everything that existed beyond this clearing.
She’d braved it today because she’d been out of her mind with worry about Dad, but never again would she think she was strong enough to handle the world out there.
Except, if something happened to Dad you’ll have to.
She eyed the man and his bleeding arm. He said he’d wanted to help find Dad, but why should she trust him? An outsider who wasn’t even a police officer in any way she could tell.
But maybe that was good. Dad said you didn’t trust police, but men were motivated by one thing and one thing alone. Money. If he wasn’t police and she offered him money...
Except