Wyoming Cowboy Marine. Nicole Helm
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of here.
“Go away, mister.”
“You expect me to hike the four miles back with blood dripping down my arm?”
She wasn’t sure why, but she got the impression this man could handle it well enough. Still, guilt pricked at her conscience. Though it shouldn’t. She owed him nothing. He wasn’t just an outsider, he was an aggressor.
He’d stalked her. He hadn’t listened to her warnings. He deserved that wound on his arm, and yet that little seed of guilt sprouted and tried to surface.
“I’ll get you a bandage, and then you can be on your way.” She crouched down and scratched Free behind the ears, whispering her command. “Free. Guard.” The dog growled in agreement, her eyes never leaving the man with the bloody arm.
Hilly hurried back into the cabin. They had an extensive first-aid kit, but it was kept hidden away behind all the daily necessities. Dad insisted anything of value or that hinted at having more reserves than for a few days be kept out of plain sight.
She could pay the man outside. She could pay him to find Dad. No, she didn’t trust him, but it was an option. Enough money could keep a man under your thumb, Dad said, and there was money. Hidden in drawers and sewn into mattresses. She didn’t even know how much was hidden in this cabin, but she could use it to find her father.
Who wouldn’t approve of getting help from the outside world.
It was stupid. Impossible. She could not trust this man who’d followed her. Whom she’d shot.
But she didn’t have anyone except Free, and as handy as dogs could be, they could not communicate, investigate or lend a hand with obtaining supplies from the outside world.
Dad had left her alone. She had to survive that, which meant she had to make her own decisions. Not ones Dad would make.
She gave herself a moment to close her eyes and take a deep breath. Take stock of the situation. Dad was missing. She was on her own. A strange man had followed her home under the guise of help.
Dad would scare him off. Hilly had no doubt about that.
She thought about the woman officer she’d spoken to at the police station. The woman had been in charge. Of herself, of her job. She hadn’t looked to anyone for help. She’d made the decisions and she’d told other people what to do.
Hilly had been in awe of her. She wasn’t allowed to call any shots, and Dad didn’t listen to her about anything. Not that he was mean about it. It was just that Dad was in charge. Dad made the choices.
And Dad had left her alone. Which meant she was in charge, and when she found him—no matter how—Dad would just have to accept that. Because he hadn’t left her with the adequate tools to deal with this. Hopefully now he would.
If he’s alive.
She shoved that thought out of her brain as she got to her feet. She held the bandage in her hand, and though it went against everything she’d ever been taught, she left the rest of the first-aid kit out.
It felt thrillingly wrong. She nearly smiled as she stepped out the front door. Except the sight in front of her stopped her short in shock.
Free was on her back, wriggling joyfully as the large man rubbed her belly.
“You little traitor,” she muttered.
The man smiled up at her, and it felt like something unleashed low in her stomach, fluttering upward and into her throat. She didn’t care for that sensation at all.
She still had her gun, though, so him turning her dog into a pathetic little affection fiend was only taking away one of her weapons. Not all of them.
She aimed the gun at him again as she held out the bandage. “Here. Now be on your way.”
He eyed the gun as he slowly got to his feet. Free whined. This close Hilly was uncomfortably reminded of just how large he was. Tall and broad and someone who could definitely outmuscle her if he wanted to.
But she had a gun. A gun. She tightened her grip on it.
“Are you going to shoot me if I reach for that?” He motioned to the bandage.
“Not if you reach for that and that alone.”
His mouth curved, some foreign thing in his eyes. Something like laughter, but sharper. Her cheeks heated. But he carefully reached for the bandage and plucked it from her outstretched fingers.
He shrugged off his coat. Then, in a mesmerizing move, he tore the sleeve from where it was ripped from the bullet. Two tugs and the sleeve was completely off, just a few threads hanging down over his biceps.
His arm was...an arm. Why was it fascinating? Dark hair dusted his forearm, but his biceps looked smooth, except the slight slash of the cut and the smudge of blood around it.
“I could help you, you know,” he said conversationally as he wound the bandage around his cut.
She wrenched her gaze from his arm and the easy way he dressed it as if he tended wounds every day. “I—I’d have to trust you,” she said, hating herself for the stutter. “I don’t.”
He nodded thoughtfully, then those hazel eyes pinned her where she stood. “What would you need? To earn your trust, what would I have to do?”
Nothing. Nothing at all. Which was just stupidity and she would not be stupid. That was what Dad would expect her to be. Too innocent and weak-willed to find him, to survive.
Well. She’d just have to find him and prove to him she could make choices, too. Even if it meant trusting an outsider.
She looked confused for a few seconds, then something like determination chased over her face. Too bad Cam didn’t know what she was determined to decide.
He finished wrapping the cut and picked his coat back up, pulling it on again. He ignored the shudder of cold that worked through him. “You’re worried about your father.”
“I am,” she said, chin lifting. “He goes away sometimes, but never this long.”
“And you don’t know where he goes?”
She paused. Not the kind of pause that preceded a lie either. That lost look in her eyes from the sheriff’s department stole through her once more, though she quickly hardened against it.
She was definitely young, but not that young. Early twenties, if he had to guess. She was strong enough to fire off a warning shot, kind enough to get him a bandage and smart enough not to give him her name.
No number of strange situations he’d found himself in as a Marine prepared him for this puzzle.
“I didn’t actually mean to shoot you,” she said, eyeing him. He noted it wasn’t an apology.
“I know.”
“How do you know?”
“If you’d meant to shoot me, I’d have a lot bigger hole in my arm. Clipping this close without doing much damage? That’s pretty much luck of the try-to-get-close-enough-to-scare shooting variety.”
She studied the bandage he’d tied off, then him. “And you know a lot about shooting?”
“Enough.”
“You want me to trust you for no reason, and then you’re evasive?” she said with such utter contempt he had to believe she’d been hurt before. There was a reason she and her father were tucked away here, and judging from the weapon she’d used on him and the one she’d carried with her, cash flow wasn’t the problem, or the only one.
Unless the guns were obtained illegally,