With a taut grip, he pulls me to my feet.
Though I’m tall at 175 centimeters, standing I barely reach his shoulder. I look up at him. His face is cut hard and straight, with a square jaw, defined cheekbones, full lips, and piercing green eyes, staring intently at me.
“You’re running out here by yourself?” he inquires sharply.
I nod.
Lightning strikes above us. Prying his eyes from mine, he looks over my shoulder.
Then he takes off his backpack and removes a scope. As he does, his shirt inches aside, revealing an oblong patch of black leather tucked against his hip.
Seeing this irritates me. I can defend myself.
He holds the telescopic lens to his eye, glancing around.
“Is she coming back?” I ask, swiveling my head to scan the trees. With the rain cascading in sheets, the forest blurs into a murky expanse of pine and evergreens. “Lions stalk their prey first,” I explain, “then attack, then leave before returning—”
“You’re not prey,” he answers evenly. “She was just defending her cubs.”
Another bolt of lightning flashes. Dropping the scope, he locks his vibrant eyes back on mine. Why is he looking at me so peculiarly?
My chest tingles beneath my jacket.
“Are you visiting?” he asks casually.
“I live here.” I pause. “Technically, I moved here last night.”
A flicker of familiarity passes his face—so quickly I can’t be sure. He’s attractive, and mature, but still youthful. Does he recognize me from school?
It doesn’t seem possible to have not noticed him there.
He notices me noticing him. A wave of heat swells in my neck, collecting at my throat.
Flustered, I nod at his hip. “I hope you’re better with your SIG than you are with a rifle.”
He looks between the holster and me, amused. “You think a pistol could hurt a grizzly?”
My face goes hot. I avoid placing pressure on my left leg. The pain has to ease up soon. I can’t go home with a limp. “It could if you had better aim.”
He threads the scope onto the rifle. Pushing his lips together, he stares down at me. “Better aim?”
“You missed six times!” I snap angrily. “You nearly hit me.”
He opens his mouth, then shuts it.
With a haughty look, he strides past me, stopping beside a narrow pine. He points at a glinting dark spot on the mossy trunk.
I follow, touching my fingertips to the shredded bark. Exactly three meters off the ground, in the center of the trunk, is a three-millimeter hole with a shiny copper bullet wedged inside.
To my left is another tree with another hole.
My heart rate speeds up with each bullet I spot.
Surrounding the patch of trail are six trees. Each now has a copper bullet lodged into its trunk, equidistant from the ground.
Six bullets. Six targets. Six perfect shots.
Beneath the hood of my jacket, the skin at the base of my neck prickles. Impossible.
When I look back at him he is watching me with an even, confident expression.
His muscles spread out across his shoulders and down his upper arms like they have been chiseled from stone. He is wearing only a long-sleeved shirt; his chest is sculpted to it, and he doesn’t seem bothered by the rain and cold, or by me.
Which infuriates me, because I am bothered by him. And I can’t articulate why.
His muscular left hand tightens around the rifle stock, grazing the edge of the scope.
“I didn’t miss,” he says assuredly. “I wouldn’t have taken a shot if I thought I’d hit you.”
I step backward. Wincing at the pain in my thigh, I stumble.
“Careful.” He instinctively reaches forward to help, but I step farther back.
The grizzly is gone—my heart rate should be decelerating. Instead, it’s accelerating.
I’m irritated that he stepped in to save me. I don’t need to be saved, especially in Waterford.
If I’d been allowed my FN, I could have fired the shots myself. But mostly, I’m frustrated that I’m flustered. Who is he?
“Where were you?” I demand. “Were you watching me?”
His eyes flare indignantly. “I was coming down that ridge”—he indicates vaguely east with his right hand. “I heard the grizzly. Then I saw you.”
Through the rain-smudged forest, a trail twists among the pine trees, converging with a steep ridgeline two hundred meters off.
I peer between his bolt-action and the ridge. “Those were some aggressive shots.”
“She was an aggressive bear,” he counters dismissively.
“I had it,” I say. “You didn’t need to interfere. I would have been fine.”
“You had it?” he says, astutely. “Against a grizzly with two cubs?”
“Yes,” I say defiantly, gripping the stone in my fist.
For several seconds we stare at each other in protracted silence. He is as intimidating as the grizzly. With his harsh, inquisitive look, I feel more scrutinized than I have all day.
Thunder crackles across the sky.
“Can I walk you home?” he asks. Glancing down, he seems to notice my ripped leggings. “Or to the clinic on Main Street?”
I’m in Montana. His story checks out. I don’t have a valid reason not to trust him. I relax. Slightly.
“No, thanks. I’m headed to a friend’s house,” I explain. “Charlotte Cartwright. She’s on Woodland Star Circle. Another half kilometer southeast …”
The corners of his lips turn upward in an exasperated smile. “You were just attacked by a grizzly and you want to go to your friend’s house?”
“I’m not injured.”
“You’re not putting any weight on your left leg,” he points out.
I put equal pressure on both legs. “It’s only bruised.”
He looks dubious. “Most people attacked by a grizzly are at least shaken—”
“Most people can’t hit six separate targets in four seconds from two hundred meters with a bolt-action, let alone iron sights. And certainly not through trees in weather like this.”
His voice cuts through the rain. “You really should get an X-ray to make sure you don’t have a fracture in your leg. Something tells me you know the drill.”
“I do,” I declare. “So I know nothing’s broken.”
The angles of his face draw tight.
Standing with his rifle in his hand, shoulders back, chest out, he reminds me of the soldiers guarding the colonel in Tunis. Except he makes me uneasy in a different way—like my heart is bounding into my throat.
Around us, the sky is nearly dark, the air on the spectrum of a green-hued dusk.
“I’ll walk you to Charlotte’s,” he finally says. “It’s not far.”
“I know where it is.” I shake my head. “I’ll walk myself.”
He points at the muddy path. “This is a grizzly migration trail to the river. Locals stay off it in autumn, so you should too.” Strapping the rifle across his chest, he nods his head southeast. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER 8
Charlotte’s door swings open before I’ve even knocked. “Sophia!”
“Hi—”