Page 3 of Captive of Outlaws

“Watch her head!” someone yells.

And I hit the ground.

Then blackness.

Chapter One

Seven years later

“EXCUSE ME, SIR?”

I can barely hear the voice—male, deep, a tiny bit irritated—over the clanking and grinding of the shop, but I grimace all the same. I know he’s talking to me, because there’s no one else around who could hear him. And yeah, I know that there’s nothing to indicate the gender of the work boots and coveralls sticking out from underneath the ancient Buick—the one thatIhappen to be working on—but still. The sexism gets me every time. Whyassumethat the mechanic is a dude?

I crane my neck and arch my back against the wheeled creeper beneath me just enough to see what I can of this would-be customer—his shoes. And they’re fancy shoes. Of course. Dark, polished leather, one foot tapping with impatience. Even the cuffs of his jeans look designer, somehow. Not that I’m an expert on fashion—as evidenced by my usual uniform of grease-stained canvas—but for whatever reason, Ican just tell.

Rich asshole,I think. And I deal with enough of those.

“Sir?” the voice comes again, much more pointed and less polite now. “I don’t have all day.”

There’s no way this guy is a local, then. That’s definitely a Yankee voice, clipped and rushed sounding the way everyone north of the Mason-Dixon seems to have no time to waste. Folks in Sherwood County take their sweet time with everything.

And that, I decide, is what I’m going to do too.

Around me, the air is thick with the smell of motor oil and pulsing with the greatest hits of the 80s, 90s, and today pumping in from the prehistoric FM radio in the corner. I’m sweating like a beast here under Ms. Donovan’s Buick, and I know that rolling out from under it will bring a welcome rush of fresh (well, fresh-ish) air over my damp collarbone and the strands of hair sticking to my face where they’ve escaped my ponytail, but I force myself to resist the urge to pop out. Instead, I walk the heels of my off-brand Timberlands forward inch by inch, rolling the creeper out from under the car annoyingly, painfully slowly, until I’ve revealed exactly who I am.

Surprise, asshole. Your mechanic’s a girl.

“Yes?” I say, in my ever-so-sweet customer service voice. “Were you talking to me?”

No sooner do I say it than my breath catches in my chest.

I don’t know what I was expecting this dude to look like, but the guy towering above me wasn’t it. He’s not balding, beer-gutted, or wrinkled. Quite the opposite: he’s young, maybe a few years older than me, and, well...handsome. There’s no other word for it. The late-afternoon sun slants inperfectly from the open garage door to frame his head in a blazing corona of light, illuminating hair that’s so light it can’t be blonde—guess he’s prematurely gray?—and I can see that his face, even in shadow, has the firm jaw and high cheekbones of a fairy-tale prince. Broad shoulders fill out a button-down that’s practically tailored to fit him (and probably is), with the rolled-up sleeves revealing surprisingly muscled forearms. He looks...strong, for someone so prickly. Like he could pick me up and set me right on the hood of his car if he wanted to. The only thing ruining the picture is the scowl on his lips and the hard set of his deep blue eyes.

I swallow hard, shaking off my surprise.Get it together, Maren.

“I was,” he says. “You could actually hear me, then. Which means you were justchoosingto be rude.”

I flush, glad that the smears of grease on my cheeks probably hide the pink that’s undoubtedly spreading across my skin.Thanks for nothing, Irish heritage.“Rude?” I say, doing my best to keep my voice sweet and steady. “I’m not the one interrupting someone in the middle of a job.”

Mr. Yankee throws a disdainful glance at Ms. Donovan’s Buick. “Yes, I’m sure that vehicle requires an expert touch.”

I tense inadvertently. Granted, he’s not wrong—this rustbucket is on its last legs, and has been for years now, so I’m basically the mechanic version of a hospice nurse at this point. Just keeping the old girl comfortable until she finally goes to the great scrap heap in the sky. But still.

“For your information, it does,” I fire back. “Ms. Donovan works third shift at the hospital and needs this car to get to work, so I’ve got to get it fixed by six.”And get it out of here so John doesn’t see me working on it,I add silently. Ms.Donovan’s a kind older lady who calls me “sugar” and would never ask for charity, but I’ve heard her fretting over her taxes enough to know that she couldn’t afford the full repair bill. I’m sneaking in the work when I’m unsupervised in the shop, and when she comes in to pick it up, I’ll claim it started right back up again—no charge.

I just have to make sure I’m not caught committing time theft. Even though I’d argue stealing from my scumbag legal guardian is a victimless crime, or close enough.

Still, the reminder of the ticking clock gets me back in gear. Sooner this guy’s in and out, the sooner I can wrap things up. “What can I help you with?” I ask him impatiently.

He smirks. “I don’t suppose you have experience with foreign models, do you”—he glances down at my name patch, conveniently embroidered right over my left boob—“Ralph.”

“It’s Maren,” I say, strangely embarrassed that I don’t have my own uniform.

“Maren.” I both hate and love the way my name sounds in the sharp growl of his accent. But there’s no way I’m giving him the satisfaction.

“Foreign models?” I ask. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

He tsks his tongue. “You should know better than to lie, little greasemonkey.”

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