Page 24 of Montana Memory

I didn’t move. Didn’t let a single emotion show. But deep inside, something cold twisted in my gut. If he was telling the truth, then Jada’s memories were gone forever.

Alan grinned at me, mistaking my silence for acceptance. “Hell, maybe you’re better off. If you had some kind of beef with her, consider it settled. She’s a ghost now. Irony is, she went and bought the drug herself. Wasn’t like I could get it delivered to me in here.”

I stared at him. Just long enough to make the smile slip from his face, just long enough for unease to flicker in his eyes.

Then I smirked, stood up, and hung up the receiver. This bastard deserved to rot in here forever. I would make sure the Resting Warrior Ranch team did whatever they could to make that happen.

He was a dead end, and I wouldn’t waste any more time on him. If Jada never got her memories back, then not having any recollection of this asshole would be the one benefit.

Now, it was time to find Copper.

Chapter 8

Jada

The clock on the wall ticked too loud in the silence of the safe house. I’d already scrubbed down the kitchen, wiped the counters twice, and reorganized the mismatched plates in the cabinet. The safe house wasn’t big—mainly one large room for the kitchen and living area and two smaller bedrooms, then a small bath—and I’d cleaned every inch of it I could, except the bedrooms. Those were Hunter’s private areas, and it felt like an invasion of privacy without permission. Anything to keep my brain from circling the same exhausting thoughts.

What was Hunter finding out? What was taking him so long?

I paced to the window and peeked out, but I kept the curtains closed like Hunter had said. He’d shown me the hidden fancy panel outside the front door and gave me the code in case I needed to leave and get back in. Evidently, the door was reinforced, and the code was the only way to open it.

As if I had anywhere to go.

I pressed my fingers against my temples and blew out a slow breath. I didn’t want to let myself spiral, but it was too late. My thoughts had already latched on to the one thing I couldn’t make sense of.

Why was Hunter still helping me?

There was nothing in it for him. No reason for him to have dragged me out of that cabin or the hospital or put himself on the line by keeping me hidden. I wasn’t his problem. There was nothing in this for him.

I swallowed hard. I wasn’t blind. Hunter was attractive in a way that made my stomach twist every time I looked at him. The way he moved, the way he watched everything around him like he was always calculating threats—it should have unnerved me. But it didn’t. It made me feel safe. Made me want to be closer to him.

And even though he hadn’t necessarily done anything that suggested he returned the attraction, he was at least still helping me.

Although as each minute passed, I wondered if that was still true. I checked the clock again. He’d planned to be back two hours ago. What if he wasn’t coming back at all?

My chest tightened. Would I blame him? He didn’t owe me anything. Maybe the prison visit had made him realize I wasn’t worth all this trouble. Maybe he’d decided I wasn’t his problem anymore.

I shoved away from the window, stomach knotting, and marched to the kitchen. I needed to do something. If I couldn’t figure out my past, at least I could control one thing—I could make dinner.

I found a box of pasta, a jar of sauce, some veggies, and got to work. The sound of boiling water filled the silence. The simple rhythm of chopping and stirring grounded me. Gave mesomething to focus on other than the possibility that I might be completely on my own.

I didn’t let myself look at the clock again. Didn’t let myself react to every creak of the house settling or the occasional rustle outside. It was nothing. Just my nerves, stretched too thin.

Then—footsteps.

My heart lurched to my throat. The front door opened, and Hunter stepped inside. I buried my relief under annoyance with myself.

The door automatically locked as it closed behind him. His jaw was clenched tight, and the muscle in his forearm flexed as he ran a hand through his hair. He didn’t say anything, just exhaled heavily and dropped into the chair at the table.

I hadn’t even realized I’d been gripping the counter until my fingers ached. My pulse still hadn’t settled, the leftover panic that he might not come back making my hands unsteady as I grabbed two plates and set one down in front of him.

“You made dinner.” His voice was low, rough around the edges.

“Figured you’d be hungry.”If you were coming back at all.“You were later than I’d thought, so I wasn’t sure what was happening.”

He didn’t say anything as he took a bite, just watched me in that unreadable way of his. Maybe he was trying to gauge how much I could handle. I hated that. Hated feeling like I was fragile, like I had to be protected from the truth.

I swallowed a bite then set my fork down on my plate. “What did you find out?”

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