Page 4 of Montana Memory

A fresh pulse of dread kicked through me. “What is that?”

He didn’t look at me. Didn’t answer.

Panic clawed its way up my throat. “Hunter?—”

He grabbed my wrist. Not hard, not rough, but firm. A deliberate grip meant to lead, not to hurt. “We have to go.”

I planted my feet. “Wait?—”

“There’s no time.” His eyes—so damn sharp, so damn green—locked on mine. “If you want to live, you need to come with me. Now.”

He held out what looked like a woman’s coat to me. Mine? He must have picked it up with the syringe.

I wavered. Every logical part of me screamed that he was a stranger, that following him was reckless, that for all I knew, he was just as bad as the guy lying unconscious on the floor.

But he hadn’t hurt me, and he’d had every opportunity.

Footsteps crunched outside, and Hunter’s jaw clenched. “Jada. If you’re coming with me, we have to go now. Otherwise, I have to leave you to fend for yourself. It’s up to you.”

I made my choice. I grabbed the coat from his hand and let him lead me out the door and into the dark, praying I wasn’t making a huge mistake.

Outside, Hunter moved like a shadow, silent and precise, pulling me with him as we slipped around the side of the cabin. The night was thick, the air damp, the scent of pine and earth mixing with something darker—sweat, blood, fear.

My heart slammed against my ribs, a wild, unsteady rhythm that didn’t match his calm, deliberate movements. We crept low, sticking close to the building. Every step felt too loud, every breath a risk.

A minute or two later, a noise—grunting, the scuffle of boots on dirt—froze me in place. I turned my head just enough to see through the trees.

Two men fought, their silhouettes locked in a brutal struggle. One lunged, the other swung something—a knife? A gun? I couldn’t tell. My pulse spiked.

I parted my lips to whisper, but before I could make a sound, Hunter’s gloved hand was on my mouth.

The warmth of his palm, the roughness of the glove’s leather, the sheer power in the way he held me still should have sent a fresh wave of panic through me. But it didn’t.

I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

His body was close, heat radiating from him despite the cold, but his eyes stayed on the fight, his focus unwavering.

Hunter’s hand fell away as he turned toward a rustle to our left, his shoulders going rigid. My gaze followed his, and my stomach dropped.

Another man. Half hidden behind the trees. A gun glinted in his grip. He hadn’t seen us, but if I had spoken, he definitely would’ve heard us.

We remained silent and still until the man passed by. Even then, Hunter didn’t speak for a long minute.

When he did, his voice was low, steady, but absolute. “Anyone out here is bad news. We have to go.”

He didn’t wait for me to answer. He grabbed my hand and pulled me deeper into the dark.

I ran with him, my adrenaline surging. Branches lashed against my arms, sharp and unyielding. Eventually, my breath came in ragged gasps, every step jarring pain through my body, but I didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. Hunter’s grip on my wrist was firm, pulling me forward, deeper into the night.

I focused on whispering my name under my breath.

Jada Banks.

I said it again and again. As if repetition would shake something loose in my mind. As if saying it enough times would make it mean something.

It didn’t. The name was as empty as the dark woods closing in around us.

Hunter barely made a sound, moving with a lethal kind of efficiency, his focus razor-sharp. He wasn’t talking, wasn’t offering reassurances. Just keeping me alive.

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