Page 9 of Lightning in a Mason Jar

In theory, he understood that in addition to protecting the wilderness, his job description included educating the public, assisting in backcountry search and rescues, and partnering with law enforcement. He just hadn’t expected it all to happen in the same day.

He’d barely had time to shower this morning after spending most of the night wading through alligator-infested swamps searching for a missing boater before heading over to man the SCDNR information booth at today’s market.

Then the wild pig happened.

He didn’t draw a gun often on the job as a game warden. Not like back in his days as an army cop. But when he did, it took him a good bit of time to clear the numb feeling. Adrenaline had a way of searing nerve endings until all sensation was gone.

Slowing as he drew closer, Martin could sense something was off about the cluster of people. There was a buzz, an energy he recognized on a cellular level from his military days.

Bailey Rae and Mrs. Libby were comforting a dark-haired woman who had tear streaks on her face. A child clung to her mother with one hand, gripping a rag doll in the other not as a treasure but more like a lifeline.

Maybe the mom was just stressed from struggling with a fractious kid. He exhaled. Hard. His instincts must be off this afternoon.

“Good afternoon, Bailey Rae. Mrs. Libby.” He nodded to each. “What can I help you ladies with?”

Born in Arizona, he’d given up on understanding why people in the South called anyone older by their first name plus Mr., Mrs., Ms., or Miss. But rarely a surname. It was just the way things were done around here, and to say it differently would only add another unspoken barrier between him and the community he served.

Bailey Rae glanced his way, her auburn ponytail swinging. The softness in her expression faded as she crossed her arms over her chest defensively, looking far too snooty for a woman wearing muddy hiking boots, cutoff jean shorts, and a concert T-shirt two sizes too big. On the fishing ticket day, she’d worn one too. Tina Turner, then. Today, Bruce Springsteen, the Boss.

He shrugged off the distracting thought.

The young mother shook her head quickly and scooped her daughter up onto her hip. “Nothing, we’re fine.”

Libby jabbed her cane against the ground for balance. “Wait, don’t go. You needed assistance, and I’ve found it for you in the shape of this fine-looking young conservation officer. Officer Perez, this lady needs your assistance.”

“Is something wrong, ma’am?”

The young woman looked back and forth between them, tucking her daughter closer to her side. “We’re fine. Just asking for directions. I’ll just be going.”

Bailey Rae stepped closer and touched the woman’s elbow with only a fingertip. “Hold on, Gia. This is Martin Perez—he’s a game warden. The police officer I reached out to assured me you can trust him.”

Was that a hint of resignation about the “trust” part? She must still be holding a grudge over the ticket. Rules mattered, though. He’d learned that lesson the hard way right before he’d left the army.

Then her words registered deeper. Why would it matter that the young mother could trust him? He reassessed the stranger’s tear-streaked face and found ... fear. Not just the afraid-of-bugs kind. More of a terrified-of-snakes sort.

Libby inched back into her wheelchair, cane across her knees. “She needs our help relocating.”

Relocating?

The fear in her—Gia’s—eyes shouted as loudly as the faint bruise he could now see blooming on her cheek. He measured his words, not wanting to alert the child. “Ma’am, is what Mrs. Libby’s saying true? Are you in need of emergency lodgings?”

Gia chewed her bottom lip, nodding. “For my daughter and me. Just somewhere to stay tonight, until things, um, settle down at home.”

His gaze skated to the little girl as well, and while he saw no sign of outward injury, her expression was another story. Withdrawn. Nervous.

Libby tugged her cell phone from a quilted pouch on the side of her chair. “I can call the Lodge-Inn to see about a vacancy. You’ll want to use a different name, preferably pay cash—for the sake of getting that cooling-down time.” Her face creased with confusion for a moment before she said, “I watch a lot of true crime and ‘most wanted’ shows.”

Not exactly the television lineup he would have expected from sweet little Libby.

Gia clutched her purse in a white-knuckled grip. “How much does a room at the Lodge-Inn cost?”

Since he’d heard that the Lodge-Inn had closed five years ago due to unpaid back taxes, Martin opted for a more affordable answer. “There’s a women’s shelter in the next county. They’ll be better equipped to steer you in the right direction. I can call ahead and see if there’s a room available.”

Gia exhaled. Hard. “Thank you.”

Mrs. Libby tapped the table for attention. “Be sure to park your car somewhere else so he can’t find you.”

Libby was one of a kind. Martin smothered a wry smile and looked back at Gia. “Have you filed a police report? If not, I can give you a ride to the station first—”

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