Page 7 of Mountain Man Grinch
When I retrieved her stuff, I drove her car further into the woods, covered it with branches and brush as camouflage. But I won’t feel good until the next storm blankets it and my tracks.
Frigid metal hits my fingertips all over again as I trace one of two bullet holes in Arielle’s car.The memory fresh, vivid.I knew the woman needed protection, but I underestimated the danger of her situation.
Warm air greets me back inside. I stomp the snow from my boots and toe them off.
“Hot chocolate?” I ask.
She just nods, eyes glued to the floor. Loud-mouth sunshine, chaos wrapped in curves, suddenly staring at the wood like it personally betrayed her.
The blanket trembles in her hands. The dog whimpers in her lap. Every instinct in me goes razor-wire tight.
I put the kettle on the stove, then plant myself in the living room, arms crossed. “Tell me how you got in this mess.”
She swallows. “It wasn’t … it wasn’t just that they were following me.”
No shit. I already know that.
But hearing her say it?
That lands somewhere under my ribs.
“I didn’t walk into danger like an idiot, okay?” she says, voice thin. “I noticed something. Something bad.”
My jaw locks.
“Go on.”
She takes a breath that sounds like it hurts. “I was headed home from Sierra Belle, the little boutique shop I manage in Truckee. Traffic was backed up on Interstate Eighty, so I stopped at the Scenic Ridge rest area after work. It was supposed to be quick. Gus needed to pee. I needed to stretch. Nothing dramatic.”
My brows pull together. She’s rambling. Nervous.
Then the real thing slips out.
“There was a semi. Parked funny. Two guys at the back doors. Whispering. Looking over their shoulders like … like they expected someone to jump out at them.”
My pulse spikes. I know that behavior. I know men like that.
“And one of them kept touching his belt,” she whispers, “like there was something there.”
A weapon. I step closer before I realize I’ve moved. She doesn’t flinch, just wraps the blanket tighter around herself.
“What else did you notice about them?” I ask.
She gives this tiny, breathless laugh that damn near breaks me.
“They had tattoos…”
“Where?” I ask tightly.
“All over. But I especially remember their throats.”
I go still. But my mind races. “Can you describe the ink?”
She shakes her head. “I didn’t want to stare, draw any more attention to myself. But if I saw them again, I’d know it.”
“What did you do next?” I push, because I have to know everything.
“I walked away. Called it in.” Her voice shakes. “I didn’t stay. I was scared. I just told nine-one-one something didn’t feel right and got back in the car.”
