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"Damn near destroyed him, if you wanna know the truth," Zane continues in a low, gravelly tone. "Tucker was lost after that. No other kin, no home to go back to but these unforgiving mountains that already stole his parents from him. He wandered around for years, more wild animal than man half the time.”
I can only imagine the depths of grief and hopeless isolation a young Tucker must have endured. Suddenly, his aversion to domesticity, to any kind of attachment, becomes heartbreakingly clear.
"He's trying to protect you, girl," Zane mutters at last, refocusing on me with surprising tenderness buried beneath the gruff edges. "In that thick skull of his, getting you tangled up in his mess is like putting a target on your back.”
My heart clenches in my chest as the full scope of Tucker's inner demons finally comes into focus.
That's when a fierce surge of determination washes over me, my jaw squaring stubbornly. Tucker's got another thing coming if he thinks I'll just roll over and accept his lone-wolf act. We've come too far together, forged something too profound, for me to let him sabotage what we've found.
"Zane, I need your help," I state firmly, pinning the mountain man with a look that dares him to challenge my resolve. "I'm going after him."
Chapter 8
Tucker
My boots crunch over the thick carpet of pine needles, each step taking me further away from that cozy little cabin and the only person who's come to mean a damn to me in too long.
After everything I've been through, you'd think I'd have learned my lesson by now.
But no. That gorgeous little doctor has somehow slipped past all my carefully constructed walls, igniting embers that haven't burned in so long, I damn near forgot what it felt like. The way her lush curves mold so perfectly against me, like she was made to fit in the circle of my arms. How her honeyed gasps and whimpers go straight to my cock whenever I claim her. Christ, just the thought of burying myself to the hilt inside her slick heat again has my fingers twitching with the need to grip those tempting hips and—
I grunt, shoving those distracting thoughts aside as my eyes rake over the trail in front of me, spotting the print of a boot in the mud and a butt of a cigarette a few yards past it.
As I follow the poacher's careless trail, I touch the radio at my hip to reassure myself it's still there. I'd taken it from Zane, radioing into the ranger station before setting out. They should be on their way, but it will be easier if I can give them exact coordinates.
I push deeper into the overgrown thicket, and there—a ramshackle lean-to of scavenged plywood and crudely tanned hides hunkers in a small clearing ahead. A patchwork tarp stretched overhead provides meager shelter, surrounded by the usual detritus of lazy, low-life squatters—spent ammo casings, empty liquor bottles, and gnawed remains that could've come from any number of unfortunates.
My jaw clenches as fury simmers through me. Sick fucks like this give all of us mountain folk a bad name with their reckless disregard. No respect for the land that's provided for generations, just plundering as they please.
I quickly radio in the coordinates to the rangers, keeping my voice low. Once they confirm, I creep a little closer, searching for any sign of life. Where the hell is he at?
A twig snaps somewhere behind me, and I whirl, the rifle swinging up toward the source of the disturbance. Too late, I spot a hulking shadow detaching itself from the dense brush, the gleam of a revolver glinting in his meaty fist as he levels it at my chest.
"Well, well..." a gruff voice rumbles, the stench of stale sweat and tobacco clinging to the disheveled poacher as his lips curl back in a sneer. "What're you doin' in my camp?"
"You're trespassing on federal land, jackass," I growl, keeping the bead of my rifle trained steadily on his center mass.
He lets out a wheezing bark of laughter. "These mountains and everything in 'em belong to whoever's strong enough to take 'em."
"We'll see about that when the rangers get here and haul your disgusting carcass off to the pen," I retort.
That greasy bastard's finger tightens on the trigger, his piggish eyes narrowing with cruel delight. "Shoulda stayed the hell out of my way, boy."
The shot rings out like a thunderclap, the poacher's revolver bucking in his meaty fist. My instincts take over in a surge of adrenaline, my body twisting in a roll that has me hitting the earth hard, my rifle skittering away.
Dirt and pine needles shower my face as I scramble onto my knees, zeroing in on that twisted fuck's hulking form. He's already swinging the pistol back toward me.
I explode into motion, every ounce of my wiry strength propelling me forward in a brutal tackle that slams into that blubbery midsection like a runaway train. The pistol goes clattering uselessly away as we crash to the ground in a tangle of flailing limbs and grunts of exertion.
Goddamn, he's a big bastard. Must weigh damn near three bills, every ounce of it comprised of pure, lard-laden beef. But I’m not about to let some overfed poacher scum overpower me on my own turf.
My knee slams viciously into that bloated gut, momentarily driving the wind from his lungs with a wheezy gasp. I seize the opening, raining down a barrage of punishing blows to his fleshy face and throat. Each sickening impact of knuckles on flesh fuels my mounting fury.
The big man's hands latch around my wrists with a grip like iron shackles, his face purpling as he sucks in a desperate wheezing breath. "Gonna... gut you... real slow... boy..."
He bucks with the strength of a raging bull, those thick arms pistoning as he flings my smaller frame off him with surprising agility. I hit the ground hard, the air exploding from my lungs with a harsh wheeze as my skull bounces off a rock with a dull crack.
Through the haze of dizzying pain, I see that bloated silhouette looming over me, a malicious chuckle rumbling from his chest as he scoops up the discarded revolver in one beefy paw.
