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The group of survivors worked at gathering food and water, sharing uneasy glances and whispers. Pierce counted fifteen of them—four of which were kids, a few were teenagers, and the older couple had to be in their seventies and looked frail. Theywere all shell-shocked, their skin dusted with a fine layer of debris and eyes showing too much white with fear.
Counting Rhiannon and himself, that made seventeen survivors. Way too many for the space they had to work with.
He motioned for Rhiannon and a few others to follow as he strode over to the remnants of the camping supplies section in the back corner of the shop. He hadn’t expected to find much in this tourist trap, but the camp stove Dottie had mentioned would help. And although he didn’t think they’d run out of water or food any time soon—there was a robust food and snack section, taking up the entire right side of the store—but it wouldn’t hurt to be prepared with the filters and purification tablets. If the aftershocks continued, who knew what else could collapse, trapping them in deeper or blocking off vital supplies.
Rhiannon quietly translated his instructions for the group as he pointed to the items they needed to gather: propane tanks, water filters, sleeping bags, anything else that could help them survive. Then they got to work.
As he pried a camp stove from the debris and handed it to Rhiannon, he noticed Dean hovering near the back hallway by the bathrooms. The guy was too twitchy, too aggressive, too angry. A wildcard.
Still, Pierce couldn’t afford to focus all his attention on one potential problem. His mind was already stretched thin as it was. Every few minutes, he found his gaze eyes drawn back toward the front of the store. He couldn’t see the smoke rising beyond the mountains from here, but he knew it was there, and the gnawing sense of unease grew sharper with each passing second.
He’d left his team.
He’d run instead of opening up to them, and now they were out there with no clue as to what they were facing. He’d thoughthe was protecting them by leaving, by keeping them in the dark, but he’d only put them in more danger.
Because he hadn’t wanted to tell them what he was.
What he’d done.
Fuck.
He forced himself to look away from the front windows, and his gaze was inevitably drawn to the other thing he couldn’t ignore— Rhiannon. He appreciated the way she moved through the space. Efficiently, calmly, and with purpose, offering comforting smiles or reassuring words to those who needed it. She hadn’t panicked once since this ordeal began. It was rare to find someone with her composure in a situation like this.
She caught him staring and smiled as she crossed to him. She handed him a bottle of water they’d scavenged. “Thirsty?”
“Thank you.”His fingers brushed against hers as he took it from her, and a jolt of awareness passed through him, a thrill of connection that momentarily distracted him from everything else.
He watched her as she turned back to continue scavenging, her hair falling in a cascade of chocolate and caramel over her shoulders. It was mesmerizing, just like the woman herself.
Focus, dumbass.
He needed to be sharp, couldn’t afford to let emotion cloud his thinking—but he also couldn’t ignore the warmth that spread through his chest whenever Rhiannon was near.
Stupid.
Cursing at himself, he twisted off the cap of the water. His throat was as dry as cotton, and his mouth tasted of dust. He took several deep gulps, draining half the bottle in one breath.
Rhiannon smiled at him. “Easy, big guy. I know you said we don’t need to conserve water, but throwing it back like a shot of whiskey isn’t necessary, either.”
His lips twitched as he put the cap back on and tucked the bottle into the leg pocket of his cargo pants.“That was at least a quadruple shot.”
Her eyebrows winged up. “Yeah? Have you done many quadruple shots?“
He felt his smile fade. There was a time he wouldn’t have blinked an eye at that much liquor. Hell, he’d drank at least that much just to peel himself out of bed in the mornings. But those days were long behind him, he reminded himself. He was different now. His dog and his team had made sure of it.
“Big whiskey drinker, are you?” Rhiannon asked, unaware of the dark turn of his thoughts.
“Used to be.”He needed to change the subject, and his gaze drifted back to their group. The murmur of voices and clanking of supplies gave some semblance of normalcy. They were working well together now, but would it last? The longer this situation went on, the higher tensions would rise, and the less cooperative people would become.“What do you think? Do they seem stable enough?”
Rhiannon watched the others, her expression thoughtful. “For now, they’re keeping busy, and that’s what we need. You were right to give everyone a task. But Dean…” She trailed off, and Pierce knew exactly what she was thinking.
“Yeah. I know. Don’t trust him.”
She sighed softly. “I don’t. He’s freaking Brooke out. And, honestly, me too. He keeps up all the sulking and pacing, and he’s going to start a panic.”
Pierce’s jaw tightened. He glanced back toward Dean, who was zipping up a backpack with an angry yank. The guy probably thought he could hoard supplies for himself.
That was not going to happen on Pierce’s watch.
