Page 21 of Savage Ranger Daddy

He takes the sandwich I hand him. "Your parents know where you are?"

"They know I'm somewhere safe with federal protection. They don't know the details. My dad's a professor, my mom runs a nonprofit. They're good people who have no framework for 'our daughter is hiding in the mountains because she exposed a criminal network.' I call them when I can. Keep it light." I take a bite of my own sandwich and chew. "What about you? Any family that worries?"

"A sister. Younger. She teaches elementary school in Colorado. We talk every couple of weeks." He eats standing up, the way he does everything, efficiently and without ceremony. "She's the only person who still calls me by my full first name when she's angry."

"What's your full first name?"

"Brockton."

"Brockton Savage." I test it out, grinning. "That's somehow even more ridiculous than Brock Savage. Your parents really committed to the whole thing."

"My father was military. Named me like he was filling out a requisition form." His voice is even but I catch the way his jaw shifts, the slight tension that tells me there's something harder underneath. "He was infantry until a back injury sent him home. Didn't handle it well. Took it out on everything within arm's reach."

I go still. He says it matter-of-factly, the way people do when they've processed something enough to state it but not enough to make it painless. I don't push. I just wait.

"Mom worked double shifts to keep us fed. I learned early that if I wanted something done right I had to do it myself. Enlisted at eighteen. Special Forces after that. The mountains always feltmore like home than any house I grew up in." He finishes the sandwich and brushes his hands off. "That's the short version."

"Thank you for the short version." I mean it. "You don't owe me the long one."

He looks at me. Something moves behind his eyes, the careful part making room for something less guarded. "Maybe I'll give you the long one someday. When we're not in the middle of a federal case."

"Deal." I hold up my sandwich in a mock toast. "To someday. And to surviving long enough to get there."

He doesn't smile exactly, but something eases in the set of his shoulders. He picks up both our plates and takes them to the sink. I dry. We stand side by side at the counter the same way we worked side by side at the table all morning, easy and practiced, like we've been doing this longer than four days.

When the dishes are done I lean against the counter and cross my arms. "So. Tomorrow. We drive into territory controlled by a smuggling ring with a corrupt deputy covering their tracks, looking for active weapons caches in the mountains. And our only backup is a sat phone and each other."

"That's about right."

"Great. Very reassuring. Exactly the kind of plan a responsible adult makes." I push off the counter. "I'm going to review the route one more time and prep my go-bag. If we're doing this, I want to be ready."

"Hazel." His voice catches me before I reach the table. I turn. He's standing by the sink, dishtowel over his shoulder, lookingat me with an expression I'm learning to read. Not the guarded professional. Not the conflicted protector. Just the man.

"Tomorrow's going to be a long day," he says. "Tonight we rest. Both of us. Whatever's coming, we face it sharp."

"Agreed." I hold his gaze for a beat longer than necessary. "For the record, I'm glad it's you. Out of all the marshals who could've shown up at that diner, I'm glad it was the one who lets me work the case instead of locking me in a closet."

"Most marshals would've locked you in a closet."

"I know. That's why I'm glad it's you."

We look at each other in the late-afternoon light. The cabin is quiet. The mountains outside are white and still. Tomorrow everything changes. But right now, in this moment between the storm and the fight, there's just the two of us and the quiet certainty that whatever comes next, we'll face it together.

I sit down at the table and open my notebook. He settles onto the couch with the sat phone, monitoring the frequency.

We work in comfortable silence until the light fades and the fire needs feeding, and when we finally sleep, it's with a plan, a target, and something between us that feels less like attraction and more like trust.

11

Brock

The roads are clear by the next afternoon, just like Mason promised.

I spend the morning prepping. Weapons check. Truck inspection. Chains on the tires in case the higher elevations are still iced. I load the emergency kit, top off the fuel from the reserve cans, and mount the sat phone in the center console with the intercepted frequency still set to scan. Hazel watches me work from the porch with her notebook in hand, adding last-minute annotations to the route we mapped yesterday.

When I come back inside to grab the map folder she's standing by the table with her jacket on and her duffel packed.

"No," I say before she opens her mouth.