Page 301 of Silent Target

God, I love this man.

At the lookout, the trees suddenly fall away and the whole valley opens beneath us, Wildwood tucked among the trees, with the lake a sheet of blue between the mountains.

I turn to Holt. He’s making absolutely no attempt to check his imaginary supply cache. Instead, he stands very still.

“Holt?”

He whistles.

Six trots toward me and sits directly in front of my boots, chest out, tail thumping against the dirt. I look at the pouch, then at Holt.

My heart starts hammering.

“No.”

His mouth twitches.

“No,” I whisper, already smiling so hard my cheeks hurt.

Six nudges my knee.

“You traitor.”

His tail thumps harder.

My fingers shake as I open the little pouch and find a ring inside. It’s a sapphire, deep blue, the color of the lake when the sun disappears behind the ridge. It sits in an old-fashioned setting, delicate and beautiful and nothing like anything my father would have chosen for me.

I love it instantly. Then I look at Holt and forget about the ring.

Because Holt is on one knee.

My Holt. My enormous mountain man who once stared down Corbin Vance without so much as raising his voice is kneeling in the dirt, and his hands are shaking.

“Holt.”

His silver eyes meet mine, and everything inside me melts.

“Come here,” I whisper.

A rough laugh escapes him. “Not how this works, sweetheart.”

“I don’t care.”

“I know.” His voice goes softer. “Let me do this.”

So I stand still. Barely.

His jaw works once, then twice. “Twenty years, I stood outside other people’s lives. Doors. Hallways. Parking garages. Hotel rooms. Airports. Watching other men come home to somebody. Told myself the outside was where I belonged.”

My eyes burn.

“And then you walked into my headlights wearing a ruined wedding dress.” A laugh catches in my throat, and his mouth lifts. “And you looked at me like I could be something other than the man standing outside the door.”

“Holt.”

“You walked straight into my house and started rearranging things.”

“I bought some cushions.”