Page 3 of Ranger Devotion

TWO

The cry for help carried across the parking lot.

Texas Ranger Tate Atwood dropped his duffel. It hit the gravel with a thud. He reached for his concealed weapon. Off-duty or not, he never left the house without it.

He scanned the poorly lit parking lot, his footsteps swift and silent. Deep shadows pooled between the vehicles. An icy wind swept across his face and down the back of his jacket. The main lodge glowed in the distance, the strings of Christmas lights hanging from the rafters the only color in the darkness pressing all around him. Loose rocks shifted under his cowboy boots.

There! Movement between the rows of vehicles. A figure in black crouched over something on the ground.

“Police!” Tate raised his handgun. “Freeze!”

The figure jerked upright, head swiveling in Tate’s direction. For a heartbeat, they stood locked in a standoff. Then the attacker bolted, darting between cars toward the tree line that bordered the property.

Tate hesitated, torn between pursuit and aiding the victim. A pained moan from the ground made the decision for him. A woman struggled to push herself up, one hand pressed to her head. The sleeve of her jacket was shredded.

He eased closer, searching for additional threats. “Ma’am, stay still. I’m a Texas Ranger. You’re injured⁠—”

She lifted her head, and the last of his sentence died on his lips as the weak light illuminated her features. Golden hair framed a face he’d never forgotten. Green eyes, once hidden behind thick glasses, now stared up at him, wide with pain and shock. A thin trickle of blood ran from her temple down to her chin.

Annie Jacobson. The girl he’d wronged. The mistake that’d haunted him for twenty years.

Her eyes widened with recognition, then hardened. Even dizzy and injured, the flash of hurt and anger in her gaze was unmistakable. “Tate.” She schooled her features and braced her uninjured arm against the SUV next to her.

Tate holstered his weapon and reached out to help, but she waved him off.

He stepped back. “You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine.” She glanced behind her. “He got away?”

“Yes.”

She straightened, keeping one hand on the SUV. A lump was already rising near her temple, and blood coated the side of her face. Tate resisted the urge to steady her. Instead, he bent down and collected the laptop bag and cell phone from the ground. The phone’s screen was shattered.

Had the attacker been trying to rob her? Oakwood had little crime, but unfortunately, addiction was a problem everywhere. Someone in need of cash to buy their next fix would do just about anything.

A drizzle began to fall. Tate frowned. “Let’s go inside. I’ll call for an ambulance and the police.”

“I don’t need an ambulance.” Annie pushed away from the SUV and took a step. Her legs buckled.

Tate caught her before she went down. Alarm shot through him. “Okay. I’ve got you.” Annie’s head lolled onto his shoulder, her breath warm against his neck. The faint scent of vanilla drifted from her hair. “You’re moving too fast, given the head injury.” He kept an arm wrapped securely around her waist. “Think you can walk to the main lodge?”

“No, not there. I don’t want to cause a scene.” She gestured weakly toward the west side of the parking lot. “My house is about thirty yards down that path.”

“Okay.”

Tate followed the trail through a small copse of trees to a one-story ranch house with a wide front porch. A creek bubbled nearby, invisible in the dark. Annie pressed a finger to the automatic lock, and it clicked open. A small lamp lit the foyer. She veered left and entered a hallway that led to a bathroom. Tate set the shattered cell phone and laptop bag on the table in the kitchen nook before following her.

Annie’s hand trembled as she dragged a washcloth across her face to clean away the blood. “I hit my head on the fender of the SUV when he attacked me. Saw stars.”

“You might have a concussion.” Tate took the washcloth from her hand before steering her toward the edge of the bathtub. “Sit.” He ran warm water over the cloth, wrung it out, and then gently wiped at the cut near her hairline.

As he worked, his gaze fell on a small cross necklace at her throat. The same one she’d worn in high school. A family heirloom from her grandmother. Some things hadn’t changed. The thought was oddly comforting.

He assessed the goose egg. Along with the head injury, blood stained the sleeve of her jacket. “You need an ice pack. Do you have a first-aid kit?”

“Under the sink, but for an ice pack I’ll need to get a bag of frozen veggies from the kitchen.”

“Sit right there. I’ll do it.” He tossed the bloody washcloth into the sink. “Take off your coat if you can. I’ll be right back.”