Page 23 of Her Mountain Man Protector

"How clean's the frame?" I ask.

"Clean enough that I'm done calling it a maybe. Sin's running plates on a dark SUV that passed the overlook lot an hour after the cam tripped. I'm two states out. I can't put boots on it before night. You can."

"I have a civilian in the house."

"Then leave her in the house."

Oakley's chin comes up. I already know what she's going to say. I say it first, to Nash, so she doesn't have to fight me in front of a speaker.

"I'm taking her with me. Daylight. Public trail. Picnic. We play tourist with too much coffee. I walk the ground where he was. She keeps her camera down until I say otherwise."

Silence on the line. Then Nash laughs once, short and disbelieving. "A picnic. You've lost your damn mind."

"I've lost three months of cold trail. If he's here, I need eyes on the dirt, not another still frame. I'll be careful."

"You better be. Helix doesn't picnic. Call me when you're off the path. And Colt. If it is him, something bigger is going on. Because he was taken in Sunbreak, and now we’re spotting him on the run? Something isn’t adding up."

"Copy."

I hang up. Oakley’s already moving, pulling her hoodie on over the borrowed shirt, that bright, restless energy taking the kitchen without asking.

"A picnic," she says. "At the falls?"

"The overlook lot has hikers. Witnesses. A man who matches my father was on the lower path at dawn. I need to see the area. Maybe even prints. You're safer where I can reach you than sitting here inventing ways to open the gate."

"That almost counted as wanting me there."

"That counted as not trusting you with a quiet house. Pack the rest of the muffins. Leave the yellow jacket. Camera stays in the bag until I tell you."

"You're very romantic when you're issuing decrees."

"I'm very alive when I'm issuing decrees. Get your boots."

She gets her boots. She packs muffins in foil with ceremony. I check the pistol and the gate cam on my phone. The ugly driveway looks empty. I hate taking her into the open. I hate leaving her more.

The drive down toward the falls is short and steep. Fog has burned off the water to a thin film, and the overlook lot holds two sedans and a van with kayaks on the roof. Families. A couple arguing about a map. Nobody in a dark jacket who hasn't touched his coffee.

I park at the far end and sit for a full minute, watching the lot and her hands on the foil packet in her lap.

"If I say down, you get down," I tell her. "If I say run, you run to the lot and you start the truck. You don't wait to see what I'm doing."

"We've done down. I'm excellent at down."

"Oakley."

"Colt." She tips her head, curls brushing that bountiful, irritating mouth of hers. "I heard Nash. I heard Marin. I heard you decide I was coming before I asked. I'm here. I'm careful. I'm also hungry, so at some point the picnic part has to be real or I'm going to start photographing you out of spite."

"Camera stays in the bag."

"Until you say otherwise. I speak fluent grumpy."

We take the public path, the one with the rail and the signs about slippery rock. I put her on my left, away from the drop. The falls throw white water into the air and a constant low roar that covers too much. Bad for listening. Good for not being overheard. I hate the trade.

Halfway down I find what Nash paid for. A print in the damp shoulder of the trail, long and deep, a man's boot with a worn outside heel. Same size I remember from a garage floor fifteen years ago, when Dad used to come in from the shop and leave that exact lean in the dust.

I crouch. Oakley crouches with me, close enough that her shoulder brushes mine, close enough that I feel the heat of her through two layers of cotton.

"That's him?" she asks, quiet now.