No Gentle Giant (A Small Town Romance)

Even Leo tensed, talking about the carnivorous glee in Fuchsia’s voice when she relayed her efforts. He stressed how the lady’s technically retired, living a new quiet life at an undisclosed location, but people like her never retire their instincts.

Once a hunter, always a hunter.

And I’m wondering if Gavin’s really the upstanding do-right he’s been pretending to be—or if there’s something about that old mine shaft that brings up memories best left to die.

He shakes himself from his daze and turns his attention back to the cement mixer.

I whip my eyes away, back to hauling dry cement sacks, hopefully before he noticed I was watching him.

Fuck, I’m probably being too paranoid. Call it restlessness when all I can do for Fliss’ situation is wait.

Only, ever since Katelyn, I’ve learned to trust my senses like they’re divine.

Right now, they’re oracles speaking loud and clear.

Something’s not right.

I try to put it out of my mind, though, as I focus on pushing through today’s job.

By the time the sun’s slipping down the horizon, we’ve made good progress. Tomorrow we can probably put more serious work into sinking some rebar. Everyone’s a sweaty, grimy mess, but we’re all satisfied with ourselves as we stow our equipment and lock things down for the night.

I’m just getting ready to go hose off so I don’t leave construction grime on the seat at the bar when my name echoes over the worksite.

Holt—and there’s something in his voice that has me on high alert in an instant, hackles rising sharply.

He comes bolting out of his trailer-slash-office, running so fast that he leaves the door swinging open.

I lift my head as he jogs toward me, his entire body tight, his face hard.

My oracle lunges up and punches me in the gut.

Something’s very wrong.

I’m racing to meet him, calling out before I even close the distance.

“Yo, boss? What happened?”

“Eli,” he gasps, stumbling to a halt in front of me. My heart rips, an arrow of solid dread piercing my chest. “Warren called, man. You weren’t answering your phone. Eli—Eli and Tara went for a walk, and they never came back. They’re missing, Alaska. They’re gone.”

Gone.

Just four tiny letters.

The worst fucking word I’ve ever heard in my life.

I’ve been cursing myself for hours, on the verge of smashing my fists bloody on whatever I can find, but that won’t bring back my son.

It’s a waste of time. I can’t even work out the rage, the fear, the desperation like my body craves.

I typically leave my phone in the portable lockers when we’re pouring cement so it doesn’t end up inside a permanent brick, but right now it feels like the biggest damned mistake I’ve ever made in my life.

That mistake cost me precious minutes, and they might be the difference between finding Eli—or finding him dead.

It’s pitch-black out now, but the night’s crawling with crisscrossing beams of flashlights moving through the woods around Heart’s Edge.

Me, the town’s handful of Podunk cops, and tons of well-meaning townies all join the search.

We fan out in a search grid, sweeping the area where Eli and Tara took off for their hike. Warren leads another search party, the guilt on his face palpable, even though it’s not his fault.

He couldn’t have known they wouldn’t come back. They always did before. They’re both good kids who respect the rules and should know the trails twisting out from the inn like the backs of their own hands.

We’ve been over miles of forest already, and every time I loop back around for another sweep, taking a different weaving path through the trees, the blackness oozing from my heart gets darker and heavier and me just a little angrier, a little weaker.

He’s not here.

He’s not fucking here!

There’s a sick certainty inside me that he’s not here because he didn’t get lost—he was taken. Right along with the Fords’ niece.

That woman, that monster, out for revenge after I’d pinned her, humiliated her, threatened her, ran her off. She found out who I am, and she came for the most precious thing in the world.

Shit.

I stop just short of backhanding myself across the face.

I can’t think that without any proof.

And I can’t give up.

My legs ache. My arms and face are scratched by brush. My breaths come in rasps and my throat feels as scorched as the Sahara, but I won’t quit.

No matter how shitty I feel, Eli’s got to be feeling ten times worse—hungry, dehydrated, scared in the dark, possibly injured.

I can’t rest.

I can’t quit on my son.

Deeper I forge into the woods, almost tripping over a fallen branch—then stumbling into a tree trunk.

My vision reddens for a hot moment, but I shake my head, force myself upright, reel to the other side—and stumble into another tree.

“Fuck!” I belt out, about to punch it for good measure when that tree moves.