Savaged

“Okay, well, I’ll just”—she pulled the door open, the arctic air causing an immediate shiver—“be back in the morning. How early?”

“First sunlight.”

First sunlight. “Okay.” She grabbed her rifle and turned back once more before pulling the door to close it behind her. “I’ll bring coffee.”

His brows lowered and she suddenly felt stupid. “Do you drink coffee?”

“Sure.”

She paused. “All right.” She stepped onto the porch and shut the door, closing her eyes momentarily, feeling like an idiot. But he was going to take her to the place where her parents still rested, the site of that long-ago crash that had stolen the life she was supposed to live. Nerves tingled underneath her skin and she inhaled a big breath of cold air as she climbed into her truck and turned the ignition. Nothing. She tried again, and still, nothing. “Shit,” she groaned, looking up and realizing that in her haste to confront Lucas, she’d not only almost killed a litter of foxes, but she also must have left her truck door very slightly ajar, and therefore, the interior light had been left on. Her battery was old and needed to be replaced, but she’d been putting it off because she couldn’t really afford a new one. And now it was dead. Nice work, Harper.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

She sat there for a minute, considering her options. She needed a jump-start. But it was too late and the weather too bad to call anyone now. She had planned on being back at Lucas’s place at first light anyway, so . . . she’d just sleep in her truck. She was familiar with “roughing it.” It was practically in her job description.

She’d need a blanket though, something other than only her coat to ward off the worst of the night chill. She sighed, resigning herself to knocking on Lucas’s door again.

She trudged through the snow and back up his steps and before she could knock, he was opening the door, obviously having seen her coming from the front window. “Hi.” She attempted a smile but knew it fell flat. She gestured back toward her truck. “Dead battery. No big deal, but do you have an extra blanket I can borrow?”

He glanced to the truck behind her and then to her. “You’re going to sleep out there?”

“In the truck, yes. It’ll be fine. I’m used to sleeping sitting up, anyway . . . ” Her words faded away, she hadn’t meant to say that. She cleared her throat. He regarded her again for a moment in that way that made her feel totally conspicuous, when in actuality, he was the one who was strange.

Right?

He turned, walking slowly to the bed with the mattress on it, grabbing the blanket he obviously used and carrying it back to where she stood. He held it out to her. “Oh . . . no, I couldn’t take your only blanket.”

His brow dipped and he regarded her. “Why?”

“Why? Um, well . . . you’ll be cold.”

“I’m fine. I have a fire.”

She still felt a little guilty, but not guilty enough to freeze to death in her truck in the middle of the woods. “Right. Okay, then. Thank you. I’ll see you at sunrise.” She jogged down the steps and back to her truck where she brought the blanket around her shoulders and body. It smelled like him. Like—she leaned her head forward and inhaled the edge of the thick, scratchy material—mountain air and male skin? No, that sounded like a bad deodorant commercial. She inhaled again, more deeply this time. It was . . . nice, and it caused little flutters in her stomach. It wasn’t soapy, or piney or any of those descriptors she’d usually use for the way a man smelled. It was clean, and she was glad, because she’d initially questioned his hygiene—which in hindsight might have been rude, even if it was only in her own mind—but his scent was clean in a natural way. Like he bathed in a stream, and dried his body in the sun and—

Oh God, shut up, Harper. She dropped the blanket from her nose and leaned her head back against the seat. No wonder I don’t sleep. My damn brain will not turn off.

Also, she was freezing. She tightened the blanket around her, her teeth beginning to chatter. The tip of her nose felt like an ice cube. Her mind turned again to the tiny foxes in the den she’d run over, and her heart stuttered as she thought about how cold they must be, their helpless little bodies covered in snow, ice matted in their fur. Had their mother returned?

Harper got out of her truck and trudged back to the den at the base of a massive pine tree. She turned on the light on her phone and angled it away so it wasn’t shining directly in the den, but so she could still see the small creatures inside.

A quiet growl sounded from within and Harper took a step back, but leaned her head farther forward. Inside the den, the mother lay nursing her babies, snarling softly, a warning not to come any closer. “I won’t,” she whispered. “You’re safe.” She took one last moment to gaze at them, dry and cozy, and then switched off the light, moving away.

Harper couldn’t help the tears that began streaming down her face. She wasn’t sure why the emotion had overcome her so swiftly, but it had, and now she stood there, crying softly in the snow, the dark night engulfing her.

She felt so intensely . . . alone.

“You can sleep inside if you want.”

She whirled toward his voice, turning on her light again. He squinted so she lowered it, swiping at the tears on her cheeks, embarrassed to have been caught crying over a fox den. Embarrassed to have been caught crying at all. How had he snuck up on her like that anyway?

“She came back,” Harper said quietly. She inclined her head toward the den. “The mother.”

He paused for a moment. “Good.”

She shivered again, and he nodded toward her truck. “Bring your gun and sleep inside.” And with that, he turned, heading back to his house, but leaving the door open. It looked warm in there—warm and lit by candlelight. Cozy.

She grabbed the blanket from the truck, pressing her lips together as she considered the rifle. It felt rude to take it inside when he was offering her a warm