Wyoming Cowboy Marine

“What could they want?”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head and scowled, reaching behind the monitors and turning them off. She grabbed a tarp-looking thing off the floor and threw it across the screens. “We’ll hide for now.”

“Hide?”

“Well, I’m not going to shoot them.”

“You shot me.”

“Accidentally,” she said, striding into the closet again. She ordered the dog to come and it obeyed. Then she looked expectantly at him.

“What do we accomplish if we hide?”

“Maybe we hear something they say. Maybe they take something and we know what. Maybe—”

A cracking sound echoed through the cabin, as though the people outside had broken something on the door. Cam quickly grabbed his phone out of his pocket and brought up the voice-recording app. He placed the phone on the floor, under the desk.

It wouldn’t pick up anything unless someone came into this room and talked, but it was worth a shot. He heard the slow creak of a door opening and slid into the closet with the woman and the dog.

She pulled the door closed. It was a small closet, but it was obvious a lot of the space was taken up by a false wall and the array of weapons the woman was now covering up with some kind of panel that fit perfectly into the opening.

Cam was having a harder and harder time believing she was some innocent bystander. Who lived in a shack with this kind of hidden weaponry, an array of surveillance, and people missing and breaking in? Because if she wasn’t involved, surely she’d be more than mildly perplexed.

He couldn’t hear anything outside the closet except random muffled noises, but he wasn’t unused to waiting in still silence, unable to move or talk no matter the cramped, uncomfortable circumstances. He knew how to control his breathing and avoid panic. This was all part and parcel with what his adult life had been.

He was a former Marine. He could stand quiet in a closet for a little while.

There was the small and unusual factor of having to do it with a civilian woman he wasn’t sure whether to trust or suspect, though.

He couldn’t make her out in the dark space, but he could hear the soft inhale and exhale of her breath, could occasionally feel the faintest brush of her arm or leg or the dog’s.

The closet smelled of the tangy hint of mothballs, and the dog clearly hadn’t had a bath in a while, but cutting through those disparate smells was her. Wood smoke and leather.

Rough, outdoorsy smells, but her hair kept wisping across his cheek, soft as a feather.

He didn’t care for the fissure of unease that spidered along his skin. Something was wrong. She was wrong. Everything about the situation told him she was not what she said she was.

And yet, he believed in her. Felt better served keeping her safe in here rather than engaging with the strange men who’d broken into her house. Regardless of what she wasn’t telling him, what the truth was underneath all this confusion, he couldn’t help but believe this woman was a victim of...something. That was what his gut told him.

Except she wouldn’t even tell him her name. He’d accepted that when they’d been outside and he’d been trying to gain her trust, but her giving him a gun changed things. It meant he had some power—he’d be loath to use—and it signaled her trust was building. You could at least tell me your name, he thought.

But before he could ponder further, the low sound of murmuring voices infiltrated the closet. The woman moved into a crouch, and Cam realized she was doing something to keep the dog from growling or barking.

Cam held himself still, straining to make out what the voices were saying. He couldn’t, but he had to hope that if he could hear a murmur in the closet, his phone was picking up actual voices.

Cam had no idea how long they stood there, quiet and trying to breathe carefully and silently. The voices disappeared, but the occasional creak or groan of the house kept them in place. They couldn’t leave the closet until they were sure the men had gone, and every time he got close to suggesting they ease their way out, a new sound was heard.

He couldn’t figure out the sounds he heard now. Almost like water pouring, the occasional snap that sounded like someone stepping on a twig. It was a shame they couldn’t have brought her extensive security monitors in here with them.

Something acrid tinged the air, and it only took him a moment to recognize the odor. Cam swore and began to feel around for the doorknob.

“What are you doing?” she whispered.

“Smell that?”

“Smoke, but... Oh my God. You don’t think—”

“Where there’s smoke, there’s fire,” Cam said grimly, trying to find the knob in the dark. “We have to get out of here. Now.”

* * *

CAMERON HELD HER back as he struggled to open the door. She was about to tell him to back off when the door swung out. Then all she saw were flames. Huge red flames licking up the walls of her father’s bedroom.

Her mind went completely blank for a moment, and she just stood there staring at the horrible sight in front of her. The flames danced and moved and took over more and more space. The smell and smoke stung her eyes and nose, and her throat began to burn.

And still she stood in the closet, even as she realized the buzzing in her ears wasn’t a side effect of shock, but the actual sound of fire eating through wood.

It took her a few seconds to realize Cameron had moved. As if nothing was on fire, as if this was completely normal. He walked right across the room to the small window and used the butt of the gun she’d handed him to break it.

He held his arm over his mouth and quickly and efficiently pushed as much glass off the edges as possible. Then he grabbed the linens off her dad’s bed and threw them over the windowsill.

He looked back at her, and something about the way he just seemed to know what to do reengaged her brain.

“Grab the dog,” he commanded.

Her eyes were stinging so badly she could barely see through the painful tears, but she crouched down and wrapped her arms around Free. It wouldn’t be easy with Free’s weight and size, but she whispered calmly into the animal’s ear as she hefted her up and struggled toward the window.

Cameron’s arm brushed hers as he reached around Free and helped to lift her high enough so they could give her a gentle toss out the window. She landed on all fours and immediately began barking incessantly.

“Now you,” Cameron said, and his firm, calm tone steadied her. “Be careful. I cleared it as best I could and the sheets should keep you from getting any cuts but don’t put undue pressure anywhere.”

She nodded and leveraged herself out the window. It was awkward and painful, but she managed to tumble to the ground without any major injury. Free rushed over, licking her face and whimpering. Hilly got to her feet, petting the dog in the process. She looked at the house, completely engulfed in flame, and couldn’t begin to wrap her head around what was happening.

But one thing she could wrap her head around was the fact Cameron hadn’t climbed out after her. She rushed toward the broken window. “What are you doing?” she yelled as Cameron moved deeper into the room.

“I’ve got to get my phone.”

“Are you stupid?”

“Keep an eye out. Whoever started the fire might still be around,” he instructed, getting down on his hands and knees and disappearing into smoke and flames.

Free whined from her position away from the flames and the heat and Hilly knew she should move back and away. She could feel the rawness in her throat from too much smoke, and nausea was curling itself in her belly.

Cameron was in there, the biggest moron to ever live, but a moron who’d gotten her and her dog out of a burning building first.

She wasn’t about to risk her neck for a phone, but she couldn’t convince her body to move away from the window where smoke billowed out. What was he doing? What if he died in there? Some kind of idiot who thought he was impervious to fire.

But then he was climbing out the window, pulling her with him as he moved away from the flames and smoke. The area around the cabin was completely filled with smoke so it took a while to reach fresher air.

His cough sounded tight and terribly wheezy, but he held up the phone as if he’d won some prize. Free whined at his heels as they walked and walked until the air was more clear than smokey.

He held the phone out to her.

“Dial 911,” he rasped.

She blinked at the phone he’d shoved into her hand. Dad had one, but she’d never been able to use it. A real woman doesn’t have any use for a phone or the outside world. Her home is her domain. Everything out there is a threat.

Cam coughed some more, but Hilly could only stare helplessly at the screen. There was only one button on the contraption and it didn’t seem to do anything.

“Cam, I...”

The quizzical look he gave her made her stomach churn almost as much as the nauseating smell of smoke. He was bent over and struggling to breathe, his hands on his knees, and she didn’t know how to do what he asked.

He took the phone back and poked his fingers against the screen. It seemed to do what he wanted and he stood to his full height, holding the phone to his ear.

“Uncontained fire,” he said in that military voice, commanding even with the hoarseness from smoke inhalation. “I don’t have an address, but I can explain somewhat where we are.” He gave pretty clear directions in that strained voice, not coughing until he’d hung up the phone.

“You don’t know how to use a phone,” he said.

“We don’t...believe in phones.” Which wasn’t true exactly, but it seemed less embarrassing than saying she wasn’t allowed to use them. She was a grown woman, and as much as she didn’t understand that world out there, she’d seen enough in that police precinct to know women used phones and likely did whatever they wanted.

That was the danger in it, after all.

“I’m going to call Laurel.” He coughed again, and it still sounded awful even if his breathing had eased somewhat. “We’ll wait for the fire department.” He surveyed the fire charring and melting her home of the past nearly twenty years into nothing. Provisions, money, equipment. Everything she’d ever owned, everything she’d ever known. Gone.

It was a large clearing, and the conditions weren’t dry, the ground a muddy wet from the spring thaw, but Hilly knew enough to know a fire like this could get out of control anyway. Her home might not be all that went up.

She only realized she was shaking when Cam took her by the arm. His hand was big and gentle. Even though his grip was firm it was very careful.

The shaking intensified, like she’d been shoved into icy water. Her teeth were even chattering and suddenly she did feel cold. Cold and sick.

“Sit.”

She looked up at him helplessly, but he nudged her leg until it buckled a little. She didn’t fall exactly, because he was holding on to her arm. It was almost as if he had the strength to simply lower her to the ground like that.

“Sit. Breathe. It’s okay to feel off. You’re in shock.”

“Shock,” she repeated. Free whined and crawled into her lap, muddy and shaking a little herself. There was some kind of relief in that, and she leaned into Free’s truly awful-smelling fur and did what Cam told her to do. She sat. She breathed. All the while he talked into his phone in low, raspy tones. She didn’t even try to make out the words.

She should try to hear. She had to protect herself. Protect Dad.

But her house was on fire. Their life was on fire and Dad was missing and all that was left were the clothes on her back and Free. She’d even left Dad’s weapons in there. He’d be so mad. So mad.

“Hey.” Cam was crouching at eye level, sympathy softening his features so much he almost didn’t look dangerous. He almost didn’t look like a stranger. For a blinding second she could almost believe he was a friend.

Don’t be stupid, Hilly.

“It would help a lot if I knew your name.”

She shook her head, and had to close her eyes against the flash of anger in his. But he didn’t lash out. He didn’t yell and he didn’t hurt her. He rose. “Can you walk?”

She swallowed and dared to look up at him. He stood there, arms crossed over his chest, a serious, determined expression on his face. Whatever anger or irritation had been there was gone now.

“I can walk,” she managed. She nudged Free off her lap and got to her feet. He wrapped his hand around her arm again when she swayed.

It was strange. Her arm tingled like there was something chemical in the contact, but her shirt was long-sleeved so they weren’t touching skin to skin.

Skin to skin. How...odd.

Once she was steady, he let her go and began to make his way through the trees in a slow circle around the house that still blazed and smoked. “We’ll see if we can see anything. A clue as to who did this. We might get some footprints. The fire department should be here soon, and once we’ve talked to them and know we won’t be interrupted we’ll listen to what I recorded.”

“Do you really think your phone picked up any—”

He stopped on a dime near the front of the house, so quickly she almost ran into his back. He frowned at the now-familiar sight of burning building, and that was when Hilly saw it.

Spray-painted haphazardly in the muddy grass of the front yard was one word.

Confess.

She could practically feel Cam’s suspicion sliding over her and weighing her down. But she had nothing to confess. She’d committed no crimes. She’d barely ever left this cabin or clearing since she’d moved here when she was a little girl. Whatever this was, it wasn’t anything to do with her.

“I don’t have anything to confess. I can’t even think of one possible thing.”

“You’re not the only one who lives here, though.”

“You think this is for my father?” But, of course it had to be. She wanted to believe it was a mistake, but... Dad had disappeared. Someone wanted him to confess. “It has to be a mistake.”

She hated the pitying expression on Cameron’s face. He thought she was stupid. She wasn’t. She knew it could only be about Dad. But it didn’t mean it had to be right about Dad. And it didn’t mean she had to...

“It’s fine. Believe whatever you want. Don’t tell me your name or his name. That’s your choice. I can’t help you the way I’d like, but it’s your choice.”

Help you.

No one ever wanted to help her. She existed to help Dad, not the other way around. But Dad was gone. Home was gone. And this man wanted to help her, or at least said he did.

“My name’s Hilly,” she whispered.

“Hilly.” He searched her face, and she knew she’d regret this at some point. Dad’s words would turn out to be right. You couldn’t trust anyone, and strangers would only hurt you.

But, God, she didn’t know what else to do right now. She had to trust Cam’s kind eyes. This man who knew what to do in a crisis. “My name is Hilly Adams.”

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