Page 4

Three

Colt

I park a block from the bar, kill the engine on my cruiser, and crack the window. She hasn’t even made it inside yet, and I’m already keyed up like I ran ten miles uphill.

She steps out of Logan’s car in that damn outfit. Baby blue tank top, denim skirt knee-length, thank God, and her hair is down.

My brain is on fire because everyone in that bar is about to see what should only be mine. She laughs at something one of her friends says, bounces once, her fucking tits jiggle and I damn near break the steering wheel in half.

I know she’s not with Logan like that. Not his type. No woman is. I know. I fucking know . Still don’t like him near her. If he so much as glances at her the wrong way, I’ll remind him I don’t need a badge to shoot him.

Outside my car, I nod to a couple locals that recognize me making my way to the back door where Murry Wetmore is standing, smoking a cigarette.

“Sheriff? Problem?” He’s owned this place for a decade. Good guy. Runs a pretty clean operation.

“I hope not.” I pause for a second, hands on the thick leather of my service belt, the cool steel of my sidearm pressing into my wrist. “Just gonna keep an eye on someone inside.”

He scratches his forehead but waves me through the back door.

“Mi casa es su casa. Lemme know if you need anything.”

I give him another nod before I disappear inside, wind my way through the back hall then out into the main bar area, tucking into a shadowed corner in the back, watching.

The place is classic small-town chaos. String lights and off-key singing, sticky floors and overpoured drinks. I melt into the wall. She doesn’t see me—but I see everything.

Room’s pretty busy tonight. I spot my deputy sitting a few tables over, but he doesn’t see me. Just as well, since he’d be asking questions about where I was all day, and that’s a conversation I don’t want to get into right now.

Her eyes scan the crowd. She’s nervous. Excited. She’s holding a drink she’s not even sipping. When someone calls her name, she blushes and tries to play it off, but her feet are already moving.

She’s gonna sing.

My chest tightens.

She steps up on that stage. Small. Brave. Gripping the mic like it might anchor her.

Then she opens her mouth, and the world tilts.

It’s not polished. It’s not rehearsed. But hell, it doesn’t need to be. Her voice is raw honey—smooth, aching, and soaked in something I shouldn’t hear in public. My hand clenches the edge of the table to keep myself from storming up there and throwing her over my shoulder.

Men are watching. I can feel their stares, their thoughts, and it makes something old and animal twist in my gut.

Then some asshole makes it worse.

"Big girl’s got lungs, huh? Wonder what else she’s got."

Quiet. But not quiet enough.

I’m already rising when she beats me to it.

She turns and launches her drink with perfect, furious aim. Ice and gin spray across the guy’s chest. He lurches up, red and pissed.

"Watch it, bitch."

I move.

Logan’s getting up, but I’m faster. One fist in the guy’s collar, I shove him against the wall before he knows what hit him.

"Say it again," I growl. "I fuckin’ dare you."

He puffs his chest like he wants to square up, and I meet him head-on. My forearm slams into his throat, pinning him to the wall hard enough to rattle the photos nailed behind him.

"You just disrespected a woman in front of a sheriff, you dumb bastard," I grit out, close enough he can smell the fury coming off me. "Want to see what happens next?"

He grunts, tries to shove me off—bad fucking idea. I yank his arm behind his back and twist until he lets out a sharp yell. The room drops to a hush, everyone frozen like they’re watching a live-action barroom brawl on pay-per-view.

"Still think you're tough? Keep talking. I’ll cuff you and carry you out over my shoulder."

I jerk his wallet from his back pocket and toss it to my deputy, who’s staring at me open-mouthed.

"Run him."

"Colt—" Emery’s voice cuts through the haze. Tight. Breathing fast.

I look at her. She’s flushed, shaking, still lit up from the stage.

"Out. Now."

She freezes, still breathing hard, her eyes flaring with defiance. I see the fire in her, the part that wants to push me, test how far she can go.

"Don’t," I say, dropping the guy and leaving him to my deputy as I step toward her, my voice a warning wrapped in steel. "Don’t make me arrest you too, baby girl. Because I won’t be nice about it. I won’t cuff you gently, and I sure as hell won’t let you forget how it feels."

“Arrest me for what ?” she demands, defiance flaring in her eyes, and goddamn it if that hint of the brat underneath doesn’t make my cock swell.

“Assault,” I say, glancing at the fucker giving my deputy a hard time, along with a buddy who’s clearly had one glass too many.

Deputy Gerrard might not look like much, but they cause him any trouble they’re going to find out real quick how well he handles a situation.

I turn back to Emery. “Can’t go tossing drinks at people in my town, babygirl. ”

That hits. She swallows hard. Her chin tips up like she’s about to throw something back—then she catches my eyes again and thinks better of it. Turns on her heel and storms toward the door, hips swinging like a dare.

I cut my gaze to Logan. "Get her out of here. Take her home. Make sure she locks the damn door behind her."

He opens his mouth like he’s going to argue, but I shut it with a look.

"Not a request. Don’t let anyone near her."

He nods and takes off after her.

Smart girl. Smarter friend.

I don’t follow. Not yet. Because if I move now, I’m dragging her out of here with my jacket over her ass and my hand around her throat.

And she’s not ready for that.

Not yet.

I head over to my deputy, and the look in his eyes tells me it’s going to be a long night.

Turns out both the asshole who mouthed off and his buddy have priors.

Parolees. Outstanding warrants. Real prize winners.

Which means I don’t get to storm off into the night and track her down like I want to.

I have to haul them in, do the reports, babysit while they’re booked.

Red tape and procedure. All of it feels like punishment for letting her walk away.

By the time I’m done, it’s late. Real late.

I drive by her house on the way home. Lights out. Logan did his job. No sign of anyone else. I leave the engine running and get out.

I hoist the case of bottled water on my shoulder, two bags of protein bars and some other mountain safe supplies and walk to her minivan.

Not locked. Fucking girl has no self-preservation skills. Even here in Wildfire, she needs to be safe, but that lecture will come later.

I put the supplies in the back, but I can't walk away. I ease the hatch closed and walk around to the driver’s door and open it as the crickets chirp like they are calling me out.

"Shut up," I growl, just holding her door open, fighting off the insanity that's going on in my head.

Don't do it, Colt Boone.

Too late, under the dead of night, my dick is out, hard as iron nails.

I reach over and pop a tissue from the box between her front seats, my heart about to come through my chest wall, but it only takes three strokes before I’m gritting out her name between my teeth, spurting into the thin tissue, cleaning off my dick and putting my crazy ass cock away.

I fold up the tissue as small as possible on a sniff and a growl, set it on her seat, then grab my knife from the sheath on my hip, flip it open, and sorry baby, I jimmy it under the trim on the heating and cooling vent next to the steering wheel.

In thirty seconds, I’ve got it all back in place, the tissue hidden in the vent, turning the little plastic louvers so it will blow right at her face when she gets in tomorrow.

“I’ll be with you whether you know it or not.” I close the door. “Get used to my scent, baby, you’ll be wearing it very soon.”

Then I get back in my truck and pull away.

I wait until I’m halfway up the mountain before I text her.

Me: Daddy says you handled yourself tonight. But next time, you come to me first. No exceptions.