Page 33 of Huck Frasier (Seals on Fraiser Mountain #5)

Marley

E leven days, seventeen hours, and thirty-two minutes.

That’s how long it had been since I last heard my fiancé’s voice. Not that I was counting. Except I was. I’d also called every member of his team. Zero updates. They all told me the same thing: He’s fine, Marley. He’s Fraiser.

Well, Fraiser or not, I was about three seconds from marching straight into the Ozarks and dragging him home by the ear.

I paced the living room in my old college hoodie and Fraiser’s sweatpants — which barely fit over my belly anymore. Lark sat cross-legged on the couch, trying and failing to keep her face neutral as she watched me stress-eat my fourth pickle.

“Mar, you can’t just—”

“Don’t say it,” I snapped. “If you say I can’t just drive to the Ozarks and find my Navy SEAL fiancé, I will fling this pickle at your head.”

Lark held up her hands in surrender. “Okay. I wasn’t going to say that. How many of those can you eat?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Yes, you were, and as many as I want.”

She bit back a smile. “Fine. I was. Because it’s a terrible idea.”

I grabbed my phone, my car keys, and the only bag I could reach without bending over. It was our old diaper bag that I used for my underclothes. I took it when I graduated from High school. I suppose it was mine and Lark's when we were babies, but desperate times, and so on and so on.

“Marley—”

“Nope. I’m doing this. He promised me he’d be back. He promised me he’d never leave me waiting for him. He promised. And you know what? I’m going to find him, bring him home, and then he’s going to help me pick wedding flowers because I am not deciding between hydrangeas and baby’s breath alone.”

Lark snorted. “You’re hormonal and terrifying.”

I shoved a hoodie and three granola bars into the bag. Then I grabbed a can of pepper spray from the junk drawer — the bright pink one Fraiser once bought me as a joke. “If Fraiser’s in trouble, I’m saving him. He should have thought of that before ignoring me for two weeks.”

Lark stood and grabbed my shoulders, trying to reason with me in her gentle twin-sister voice. “Marley, be logical. You don’t even know where he is. The Ozarks are huge. You can’t go off half-cocked—”

I glared at her. “Watch me.”

She groaned. “At least let me put a tracker on you.”

“Fine. Stick it in my bra. I’m leaving either way.”

I was halfway down the backroads toward Arkansas in my dad’s old pickup truck. I loved this truck— windows down, my hair whipping my face, and Fraiser’s favorite playlist blaring so loud the speakers rattled. A half-eaten bag of sour worms rolled around the passenger seat.

In my mind, I was a fearless rescue wife on a mission.

In reality, I’d already stopped to pee so many times and gotten lost twice. But the important thing was: I was coming for him.

Ready or not, Huck Fraiser… your stubborn, hormonal, heavily pregnant fiancée was on the way.

God help us both.