Page 8 of Road Trip With Her Daddy Protector (Love Along Route 14)

Gus

Three quiet days pass in a blur of mountain air, shared coffee mugs, and the soft, stolen kisses that make the cabin seem like the safest place on earth—almost. Lola laughs more now, easy and unguarded, and every time I catch the sound drifting down the hall it buries itself under my ribs like a permanent brand.

But peace is fragile. It only takes one vibration in my pocket to remind me why we’re here.

I’m on the porch sanding a rocking-chair arm when the satellite phone buzzes. The caller ID reads Mason. I step to the railing, eyes sweeping the treeline before answering.

“Talk to me.”

“Tyler Cole’s off the grid,” Mason says without preamble. “Ditched his condo two nights ago. Plate reader caught his Camaro north on I-75, then nothing. He’s ghosted.”

A low curse rumbles in my chest. “He’s coming.”

“That’s our read. You want us to converge?”

“Negative,” I say, gaze sliding to the open front door, where I can hear Lola humming in the kitchen. “I need him here—alone. Keep the team in reserve. I’ll call in the cavalry when it’s done.”

Mason pauses. “Copy that. You sure about this, boss?”

“It’s the only way to end it clean.” I lower my voice. “All the bread-crumbs are in place—burner phone ping, credit-card trail to Dahlonega, fresh prints on Lola’s old apartment mail slot. He’ll follow the map I drew.”

“Roger. We’ll stay dark. Send the flash if things go sideways.”

The line clicks dead. I breathe out slowly, sliding the phone back into my pocket. Every step I’ve taken since Florida has funneled Tyler toward these mountains. My mountains. Here, the terrain fights for me.

Footsteps on the porch. Lola emerges, wiping her hands on a dish towel. Sunlight catches her hair, turning the strands to ribbons of honey. “Everything okay?”

I force a smile. “Just Mason, checking in. Still no sign of Tyler.” Not a lie—just not the whole truth.

Her shoulders loosen. “Maybe he finally gave up.”

“Maybe.” Not a damn chance.

She leans against the railing beside me, tracing the fresh grain where I’ve sanded. “This chair’s going to be gorgeous when you’re finished.”

“Gotta keep busy.” I set the sandpaper down and tug her gently between my legs, palms resting on her hips. “How’s cabin fever?”

She grins, looping her arms around my neck. “Non-existent. I’ve got books, trails, and you.” Her smile dims, worry creeping back. “But I still check the windows at night.”

I kiss her temple. “That’s smart, not scared. And smart keeps you alive.”

Her breath hitches against my collarbone. “We are safe, right?”

“Safer than anywhere else on earth,” I promise, and it’s true—because danger is on its way here , where I can control the ground under its feet.

That afternoon I busy myself stringing new monofilament trip lines along the north ridge.

From the crest I can see the dusty switchback road a mile below— the only drivable approach.

If Tyler stays in the Camaro, the hidden spike strip will shred his tires before he hits the creek crossing.

If he abandons the car and hikes, the IR sensors will catch his heat signature long before he’s in rifle range.

I test each camera, sending the live feeds to my phone, then descend to the cabin as late-sun shadows stretch long and blue.

Inside, the scent of rosemary and garlic greets me. Lola stirs a cast-iron pot, freckles glowing in the firelight. Home and war all tangled together. I clear my throat.

“Smells amazing.”

She beams. “Chicken and gnocchi. Hope you’re hungry.”

Starving—for her, for a world where men like Tyler don’t exist. I set my rifle on the entry table and wash up. Over dinner we talk about nothing heavy—constellations, the fox tracks she found near the creek, which pie we’ll bake first when the blackberries ripen.

Afterward we curl on the sofa, her head on my chest, a battered paperback in her hands. She reads aloud until her voice grows thick with sleep. When she drifts off, I slide out carefully, cover her with the Navajo blanket, and pad to the kitchen.

I open the gun safe, checking the cleaned .

45, the extra mags, the radio beacon for Mason.

Last, I pull out a small velvet box—nothing tactical about it.

Inside, a simple platinum ring set with a marquise diamond my mother once wore.

I thumb the facets, imagining it on Lola’s finger after all this ugliness is gone.

A soft voice behind me: “Couldn’t sleep?”

I snap the lid shut, turning. Lola stands in the doorway, blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Her eyes drop to the safe, then lift to mine.

“You’re expecting him.” Not a question.

I exhale. “Mason thinks Tyler’s missing. I think he’s hunting. And I’m done letting him choose the battlefield.”

Her chin trembles, but she nods. “What’s the plan, soldier?”

The old call sign slips over me like armor. “He’ll hit the switchback by dawn if he keeps the pace he’s been averaging. When the spikes take his car, he’ll hoof it up the ridge. I’ll intercept at the old fire tower.”

“I’m coming,” she says instantly.

“No.” I cross the room, framing her face with my hands. “I need you here, in the panic room, beacon ready. This ends tonight, Lola. I swear it.”

Tears glimmer, but she blinks them away. “Then come back to me.”

“Nothing could stop me.” I kiss her, slow and certain, letting her feel the vow. Then I press the velvet box into her palm. “For after.”

Her gasp is a broken whisper. “Gus?—”

“Hold on to it. A reminder of everything waiting for us on the other side.”

She clutches the box to her heart. “I love you.”

“I love you more.”

Midnight finds me ghosting through the treeline, moonlight silvering the rifle barrel. Fog pools in the hollows, soft as breath. Every crunch of gravel down on the switchback drifts up clear—a car crawling, engine laboring on the grade.

Right on schedule, Tyler. Follow the crumbs.

I hunker behind a fallen log, heartbeat steady, eyes on the thermal display. A lone figure appears—hot white against the cool forest, moving uphill with dogged purpose.

I chamber a round and wait.

Tonight, the hunter becomes the hunted, and I’ll finally give Lola the peace she deserves.