Page 1 of Rush Turner (Seals on Fraiser Mountain #6)

Jessa

O f course, Ethel’s radiator died here, in the middle of nowhere, dusk creeping in, my phone had a one-bar cell signal, and a random sign that read DEAD MAN’S GULCH about a mile back.

Because fate hates me. Who the hell would stop at DEAD MAN’S GULCH for crying out loud the name was enough to scare anyone away.

I kicked my front tire for the fifth time. It made absolutely no difference, but it felt amazing.

Headlights flared in my rearview. I froze. Then I did what any rational, single woman who binges too much true crime would do: I grabbed my pepper spray and my keychain alarm shaped like a kitten.

The truck behind me idled, rumbling like a beast that ate smaller cars for breakfast. Then the door swung open and he stepped out.

Tall. Broad. Ball cap pulled low, black T-shirt stretched across what I was positive was a chest sculpted by actual Greek gods.

Murderer. Absolutely a murderer.

He raised a hand like I was a wild animal he didn’t want to spook. “Hey there. Trouble?”

My voice squeaked. “Stay right there! I have pepper spray!”

One eyebrow lifted. He stopped a respectable distance away, hands spread. “I see that. Would you mind pointing it somewhere else?”

“Touch my car and I swear I’ll turn you into a walking jalapeno.”

His mouth twitched — a smile? Serial killers didn’t smile like that, did they? “I’m Rush. Rush Turner. Not a murderer. Just a mechanic. And you’re about to blow your head gasket if you keep running it dry.”

I scowled, flicking my eyes between his face and the steam hissing from under my hood. “How do I know you’re not lying?”

“You don’t,” he said calmly. “But if I was a murderer, I’d have better ideas than fixing your Bel Air in broad daylight. Will almost night. She’s a beauty.

Okay. Fair. Still suspicious. I brandished the pepper spray an inch closer to his face just to make my point. “One wrong move. I love Ethel, I've saved forever to buy her. She needs some work, but I’ll have to wait on that. I’ve been putting Band-Aids on her for now.”

“Understood.” He cocked his head. “You got AAA?”

I blinked. “No.”

He sighed, bone-deep patience wrapped in six feet of temptation and worn boots. “Figures. Pop the hood, sunshine.”

RUSH

She was a mess — a cute, pissed-off, ready-to-fight mess with a death grip on a travel-size pepper spray. It probably didn’t even work.

I’d met cartel gunrunners less twitchy than this woman.

Still, I leaned over the Bel-Air, and everything looked original. I ignored the hiss of the radiator as I twisted the cap with a rag from my back pocket. She hovered behind me, narrating every move under her breath.

“Don’t try anything.”

“Stop humming. It’s creepy.”

“Are you hotwiring my car?!”

I bit back a laugh. “Sweetheart, you want to help or just stand there judging me?”

She bristled. “It’s Jessa. And I don’t trust you enough to help. If I had my tools I could fix her myself. I forgot to put them in my trunk.”

Fair enough. Ten minutes later, I had the radiator patched just enough to crawl back into town. I closed the hood and turned to face her.

“Good news: you’re not gonna explode before you hit the next gas station. Bad news: you’re still gonna need a real repair tonight. I can tow you, or you can follow me.”

Her eyes narrowed. She had a death grip on that pepper spray.

“Or,” I added gently, “I can leave you here for the coyotes. Your call.”

A coyote howled in the distance. She jumped so hard she nearly pepper-sprayed her own shoe.

“Fine,” she hissed. “But I’m not getting in your truck. I’ll follow. And if you try anything—”

“You’ll pepper me. Got it.”

She stomped to her driver’s door, muttering, “Should’ve just bought a damn bike,” and then she would apoligize to the vehicle for talking like that.