Wyoming Cowboy Marine. Nicole Helm

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       Chapter Two

      It crossed a line.

      Or one hundred.

      Cam had never been big on crossing lines. He believed in rules, in law and order, and doing what was right. But one thing his time in the military had taught him was that sometimes following rules or orders wasn’t right.

      The woman was scared of something. He’d watched from behind the corner as she’d pulled the bag from the bushes, taken the revolver out and shoved it in her waistband.

      She was spooked. Lost. Clearly the woman needed help and she was afraid to ask for it. He couldn’t just let her disappear into the woods never to be seen or heard from again.

      Where the hell was she going without a car? With that backpack and gun? Something didn’t add up, and maybe it wasn’t precisely right to give her a ten-minute head start and then follow her trail, but it wasn’t precisely wrong either.

      It further added to his suspicions and that itch Laurel had mentioned when the woman’s trail wasn’t easy to follow. Like she was purposefully covering her tracks.

      But with the mix of soggy ground from snow melt and snow itself as he moved to the higher elevations, he’d been able to follow the imprints of impact, making an educated guess what was human-made.

      When he’d gone roughly a mile, he considered heading back. He wasn’t prepared for a hike. He was wearing tennis shoes that were now soaked through, and he only had his cell phone and keys, no pocketknife or water.

      But no matter how many times he kept telling himself to turn around, to forget this woman and the itch she caused, his feet kept propelling him forward. His eyes kept watching for signs of disturbed earth or snow so he could follow her trail.

      At three miles, he was 75 percent sure he’d lost the trail or was following someone else’s. How could this woman be walking this long and this far? It might explain the backpack, but it sure didn’t explain anything else.

      So, he walked on, following the trail another full mile, cursing himself with every step. But the trail became clearer, as though she’d given up on hiding it. As if she didn’t believe anyone would follow her this far.

      As he continued on, he reached a clearing and peered through the edge of tree line where her path went. He frowned at the little cabin in the middle of the clearing. It looked rough-hewn and cobbled together out of disparate pieces. Something out of time, really. He could see some old miner or mountain man living in that shack back in the day, but not a young woman in the 21st century.

      More, he was about 90 percent sure this was public land, and he was 100 percent sure there was something very wrong here. A man who didn’t exist and a young woman living in this hideaway cabin on public land.

      Cam could only assume the young woman was an innocent bystander. She had reported the man without an identity missing, and unless she was suffering from some sort of mental issue, he imagined she was unaware of whatever was very wrong here.

      He surveyed the clearing, the shack, trying to get a sense of things. Not just a layout, but a mental picture. It felt good to put his brain to work this way, even without any plausible answers. Since he’d left the Marines last year, he’d had a floating sense of uselessness, even with solving the case of Frank Gainville’s cows. Something about this felt like being of use.

      Some of that disappeared when the woman stepped out of the shack with a flourish, a dog at her side and a gun in her hand. Not the revolver from before. She’d retrieved a rifle. She pointed it directly at him and the dog immediately began growling.

      Cam held very still. “That’s a slightly bigger gun than the last one,” he offered, eyeing the animal with some trepidation. It was a big dog, at least part German shepherd. It growled low in its throat, clearly poised to strike at her command or at her letting go of the leash.

      She didn’t say anything, and the dog snarling on the chain wasn’t exactly comforting, but there was something familiar in all this. A dangerous situation. Wanting to help. Having to rely on his wits.

      He’d missed this.

      He breathed in the icy spring air and tried not to smile. He had a feeling she wouldn’t appreciate the smiling stranger who’d followed her home.

      “I didn’t get your name back there.”

      She didn’t say anything. She kept the gun trained on him and the dog’s leash loose around her wrist. To an extent she matched the cabin: out of time. Her reddish-gold hair was pulled back in a braid and the wind whipped loose strands around her face. She had a sharp nose dusted with freckles, and a glare that would probably scare lesser men. She wore battered jeans and a long, heavy coat that also whipped in the wind, and boots that had seen better days.

      Add a Stetson and replace the jeans with a skirt and she could have easily fit in the old Wild West without anyone looking twice.

      “Move into the clearing,” she ordered, her voice low and calm with none of the nervousness she’d displayed at the police station.

      He did as he was told, stepping forward. He held his arms up. “I’m unarmed and I’m not here to hurt you.”

      “You followed me four miles. What are you here to do?”

      “Figure out the truth.”

      “The truth is none of your business.”

      “I only want to help.” As true as it was, he could admit he’d made a misstep here. Just because he sincerely wanted to help didn’t mean a woman should believe a strange man wanted to help her. “I’m not here to hurt you.”

      “Except you don’t know me. So you don’t know what might hurt me. That’s far enough,” she said when he took another step toward her.

      “Fair point,” he said, pausing in his steps. “But I want to help you find your father.”

      She narrowed her eyes at him. “Why?”

      “Put СКАЧАТЬ