by London James
Hanging my weapon around my back by its strap, I run to the embankment and clamber up. Unlike the cartel men, I'm used to this sort of terrain and have surer footing. I bound up to the car in no time flat. Thankfully, it's right side up, sitting on its wheels, but when I see the destruction up close, I start to lose hope that anybody could have survived the crash.
I get to the driver's side door and hunch down, to see inside. It's dark, and all I can make out are vague shapes. Pulling a small flashlight from my pocket, I turn it on and shine it on the interior. The bright beam cuts a swath through the darkness, and I get my first look at Isla Nelson in the flesh. Her face is a mask of blood, a collection of cuts and bruises adorning her face. She's not moving, still buckled into her seat.
Using my knife, I slash through the airbags, and pull them out, tossing them onto the ground behind me. I reach into the car and check for a pulse. The smile on my face is wide, and I let out a breath of relief when I feel it, strong and clear. Against all odds, somehow, she survived the crash.
It takes some doing, but I manage to wrench the door open. The rain is starting to fall a little harder now, and I'm starting to worry about making it down the embankment again, with her limp form in my arms. I have to use my knife to cut the seat belt off of her, and once I have her free, I gently pull her out of the wreck.
I know I shouldn't be moving a crash victim. It's probably the worst thing I can do. She could have internal injuries, broken bones, hell, her back could be busted for all I know. But I don't really have much of a choice in the matter. I need to get her out of here and to safety. That's my number one priority, simply because I have no idea whether or not, those four corpses have backup coming.
Isla groans in my arms as I descend the embankment. I move slowly, and deliberately, doing my best to avoid jostling her. If she does have serious injuries, I don't want to make them worse. The rain is falling harder around me now and is washing away some of the blood from her face.
For the first time, I see the smooth pale skin, and her outright beauty, and draw in a sharp breath. She's a beautiful woman, without question, and it makes my heart skip a beat just to look at her.
“Get your head out of your ass,” I mutter to myself. “Now's not the time.”
I make it to the forest floor and let out a breath. Okay, that's done. I head back along the deer path, moving back toward my truck. Cannon shots of thunder sound like they're splitting the sky wide open, and the flashes of lightning are brighter than the noontime sun. My breath comes out in plumes of steam, and the temperature is dropping rapidly. At the very least, there is icy slush in our near future, if not snow. I want to be off the road as quickly as possible and get Isla somewhere warm and dry.
After twenty minutes of walking, we make it back to the truck. Part of me had been expecting another cartel team to be standing there waiting, so when I see that the area is clear, some of the tension drains from my body. I get Isla into the back seat and do my best to buckle her in. That done, I jump behind the wheel again and fire up my truck. I back up until I get to a turnout, get my truck pointed in the other direction, and head for home.
“My advice is to get her to a hospital immediately, Baker.”
I nod, knowing full well that's not going to happen. I can't afford to take her to the hospital, not knowing how many of Zavala's guys might be lurking around. It seems that Walt's stress and paranoia are rubbing off on me. Either that or my own experience as a Marshal. You just never know who you can trust, so your default setting is to trust nobody.
Heather Medina is Grizzly Ridge's doctor. We've developed enough of a rapport over the years – something akin to friendship, perhaps – that she was willing to come out to my place when I called her. I can see in her eyes though, that she doesn't like the decision I made to bring Isla back here.
Doctor Medina is incredibly sharp, tough, takes no shit from anybody, and is truly, one of the best in her field that I've ever been around. She just seems to know things intuitively and takes amazing care of her patients. She's a ferocious advocate for those under her care and will fight anybody to make sure the treatment they receive is absolutely top-shelf.
I respect the hell out of her and like to think I know her well. I genuinely believe that I can trust her, and don't have the slightest worry that she's going to run and tell anybody that I've got Isla here.
“I wish I could, Doc,” I say. “She's under federal protection though, and –”
“Funny, I don't see any federal agents lurking around,” she interjects. “And last I checked, you are retired from the Marshal's Service.”
A rueful smile touches my lips. “Yeah, this is kind of a unique situation.”
She rolls her eyes. “Aren't they all?”
I let out a breath and lay the whole story out for her. I tell her everything about Walt calling me, to the shootout in the forest. She listens to it all, not even batting an eye when I reveal the fact that I killed four men out there in the woods. She's a tough woman, and it takes a lot to rattle her.
“So, there are four bodies out there?” she asks.
“Probably,” I say. “Though, if there was a second team in route, they may have cleaned up the mess to avoid drawing attention to themselves.”
She nods. “Fantastic. Who would have thought our sleepy little town would be such a hotbed of drug cartel activity?”
“Talk to the Marshals who decided your sleepy little town was a good place to stash people in WITSEC.”
“Yeah, I think those arguments are going to fall on deaf ears, so I might as well save my breath,” she replies wryly.
“Good plan,” I say.
I look down at the woman in the bed. She lies beneath the blankets, utterly still. Her breathing is soft and shallow. If you didn't know better, with the sheets and blankets pulled up to her chin, you'd swear she's dead. Thankfully, I know better than that.
Thunder crashes hard enough to rattle the windows in the house, and I hear Stabler running from the living room, into the bedroom to hide, his nails click-clacking on the hardwood floor the entire way. He's not a real big fan of extreme weather.
“What about her?” I ask.
Doc Medina sighs and shakes her head. “Amazingly enough, I don't believe she has any broken bones. To me, most of her injuries look superficial, which is pretty amazing, given the fact that her car went over the side of that highway.”
“Damn,” I say. “I'd have to call that a minor miracle.”
“Call it a major miracle,” she replies. “But we don't know what's going on inside of her, Baker. She could have an internal bleed for all we know. If she does, or maybe has some swelling of the brain we can't see, it could be fatal. She could very well die in your bed at some point tonight. I can only do so much with the equipment I have on hand.”
I run my hand over my face. “I get it, Doc. I do,” I say. “I just don't know that a hospital is going to be the safest place for her either. Not with the cartel hunting her.”
I'm wracked with indecision. I know logically, that she's right. For all we know, Isla may be dying right now. Getting her to the hospital is the smartest play. On the other hand, if Zavala's guys know she's alive, and walked away from that wreck, leading her into a public place like a hospital – someplace they have got to be watching – will be signing her death warrant all the same.
“There are no easy choices here, Doc,” I tell her.
Her lips compress into a tight line. I know she understands that I'm caught between a rock and a hard place here. Either option available to me could wind up with Isla dying. At least, here, she'll be comfortable. I have no idea what the cartel has in mind for her, but it won't be a large, comfortable bed with a down comforter, that's for sure.
“I have to be honest here, Baker. I don't like this,” she says. “I don't like this one bit.”
“That makes two of us,” I say. “I never wanted to be drawn into this. But, now that I am, I have to make sure I do what's in her bes
t interest. And at the moment, with the cartel out there – and not having any intel on where they are, or how strong their team is – I don't think marching her into the hospital is the best move.”
She nods, and I know she gets it. She doesn't like it, but she gets it, and I know she's not going to fight me on this.
“Okay,” she concedes. “I'll come back first thing in the morning to check on her then. Hopefully, she survives the night.”
“I'll have the coffee going.”
“You better,” she replies with a chuckle.
She grabs her bag, and I walk her to the door. “I appreciate you doing this, Doc,” I say.
“You may not say that once you get my bill,” she laughs.
I shrug, not laughing with her. “Whatever it takes,” I tell her. “Spare no expense.”
She looks at me for a long moment, and then I see her eyes shift to the house around me for a brief minute. It's as if she's realizing for the first time, just how nice my place is – and realizing that maybe I do have some money squirreled away, or something. She simply nods and accepts me at face value.
That's Doc Medina – oblivious to the most obvious at times. Though, to be fair, she doesn't know. I don't make it known and don't flaunt my money. This house is the most extravagant thing I own. It's definitely nice, I'm not going to deny that, but it's also very practical. There is far more to this house than meets the eye – but that's my secret to keep.
“Okay, I'll be by in the morning then,” she repeats.
“Thanks for coming all this way on such a shit night.”
She dashes to her car, holding her bag above her head, trying to protect herself from the downpour. I watch as she departs, the large iron gates swinging closed behind her. I close the door, lock it, then activate the alarm system. After that, I walk back down to the guest room where we have Isla.
As I step into the room, I dim the lighting a bit. I sit down in a chair I'd brought in, and lean back, propping my feet up on the edge of the bed, and folding my arms over my chest. I watch her as she sleeps, hoping and praying that I'm making the right call here. All I can do is hope that she doesn't have any internal bleeds, and wakes up tomorrow, feeling okay. I expect there to be some bumps, bruising, and general pain, but I'm hoping that's where it ends.
As I gaze upon her face, I feel that strange stuttering in my heart again. With her fiery red hair, porcelain skin, and those sparkling green eyes, she's a powerfully beautiful woman. And something about her absolutely moves me. Something about her stirs something deep within me – something that hasn't stirred in a long, long time. Not since Jenny died.
It's silly and ridiculous, I know. But I can't control the way I feel. And there is something about this woman, this sleeping beauty, that draws and compels me. Her sweet, almost angelic face cries out for me to protect her, making my body and mind respond. I feel a deep need to protect her. To keep her safe. To make sure no harm comes to her. It's irrational, I know, but there it is, all the same.
Not wanting her to wake up alone, in a strange place, and be terrified, I decide to lean back in the seat, and watch over her – knowing I'm likely going to sit there all night long.
But it seems a small, microscopic price to pay to make sure she's safe.
Chapter Thirteen
Isla
The first thing that registers in my brain is the pain that's gripping my entire body. From head to toe, everything on me hurts. It's excruciating, and although I want to cry, I know that would hurt too, so I do my best to bite it back.
The second thing that registers in my brain is that it's incredibly bright. So bright, I wince and move to shield my eyes – which touches off an explosion of pain inside of me. I settle for squinting, and slowly opening my eyes, letting them get used to how bright it is.
“Sorry, let me get those.”
The sounds of a man's voice freezes me in place, and a cold fear blooms within me. The room suddenly gets darker, and I'm able to open my eyes, and not feel that horrible throbbing in my head. The man lowering the blinds in the room is massive. Six-four, at least, and seems to be as wide as he is tall. He's got broad shoulders, a thick chest, and arms that seem as big around as my thigh. His hair is dark and trimmed very short, his dark eyes are deep, yet intimidating, and he has a thick, bushy beard. He's ruggedly handsome, in that wild, untamed lumberjack kind of way, and just has a presence, an energy, that fills up the entire room, making him seem even larger than he already is.
I'm trembling as I stare at the mountain of a man because I have no idea who in the hell he is.
“That better?” he asks.
My mouth utterly dry, and my powers of speech abandoning me, I simply nod, my eyes riveted to the man standing across the room from me. I'm lying in a bed, with no memory of how I got there, and when I look under the covers, I see that I'm wearing nothing but panties and a t-shirt – a massive t-shirt, which tells me that it belongs to Paul Bunyan over there.
“Who in the hell are you?” I finally manage to get out, my voice cracking.
“Baker Redmond,” he replies as if that should mean something to me.
“Sorry to burst your bubble, but I have no idea who you are,” I say.
He gives me a small grin, and there is a sparkle in his eye as he looks at me. I stare at the man and feel my heart skip a beat in my chest. I mentally kick myself for it. Of all the reactions I could have had, that's the very last one I should be having.
No, the reaction I actually should be having is jumping out of this bed and going to the cops. I have no idea who he is, why I'm in, what I'm assuming is his bed, wearing his clothes, or how any of this came to be. The last thing I should be feeling is a stupid flutter in my heart.
“I don't expect you to. We've never actually met,” he informs me.
The deep, masculine timbre of his voice washing over me like a gentle wave, and I again, have to slap myself. What in the hell is wrong with me?
“Then why am I in your bed? I mean, I assume this is your bed?” I ask.
He nods. “Yeah, it's my bed. You're in my house, under my protection, Isla.”
I cock my head and look at him. “Why are you calling me Isla? And why would I need protection?” I question. “And maybe most importantly, how in the hell did you get me naked, and into your t-shirt.”
A shadow passes across his face, and the small grin that had been playing at the corners of his mouth slips down into a frown.
“Isla – that's your name,” he says. “And you're under my protection because the Zavala drug cartel tried to kill you. You're in the witness protection program –”
My head spins, and I feel like I'm going to be sick. As if he's anticipating my needs, the man is moving far faster than somebody his size should be able to. He's beside the bed in a heartbeat with a bucket ready and waiting for me. It doesn't take long for my stomach to lurch, and for me to heave up a mouthful of bile into the can. I retch a few more times, but nothing else comes up.
I slump back on the pillows, and the man wrings out a cool cloth from a bowl next to the bed and puts it on my forehead. For somebody so big, he's got a surprisingly gentle touch, and as he leans over me, I catch a scent of his aftershave, which is earthy and musky. It's very masculine and not entirely unpleasant. I silently tell myself to shut up and lean back against the soft, fluffy pillows, willing my head to stop spinning.
Slowly, the room stops spinning, and I feel a little more in control of myself. I open my eyes, though I keep the cold compress to my head. I turn and look at the man, a shiver running through me. He looks back at me, and I can see kindness and compassion in those seemingly bottomless eyes of his. Which is strange, given how gruff he looks. Up close to him now though, I see flecks of white in his beard and hair, which tells me he's a bit older than he looks.
“I don't know the name Isla,” I whisper.
He frowns a little. “Okay,” he says. “Then, can you tell me your name?”
I cock my head and sear
ch my mind. It's an easy question, and one I should be able to rattle the answer off to without thinking twice about it. But I find that as I reach into my memory, there's nothing but a blank spot where my name should be. My eyes widen, and a white-hot shot of panic shoots through me. I start to sit up, but the man puts one of his enormous hands on me and gently pushes me back against the pillows.
“You need to stay down,” he instructs gently. “You've been through a lot, and you need to take it easy.”
I turn my head and look at him, anger blended with fear, coursing through me. “How in the hell can you tell me to take it easy?” I snap. “I can't even remember my own fucking name.”
The frown on his face deepens, as does the look of concern on his face. “What can you remember, Isla?”
I strain my mind, reaching for something – anything – but come up empty. I growl in frustration and pound the bed with my fists – and immediately regret it as electric bolts of pain tear through my body. I cry out, and slump back against the pillows, grimacing as I lay absolutely still, trying to avoid another blast of pain.
“See? Told you that you needed to take it easy,” he says, with a cocky little smirk on his face.
“I can’t remember my name,” I growl. “I can’t remember anything.”
He runs a hand through his hair, the smirk slipping, and that look of concern back on his face. He studies me closely, his expression intense.
“You don’t remember being chased? Or the car wreck?” he asks. “You don’t remember ending up down that embankment?”
I shake my head, my mind absolutely empty of memories. It sends a cold chill rushing through me, as I try to remember something, but grow frustrated when I can’t remember anything. I’m not just frustrated; I’m scared. Not being able to remember who you are, or a goddamn thing about your life is a terrifying thing. Tears well in my eyes, and I struggle to hold them back.