by Kate Tilney
ZEKE:
Kings of the Mountain #5
by Kate Tilney
Copyright © 2020 by Kate Tilney
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
Cover Photos by
superbo/ depositphotos
feedough/ depositphotos
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One | Britt
Chapter Two | Zeke
Chapter Three | Britt
Zeke
Chapter Four | Britt
Chapter Five | Zeke
Britt
Chapter Six | Zeke
Chapter Seven | Britt
Epilogue | Zeke
Also by Kate Tilney
About the Author
Chapter One
Britt
Rain streams down my windshield, and I gape at the tree trunk now rising up over the hood of my car.
“Are you serious?”
I shouldn’t be surprised that a tree would choose this exact moment to get struck by lightning—or whatever happened—and fall into the road. And onto my car. I had a flat tire somewhere in Idaho. A broken belt on the drive up the Pacific Coast Highway before that. I really should have expected something else to delay my drive—and hurt my already strained pocketbook.
It’s my own fault for stopping in Portland on the drive from Los Angeles to my small hometown in northern Minnesota. If I’d driven directly, I could’ve shaved more than ten hours—not to mention a few disasters—off my trip.
But since my six years in Los Angeles were a bust, I figured it will be a while before I get back to the West Coast. So I stopped to see my best friend from high school on my way home.
I dig through my purse for my cell phone. I hope I have enough money in my account to cover the damage to the car—or at least to get a bus ticket for home.
Searching for the non-emergency number on my phone, I realize I have no idea where I am. I’m pretty sure I crossed the border into Montana, and I’m in the mountains. But that’s not going to help me—or Google—at the moment.
Again, it just figures. Nothing in my life has ever worked out as planned. Why would this?
I’m about to type “where the hell am I?” into the search engine when there’s a tap on my driver’s side window. I turn and jump at the giant, imposing figure filling the glass.
“Open up,” his deep voice shouts.
The phone slips out of my hands and onto the floor.
Great. I’m probably seconds away from being murdered, and I’ve lost my phone.
It. Freaking. Figures.
The mountain taps on my window again. Apparently he’s in a hurry to get this murder over and done with.
Finally regaining some semblance of control, I reach under the seat and blindly fumble around for my phone.
A giant fist pounds on the window.
“Hey lady,” it calls out. “Did that tree knock some dumb into you or what?”
My eyes widen in fear, even as a wave of indignation rushes over me. Is my soon-to-be murderer seriously accusing me of being an idiot just because I’m not rushing to follow his orders?
The man, whose face I still haven’t gotten a great look at, pulls back a moment and reaches into his pocket. Wait. Is he getting a gun or a knife? My pulse racing, I increase my under-seat fumbling. I’m tempted to dive under the dang seat when my fingers come in contact with the smooth, hardcover of my phone’s case.
“Thank you, Jesus.”
I’m just pulling up the phone—camera open—when the man’s fist returns to the window. The flash reflects on the window just as I catch sight of his red-bearded face and a metal plate in his grip. He blinks, temporarily blinded, as I realize he’s holding a badge.
An EMT badge. EMT. As in someone who has miraculously turned up to save my life—not take it. And I’ve blinded him.
Seriously, am I ever not going to screw up every good thing that comes my way?
Tossing the phone aside, I roll down the window and stick my head out just as the man who is hopefully still going to help me stops blinking. His dark blue eyes narrow.
“What the hell is wrong with you?”
“I’m sorry.” I throw up my hands. “I thought you were someone else?”
“Who?”
“A serial killer.”
His frown grows even more ferocious. “A what?”
I grimace. “I’m sure that sounds ridiculous to you. But I just left the Pacific Northwest. Otherwise known as a playground for serial killers.”
Sighing, he shakes his head, water dripping from his longish hair and beard. He opens the door and lowers to his haunches.
“Be honest. You hit your head on impact. Didn’t you?”
I blink at him. Again, I’m struck by how he’s treating me. I’m not an idiot.
Then he gestures to my forehead. I reach up instinctively. I feel it then. Warmth on my fingers. I pull them back and see a red smudge of blood.
I wobble a little in my seat, but two strong arms reach in to grab my shoulders before my head falls back on the steering wheel I apparently hit earlier.
“Why didn’t the airbags go off?” I wonder out loud.
He shakes his head. “Probably a malfunction. It also probably saved your car from being totaled.”
“You think it can be saved?”
He lifts his shoulders. “You’ll have to find out in the morning. This storm isn’t letting up any time soon, and you’ll need a tow.”
He frowns into my face again. “Your pupils are dilated.”
He holds up his finger and issues orders to follow it and to answer a few other questions. I do my best to follow, but I’m stunned. Either by the blow to the head or his gentle, commanding manner. Opening a small duffle bag, he pulls out some gauze, which he wraps around my head.
He ties off the bandage. “You have a mild concussion.”
I gasp. “Can’t those kill you?”
“Sometimes.” Before I faint, he grabs my hand. A jolt of electricity shoots through me, jerking me awake and leaving flutters across my body. “But I think you’re going to be okay.”
He could’ve led with that. Sheesh, for being the guy who’s come to my rescue, he sure could use a little help with his bedside manner.
But beggars can’t be choosers. Given my rash of bad luck, I should just be happy someone came to help. Still, it wouldn’t kill him to smile.
His eyes narrow at me again, and I wonder if maybe it would in fact kill him to smile.
Or maybe it would kill me. That wouldn’t surprise me. Not one bit.
Chapter Two
Zeke
I’m finally able to draw a proper breath after I leave the woman sitting in the passenger seat of my truck. The moment she finally opened the window and I caught a good look at her, the stunning brunette had just about knocked the wind out of me.
With full, long black hair a man would like to sink his fingers into, and full red lips a man could put to work in bed, she could have stepped out of a movie. With a T-shirt stretched over her supple breasts a
nd full hips, she’s a fantasy.
But I’m done with fantasies. Maybe if I tell myself that a few more times, my body will stop reacting to hers.
While she rests in my truck, a towel wrapped around her shoulders, I make quick work of pushing the tree branch—and her car—out of the road. It had been a bit of good luck that I happened upon her. Not many people use this stretch of road.
And, even more lucky, I just so happen to be the chief of the volunteer fire department. My years of training probably saved her a trip to the emergency room.
Though, looking back at the beautiful face pressed against the window, I wonder if I should drive her forty-five minutes up the road to the nearest hospital. She is acting loopy. It’s possible her injuries are more serious than a scratch on her forehead and a mild concussion. And if it is . . . I shake off the notion, refusing to imagine that any more harm could come to her.
I should get her somewhere for the night. The sooner I do, the sooner she can get better and I can get back to my usual life. One that doesn’t have room for steaming up my truck windows by fucking her senseless.
She’s just a woman. A beautiful woman. But a woman all the same.
I hop into my side of the truck.
“I just realized I haven’t thanked you for helping me,” she says, shifting in her seat to face me. “Thank you.”
I lift a shoulder. “Just doing my job.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t thank you.” She arches an eyebrow. “I also realized I don’t even know your name. I’m Britt Sanderson.”
She thrusts out her hand. Not wanting to tempt myself by touching her again, I ignore it. “Zeke.”
“Just Zeke?”
I nod. “Where can I take you for the night?”
“I don’t know.”
She doesn’t know? Though I noted the California license plates, I ask, “Where’s home?”
“Los Angeles.” She shakes her head and winces, pressing her hand to her crown. “No, Minnesota.”
Maybe she is more concussed than I thought. “Come again?”
“I’ve been living in L.A. but I’m moving back to where I grew up.”
I hate to admit it, but I’m curious to know where and why. But it’s also none of my business. The less I know about her, the better.
“There’s probably room in the motel.” I frown, because it’s not much of a place to stay. “You can set up there for a couple of days until your car is ready.”
“That would be fine.” Something about the way she says it makes me think it might not be.
While I hate to upset her anymore than she already seems, there’s another subject I need to broach with her. “Were you having any car troubles?”
“You mean besides the tree falling on it?”
I nod.
“I had a belt break a few days ago and a flat tire yesterday.”
“How about this last stretch?”
“I was having some problems with the radio. And it made this really bad noise.”
It’s just as I thought. “We’ll need to have the mechanic check it tomorrow, but I’m pretty sure your catalytic converter is shot.”
She eyes me dubiously. “Catalytic converter? Is that even a real thing?”
“Of course it’s a real thing.”
“And next you’ll be telling me I should check my flux capacitor.” Her face flushes red. “Do you have a deal with the town mechanic to see how many stupid women you can bring in?”
I sigh, my patience nearly spent. “I can assure you, a catalytic converter is a very real thing. And yours is toast.”
Her shoulders sag. “Of course it is. I have the worst luck.”
“It could happen to anyone,” I say, thinking facts might comfort her.
When she directs a glare my way, I know I’ve figured wrong.
“I’m just going through a rash of bad luck. That’s all.” She hesitates. “I’m just not sure I can handle one more bad thing happening.”
If I was a betting man—and I’m not—I’d guess she didn’t count on making so many repairs to the pile of metal she calls a car when she set out from Los Angeles. Unless she’s sitting on a healthy savings account, these unplanned expenses have to hurt.
And she doesn’t even know how much that new catalytic converter is going to set her back yet.
Her lower lip quivers. It’s like a lance through my heart.
“You could stay at my place till your car is ready.” The words are out of my mouth before I can think better.
“Are you serious?” Her eyes widen. It’s only now that I realize they’re not just blue. They’re purple.
“Sure.” Though the last thing I should be doing is opening my home to a temptress like her. But I hate to think of her sitting in a motel room she can’t afford even more. “It’s not the Ritz or anything. But it’s a roof over your head.”
And it’s free. We both must be thinking those words, even though I don’t say them.
She chews on her lips in consideration for a minute. The vision of nibbling on that mouth pops in my head and my dick thickens.
“Thank you.” A bright grin spreads across her face, momentarily making me see sparks like the flash on that camera phone of hers. “You really are turning out to be my hero.”
She might not think that after she sees where we’re headed.
Chapter Three
Britt
The truck rumbles up a dirt road and through the trees. We seem to be moving farther and farther from the town Zeke pointed out about ten minutes ago. For someone who was pretty convinced she was about to be murdered an hour earlier, I’m being awfully trusting of a man I don’t know from Adam.
I suppose I’m putting that trust in his badge. And the fact that he saved my life.
Besides, if he really wanted to murder me, wouldn’t he have done it already?
By now, the rain has slowed from a downpour to a trickle. I’m about to ask how much farther we’re going when we emerge through the trees and into a clearing. There, on a crest, is a small cabin with a tire swing hanging from the lone tree in the front.
“I told you it wasn’t the Ritz,” Zeke says.
It might not be, but with its view, I can’t think of many places in the world more beautiful.
He pulls the truck to a stop in front, and the door flies open. A young boy races through.
“That’s my son. Stone.” That’s no shocker. With hair every bit as bright red as his father’s, there’s no doubt he could belong to anyone else. “I hope you don’t mind kids.”
“I like kids.”
And they seem to like me. When I first moved out to L.A., I did a lot of babysitting. I even had a nanny gig one summer. It paid better than the retail jobs I’ve been working lately, but I had to give it up. It was hard to go on auditions when I was always on call.
Zeke jumps out of the truck and scoops up his son, tossing him in the air. When he rounds the truck to open my door, I catch the bright grin on his face and almost gasp. When he isn’t looking at me like I’m an idiot, he’s gorgeous.
The little boy shifts in his father’s arms to eye me curiously. “Who’s that?”
“This is Britt. She’s a friend.”
“What’s wrong with her head?”
Zeke gives him a little squeeze. “She had some car trouble. She’s going to stay here with us until it’s better. Will you help take care of her?”
His son nods, seriously. He holds out his hand to me. “I’m Stone. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Instantly charmed, I take his little, squishy hand and give it a shake. “Thanks for helping me out, Stone.”
“Dad says it’s good to help people.”
I can’t be sure, but I’m fairly positive the burly man next to me might be blushing under that beard.
Setting his son down, Zeke reaches into the back of the truck. “You two head inside. I’ll get your bags.”
Before I can tell him I can carry my own stuff, Stone grabs my
hands and drags me inside.
“I want to show you my firetruck,” he says. “It looks just like the one my dad drives.”
“Is that so?”
His head bobs up and down enthusiastically. “Yep. The guys at the station gave it to me. They said I need to practice on this before I drive the real thing.”
I grin at the thought of Zeke’s mini-me behind the wheel of a firetruck.
He leaves me on the couch to grab his toy, which gives me a chance to look around at the room. The wood-paneled walls are bare. There’s a single photo—a school portrait of Stone—on the mantel over the brick fireplace. The couch is a basic plaid and looks like it probably lived in someone’s rec room or basement before finding its way to Zeke and Stone’s home.
The living room opens to the kitchen, which appears to be equally sparse and serviceable. Nothing I see gives even a hint of a woman’s touch. That would make sense. If Zeke had a wife waiting at home, he probably would’ve called to give her a heads up before we arrived.
I’m tempted to poke my head in the kitchen to explore when a barrel-chested man steps into the room.
The older man freezes, a frown settles on his lips. “Are you lost young lady?”
My heart pounds in my chest while I stammer. “I’m umm . . . err . . . I’m . . . ”
For the first time ever, I’m on stage and I’ve forgotten my words. Granted, I’m slightly concussed, and I’m not totally sure what my lines were to begin with.
“This is Britt,” Zeke says from the doorway, filling me with relief. “She’ll be staying here for the night.”
The look he gives the other man seems to say he’ll explain everything later. I dart a glance back at the other man to see how he’s taking the news. His white eyebrows are up, and his wrinkled brow furrowed. But he doesn’t look like he’s about to pick me up by the collar of my T-shirt and throw me out.
“I see.” Spring me another look, he grabs a jacket draped over a chair. “I’ll be heading out then.”
“Thanks for looking after Stone.”
The other man nods. He gives Zeke a firm pat on the shoulder on his way out.