Wyoming Cowboy Marine

by Nicole Helm

  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 down the gun and we can talk about that.”

  If anything, she firmed her hold on the rifle. “How about you talk or leave, all while I hold this gun? Do not take another step or I will shoot you,” she said after he’d taken another one closer to her and her dog.

  “You’re not going to shoot me,” he said calmly, keeping his arms up as he carefully edged toward her. If he was calm, she’d be calm, and he didn’t think she had enough anger or fear in her right now to shoot him.

  But the sound of a gun going off and the sharp sting in his arm happened at just about the same time. He looked down at his arm, the slight tear in his jacket and shirt and the blood now trickling out of a slice in his skin.

  “Okay, you are going to shoot me,” he muttered at the mostly superficial wound.

  “The next one will be worse,” she warned.

  He no longer doubted her.

  * * *

  HILLY KEPT ALL her panic below the surface. You had to be calm when facing the outside world, and Dad had never believed she could be. That was why she had to stay hidden away. That was why he handled anything that meant leaving the property.

  Shooting the man hadn’t been calm, not by a long shot. Especially since she’d only meant to scare him...not actually hit him.

  At least she appeared calm from the outside.

  On the inside? Panic city. Actually shooting the man advancing on her had been panic, even if she hadn’t exactly meant to.

  Could he put her in jail for that? Surely not. She’d warned him, and he’d been coming at her. It was self-defense, intent or not. She hoped.

  Where was Dad? Why had he left her alone like this? She didn’t know how to deal with it. With this stranger. Who was now staring at his arm where she’d shot her glancing blow.

  It could have gone worse. She could have hit him somewhere vital, done significantly more damage. But he’d been advancing on her and home and...

  “You should go get that looked at,” she said. Even though her heart and pulse beat hard in her neck, she sounded calm, and like the kind of woman who shot people every day.

  But would he go home and tell everyone about the girl in the shack he thought might shoot people every day?

  Oh, this was a mess.

  “You’ve shot me now—you can at least give me your name.”

  She shook her head, not trusting her voice.

  “What are you so afraid of?”

  Everything. The fact she wanted to trust the kindness in his voice even though Dad had told her to never trust kindness. The fact she’d somehow involved someone in this. She was very afraid of everything that existed beyond this clearing.

  She’d braved it today because she’d been out of her mind with worry about Dad, but never again would she think she was strong enough to handle the world out there.

  Except, if something happened to Dad you’ll have to.

  She eyed the man and his bleeding arm. He said he’d wanted to help find Dad, but why should she trust him? An o
utsider who wasn’t even a police officer in any way she could tell.

  But maybe that was good. Dad said you didn’t trust police, but men were motivated by one thing and one thing alone. Money. If he wasn’t police and she offered him money...

  Except the whole you-shot-him thing.

  Free kept growling low in her throat. Hilly had to think. She had to get this man out of here.

  “Go away, mister.”

  “You expect me to hike the four miles back with blood dripping down my arm?”

  She wasn’t sure why, but she got the impression this man could handle it well enough. Still, guilt pricked at her conscience. Though it shouldn’t. She owed him nothing. He wasn’t just an outsider, he was an aggressor.

  He’d stalked her. He hadn’t listened to her warnings. He deserved that wound on his arm, and yet that little seed of guilt sprouted and tried to surface.

  “I’ll get you a bandage, and then you can be on your way.” She crouched down and scratched Free behind the ears, whispering her command. “Free. Guard.” The dog growled in agreement, her eyes never leaving the man with the bloody arm.

  Hilly hurried back into the cabin. They had an extensive first-aid kit, but it was kept hidden away behind all the daily necessities. Dad insisted anything of value or that hinted at having more reserves than for a few days be kept out of plain sight.

  She could pay the man outside. She could pay him to find Dad. No, she didn’t trust him, but it was an option. Enough money could keep a man under your thumb, Dad said, and there was money. Hidden in drawers and sewn into mattresses. She didn’t even know how much was hidden in this cabin, but she could use it to find her father.

  Who wouldn’t approve of getting help from the outside world.

  It was stupid. Impossible. She could not trust this man who’d followed her. Whom she’d shot.

  But she didn’t have anyone except Free, and as handy as dogs could be, they could not communicate, investigate or lend a hand with obtaining supplies from the outside world.

  Dad had left her alone. She had to survive that, which meant she had to make her own decisions. Not ones Dad would make.

  She gave herself a moment to close her eyes and take a deep breath. Take stock of the situation. Dad was missing. She was on her own. A strange man had followed her home under the guise of help.

  Dad would scare him off. Hilly had no doubt about that.

  She thought about the woman officer she’d spoken to at the police station. The woman had been in charge. Of herself, of her job. She hadn’t looked to anyone for help. She’d made the decisions and she’d told other people what to do.

  Hilly had been in awe of her. She wasn’t allowed to call any shots, and Dad didn’t listen to her about anything. Not that he was mean about it. It was just that Dad was in charge. Dad made the choices.

  And Dad had left her alone. Which meant she was in charge, and when she found him—no matter how—Dad would just have to accept that. Because he hadn’t left her with the adequate tools to deal with this. Hopefully now he would.

  If he’s alive.

  She shoved that thought out of her brain as she got to her feet. She held the bandage in her hand, and though it went against everything she’d ever been taught, she left the rest of the first-aid kit out.

  It felt thrillingly wrong. She nearly smiled as she stepped out the front door. Except the sight in front of her stopped her short in shock.

  Free was on her back, wriggling joyfully as the large man rubbed her belly.

  “You little traitor,” she muttered.

  The man smiled up at her, and it felt like something unleashed low in her stomach, fluttering upward and into her throat. She didn’t care for that sensation at all.

  She still had her gun, though, so him turning her dog into a pathetic little affection fiend was only taking away one of her weapons. Not all of them.

  She aimed the gun at him again as she held out the bandage. “Here. Now be on your way.”

  He eyed the gun as he slowly got to his feet. Free whined. This close Hilly was uncomfortably reminded of just how large he was. Tall and broad and someone who could definitely outmuscle her if he wanted to.

  But she had a gun. A gun. She tightened her grip on it.

  “Are you going to shoot me if I reach for that?” He motioned to the bandage.

  “Not if you reach for that and that alone.”

  His mouth curved, some foreign thing in his eyes. Something like laughter, but sharper. Her cheeks heated. But he carefully reached for the bandage and plucked it from her outstretched fingers.

  He shrugged off his coat. Then, in a mesmerizing move, he tore the sleeve from where it was ripped from the bullet. Two tugs and the sleeve was completely off, just a few threads hanging down over his biceps.

  His arm was...an arm. Why was it fascinating? Dark hair dusted his forearm, but his biceps looked smooth, except the slight slash of the cut and the smudge of blood around it.

  “I could help you, you know,” he said conversationally as he wound the bandage around his cut.

  She wrenched her gaze from his arm and the easy way he dressed it as if he tended wounds every day. “I—I’d have to trust you,” she said, hating herself for the stutter. “I don’t.”

  He nodded thoughtfully, then those hazel eyes pinned her where she stood. “What would you need? To earn your trust, what would I have to do?”

  Nothing. Nothing at all. Which was just stupidity and she would not be stupid. That was what Dad would expect her to be. Too innocent and weak-willed to find him, to survive.

  Well. She’d just have to find him and prove to him she could make choices, too. Even if it meant trusting an outsider.

  Chapter Three

  She looked confused for a few seconds, then something like determination chased over her face. Too bad Cam didn’t know what she was determined to decide.

  He finished wrapping the cut and picked his coat back up, pulling it on again. He ignored the shudder of cold that worked through him. “You’re worried about your father.”

  “I am,” she said, chin lifting. “He goes away sometimes, but never this long.”

  “And you don’t know where he goes?”

  She paused. Not the kind of pause that preceded a lie either. That lost look in her eyes from the sheriff’s department stole through her once more, though she quickly hardened against it.

  She was definitely young, but not that young. Early twenties, if he had to guess. She was strong enough to fire off a warning shot, kind enough to get him a bandage and smart enough not to give him her name.

  No number of strange situations he’d found himself in as a Marine prepared him for this puzzle.

  “I didn’t actually mean to shoot you,” she said, eyeing him. He noted it wasn’t an apology.

  “I know.”

  “How do you know?”

  “If you’d meant to shoot me, I’d have a lot bigger hole in my arm. Clipping this close without doing much damage? That’s pretty much luck of the try-to-get-close-enough-to-scare shooting variety.”

  She studied the bandage he’d tied off, then him. “And you know a lot about shooting?”

  “Enough.”

  “You want me to trust you for no reason, and then you’re evasive?” she said with such utter contempt he had to believe she’d been hurt before. There was a reason she and her father were tucked away here, and judging from the weapon she’d used on him and the one she’d carried with her, cash flow wasn’t the problem, or the only one.

  Unless the guns were obtained illegally, which was always possible. Too many questions. Not enough answers. Mostly, she was right not to trust him and find his evasion lacking.

  If he wanted to help her—and he couldn’t explain to her or, even worse, to himself, why he wanted to help her—he’d need to offer up some tr
uths. Besides, offering truths to her was better than finding the answer to that question inside himself.

  “My name is Cameron Delaney, though I go by Cam,” he began, trying to think what would be important for a scared young woman to know. “I grew up in Bent, Wyoming. If you’ve ever been there you’ve probably heard of the Delaneys. My sister was the deputy you spoke with. I was in the Marines for almost fifteen years, but I decided to come home last year and open a security firm. Hence the knowledge of guns and shooting them. Is there anything else you’d like to know?”

  “Why?”

  “Well, there aren’t a lot of security options in—”

  “No, why did you leave the Marines?”

  He had practiced responses to that question. Responses he’d given his family and friends. The rote answers weren’t coming right this second. He had to search for them.

  “It was time.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s grueling, and I wasn’t...” Fit. He’d known he wasn’t fit for duty anymore. Not with Aaron’s suicide hanging over him. Not with that utter failure to notice, to help. He hadn’t been able to get past that.

  “You weren’t what?” the woman demanded.

  He owed her nothing. He could turn around and go home. He had all the choices in the world. But if he could help her... If he could help people, surely at some point it would make up for what he hadn’t helped.

  “A man in my unit committed suicide.” His voice sounded rough and strained, and he wasn’t sure what he expected the woman’s response to be, but she only blinked. “I had a hard time coping after that.”

  “They kick you out?”

  “No, I was granted an honorable discharge.” Honor. What a laugh.

  “If I let you help me, what’s in it for you?”

  “Having helped,” he replied with all the sincerity he had.

  “You don’t know me. What would helping matter?”

  He shouldn’t be baffled or irritated by her pressing the issue, demanding some kind of proof he was a decent human being. She shouldn’t believe he was. She shouldn’t trust him. “Haven’t you ever helped someone simply because you could?”