The early morning sun spilled over the blue-ridged mountaintops, streaming through the pines until their shadows grew tall. Trixie closed the bunkhouse door behind her and trekked out into the cold, alone. It was well past dawn now, the ranch starting to come awake in small bustles of sound and movement. The whinnies of the horses in the nearby stable carried on the light wind. The sharp crow of a rooster. The occasional rev of one of the pack’s truck engines.
The echoing howls in the forest had long since quieted.
She walked out toward the trees, where the source of her ire had originated. All night, those howls had kept her awake in the moonlight, pacing. She hadn’t slept a wink. Not that wakeful nights weren’t her usual. With her bar schedule, she was a night owl, both by nature and necessity. Nearly as nocturnal as a wolf. But she’d been too wired, too nervous to sleep, even if she’d tried. She’d worried about everything—about Malcolm and how she’d break his heart, about whether Jackie and his family made it out okay, about Dani recovering in the pack’s medical center, and of course, about her own long list of troubles. Even though her momentary blackout had left her exhausted from draining her magic dry, those damn howls had haunted her.
They were a reminder.
That there was too much at stake. Of all her shortcomings. Most her own doing.
Trixie huddled inside the oversized Carhartt coat Malcolm had loaned her, blowing a heated breath out into the chilled air. The vapor swirled about her face, then dissipated. She pulled her hands up into the too-long coat sleeves, wrapping her arms around herself to keep warm. Her mascara was a black, smeared mess. Her hair mussed. She’d told Malcolm she’d needed a minute to clear her head. But in truth…
Her twenty-four hours were up.
Trixie watched in the distance as one of the packmembers opened the stable doors, an audible creak of old wood and hinge. Spotting her, he gave her a curt nod. She lifted a half-hearted hand in greeting, though she wasn’t certain who it was, before she ducked her head in the opposite direction and quickly turned away. She both wanted to be alone and didn’t.
She nudged a rock with the toe of her boot across the frozen short grass. For the first time in a long time, she wished her mother were here to stand beside her, her bad hip jutted out as she leaned against some surface or another. She’d offer her one of those damn Virginia Slims like it would solve all her troubles, even though Trixie didn’t smoke and never had. Her ma would rasp at her that she’d gotten herself into this mess, and she could damn well get herself out without the help of any man.
Trixie wasn’t so certain that was true this time.
She shook her head. She supposed it was fitting that a witch only had her ghosts to help keep her warm.
The phone in the pocket of her jeans buzzed from an incoming call, but she ignored it. She needed to tell Malcolm what Cillian had said about Boss, about…everything, but she didn’t know where to start.
How could she tell the man she now loved that she’d been lying to him?
And she did—love him, that is.
Trixie let out another exhausted sigh. She hadn’t counted on that, on feeling so deeply for Malcolm, among other things. She’d compromised her plans and hadn’t realized the price was too much to pay. Her thoughts turned to her conversation with Cillian, to his taunting. From the beginning, she’d suspected Boss might have been more involved than he’d let on. She’d almost known it when he agreed to forge the binding spell between her and Stan on the Triple S leader’s behalf.
She’d headed west at seventeen after one of her mother’s boyfriends had gotten a bit too handsy. Though the first time she’d set foot in the Coyote, she hadn’t been a day over twenty; nowadays, if anyone asked, she was forever twenty-nine. The first time she’d walked into the Midnight Coyote’s smoke-filled dark, the bar had been dead.
Boss sat at the bar top, a lit cigarette hanging from his lips as he counted the cash drawer. It’d been well past close, but the old warlock had made the mistake of leaving the door unlocked and it’d been easy for her to slip in. She’d stood there for several long minutes in the bar’s entryway, watching him tally the drawer and the credit receipts.
It reminded her of nights spent as a child, her mother at the kitchen table, barely visible through the crack in Trixie’s bedroom door, counting her tips from the diner. Dawn would come soon after and when Trixie would rise, she’d tuck her mother in, wrap a blanket over her on their sofa, and tiptoe out to the bus stop or to the car of whatever boy she was flirting with those days.
After several minutes, when he still hadn’t looked toward her, she cleared her throat.
“I know you’re there, cher.” Boss lifted his cigarette from his lips, flicking the ashes into the mountain-shaped ashtray beside him, some novelty gift from a nearby Billings tourist shop. “We’re closed.”
“Those things are gonna kill you, you know. Always told my mama the same thing.”
With a resigned sigh, Boss reached for a Guinness pint glass full of pens near the register and plucked one out. He scribbled down a figure on a scrap of receipt paper and turned his attention toward her. His smoky exhale wrapped around him, and then he butted his cigarette out. He didn’t scan her up and down, just took in the whole of her in one glance.
She’d liked that.
“And what’s a pretty young one like you doing standing here in my bar, giving me advice, girl?”
She hadn’t been world-wise enough to place his Cajun accent then.
She stepped forward and placed the cashier’s receipt on the bar top beside him, then stepped back again. “I’m here to pay a debt.”
Boss picked up the cashier’s receipt, glanced at the number written upon it, and didn’t so much as blink. It was the whole of her life savings, not that she’d lived very long, but she’d stored away some money from cleaning dishes at the diner for her mother over the years. Occasionally, she’d taken over her shifts when her mother had been too worn out and the arthritis in her knees got too bad.
“This debt isn’t yours, cher,” Boss said. “I’ve never seen you in here before. Who roped you into paying for him?”
Trixie bristled. “Tony Degaetano. He’s my boyfriend,” she said defensively. “And he didn’t rope me into anything.”
Tony’d sworn he’d pay her back, make it right. She believed him. He was still working on the smaller amounts from before, but debt collectors had put him in a bad way and she had a steady paycheck coming in. She knew how it was to always be short on cash. Her whole life, it’d always seemed to be gone only moments after it came into her hand.
There was always someone looking to make a poor girl pay.
Boss shook his head. The look he’d given her then had been one of pity. “Tell me you weren’t so stupid as to use your magic to take on that fool’s debt.”
Trixie stiffened. “I ain’t much, but I ain’t stupid.”
She’d managed to make it through high school, get decent grades. A lot of her friends hadn’t. She hadn’t wanted to take on Tony’s debt as her own, use her magic to transfer the remaining balance to her, but what choice did she have? If Tony didn’t pay, this asshole warlock’s debt collector would tear Tony to pieces, and she’d already known he was in a bad place, trying to get back on his feet.
She loved him. That was what you did to help the ones you loved. Made sacrifices, even when it wasn’t convenient. He treated her real good when he wasn’t too deep in the tables to pay attention. Took her out on real dates, to the movies and dinner and everything when he had some winnings. He told her she was beautiful. Not sexy, but beautiful. She liked that.
So he was a gambler?
Nobody was perfect.
Lord knew she wasn’t worth much herself.
Nothing more than a pair of good legs and tits, her ma’s old boyfriend had said. Will had been his name. A truck driver from San Antonio who’d shacked up with them for a few days before hitting the road again. He’d been one of many.
She’d been fifteen. Ma hadn’t bothered to correct him.
But at least he hadn’t touched her.
Boss let out a long-winded sigh, collecting the stacked bills on the bar top and placing them back into the drawer. He picked up the cashier’s check again, looked at it, and set it back down. “This isn’t enough.”
Trixie blinked. “What do you mean, it isn’t enough? There’s a full five thousand there. Every bit of my savings and then some.” She’d had to take out a small personal loan and a cash advance on her next paycheck from her job as the night attendant at the Exxon gas station out on I-90 and empty out her checking account. She’d be behind on this month’s rent, but Merle would front her, and if he didn’t, she’d figured she could stay with Tony.
He’d never taken her back to his place, but he would if she asked him.
“Did you use your magic for him, cher?” Boss asked again.
Trixie opened her mouth but didn’t answer.
The warlock sighed. “Yes or no?”
“Yes,” she finally breathed. She still wasn’t used to openly discussing her magic. Her mother had never had a coven, and most of the men she’d brought home from the diner had been human. When she’d asked why, her mother had said it kept them safe, kept the power dynamic even. Human men were easy to handle for a witch, but that’d never stopped Ma from letting any of them hurt her.
“Let me give you some advice, cher.” Boss was still shaking his head. “Men like Tony will take you for all you’re worth.”
Trixie’s stomach dropped, but she wasn’t certain why. She didn’t question if what he said was true because something inside her knew already. “What do you mean?” she whispered.
Boss laid the last stack of bills back inside the register and looked at her. That prolonged stare, one eye green and one blue, was unsettling. “He made a deal with me at the crossroads, cher. Five grand was just the start.” Boss’s nose flared as he released another long sigh. “He bet on his soul, his life, and you were stupid enough to take on his debt as your own.”
Trixie felt as if she’d been gutted. Her pulse raced. She felt her chest constrict as she struggled to breathe.
“You have fifteen years left.”
Fifteen years. Fifteen years was over half her life. She’d barely gotten started living.
Fifteen years…
“Before?” Adrenaline caused her to be reckless, ask a question she didn’t want answered. She regretted it the moment it’d left her lips.
Boss didn’t answer her. He didn’t have to. He just gave her that sad, pitying look.
Fifteen years before the hellhounds came for her. Until her soul belonged to the devil. Boss’s mismatched eyes suddenly made sense now, along with his rumored penchant for binding spells. He wasn’t simply a necromancer, a warlock. He was a crossroads demon.
Fifteen years. Bile rose in her throat.
“And he’s married.”
Three words. That’d been the final nail in the coffin. The realization Tony hadn’t loved her. She’d been the other woman, and he’d played her for a fool.
The pitying look in Boss’s eyes suddenly felt like too much. She hated him, hated herself. Tears poured down her face, but she couldn’t bring herself to say anything.
What else was there to say?
“What kind of witch are you, cher?” Boss asked, the question catching her off guard. He stood from the barstool he’d been perched on and made his way toward her then, assessing her like she was an object to be possessed, like a car he needed to repo.
Though she supposed in fifteen years, she would be.
Trixie gaped at him, struggling to answer, torn between running for the door, though she wasn’t certain her feet would carry her there, and dropping to her knees and pleading that he spare her. “I–I’m a veritas witch.”
Boss had laughed, full and throaty. Deep belly laughs. He’d looked like a villain then. Like the man who’d been sent to damn her. Not save her.
The irony of her situation wasn’t lost on her either.
She was supposed to be able to tell truth from lies, but she’d been played as a fool. Magic worked like gut instinct. It only worked if you trusted it. She hadn’t wanted to believe.
So she hadn’t.
Boss clapped her on the shoulder, gripping her frail, shaking body in his large hand and leading her over to the bar top. He didn’t need to tell her to sit. She lifted herself up onto the stool, flats sliding over the metal ribbing of the bottom frame. That’d been the last time she ever wore anything but heels. Boss rounded the bar top, grabbing a tumbler and pouring her a finger of whiskey. She’d taken it in her hand but hadn’t known what to do with it.
She wasn’t even old enough to drink.
In the background, Dolly Parton’s “Jolene” played quietly on the jukebox.
Boss eyed her wearily as she took a sip of the whiskey and coughed, hands still shaking.
“I think we can come to some sort of arrangement, cher.” He nodded. “But this’ll be the last time I clean up your mess.”
The second sip had gone down smoother.
Trixie shivered—whether at the cold or the memory, she didn’t know.
Having her clean up her own messes was one thing. Handing her over to the supernatural Mafia was another. Why would he do that to her, if not for his own benefit? How else had Stan found her apartment? She paid her rent in cash tips the landlord pocketed directly in order to keep her name off the motel’s books. Shifters weren’t the only ones who needed to keep themselves scarce and hidden from humanity.
Still, Cillian’s confirmation of Boss’s involvement had felt like a betrayal. A betrayal of… Well, she didn’t know what. Trust wasn’t what had held her and the old warlock together all these years—magic was, their mutual agreement, and some weird sense of obligation that she somehow owed him for saving her from herself. Even if it’d been him she’d needed saving from. Even if he’d used her.
He meant something to her all the same.
After all they’d been through, could she really drop the dime on him to Malcolm?
She and Boss were family after all.
Family was always fucked up.
The phone in her pocket continued to buzz incessantly, not taking no for an answer. She reached for it, picking up the call only to immediately hang up again. The move would infuriate Stan. But she had nothing to say. She glanced back toward the bunkhouse.
Not to him anyway.
***
Malcolm had ordered the other hands to clear out of the bunkhouse again, and at this rate, he was going to have to take Maverick up on his offer of claiming his own cabin. He sat on his bunk’s thin mattress, elbows resting on his knees and eyes locked with Trixie’s damn dog. The early morning light streamed in through the thin slider windows near the bunkhouse ceiling, illuminating the space in a pale, white glow.
Malcolm adjusted his weight uncomfortably, only causing Dumplin’ to growl louder. He shot the dog an annoyed look. His bunk was more like a cot than a true bed, and his folded-over position was less than comfortable, but that hadn’t stopped him and Trixie from making good use of the mattress last night. The bed frame had been groaning and creaking well into the early morn. At one point, it’d banged against the wall so hard he’d been certain they’d break it.
The thought had been a strange point of pride for him.
Malcolm shook his head, resting his face in his hands. He’d intended to let Trixie rest after that brief blackout at the Blood Rose, but she’d insisted it’d been a result of her magic draining, nothing more, and though they’d tried to rest, sleep wouldn’t claim either of them. He’d still been high on the adrenaline of taking out Cillian, the result of which would cause the bloodsuckers to retaliate, maybe even scare the Triple S enough to cause them to back out, and he was eager to make use of what little time he had left with Trixie before their next battle. She had said she was alright, feeling good even, despite her brief blackout, so he’d trusted her judgment. In part because he realized he trusted her.
From across the room, Dumplin’ stared at him, lip curled and grumbling. The Rottie had been oddly quiet throughout the nighttime hours, only opening his droopy lids and giving Malcolm the occasional angry side-eye whenever Trixie had let out a particularly loud moan, but as soon as Malcolm had risen for the day and pulled on his clothes, work gear, and weapons, Dumplin’ had resumed his position as guard dog. Not that he was very good at it.
“You let us spend all night fucking and then growl when she’s not even here?” he asked the beast. Unlike when he was in wolf form, Malcolm knew the canine could only understand a handful of the words he was saying, instead reading the feeling, his tone of voice, and his body language more than anything, but that didn’t stop him from addressing the thing like they were…well, one and the same.
They’d both gladly let Trixie lead them around on a leash.
Fuck.
Malcolm let out a long sigh, running his fingers through his hair before he raked both hands across the scruff on his chin. Blaze had been right. He’d been a goner from the start. “Look, we need to make peace, okay? For her sake,” he said to Dumplin’. Goddamnit, he couldn’t believe he was doing this. He was sitting here talking with her dog.
But he’d do anything for Trixie.
Be anything. Say anything. More importantly, do anything. Actions spoke louder than words. Whatever she wanted, he’d give it to her. It’d been the same way with Bo.
Because that was what he did for someone he loved.
Malcolm cleared his throat with a rough, raspy cough. He wasn’t certain when he’d realized it. The thought had settled into him like it was as much a part of him as his fur or his leather or his tattoos. Maybe it’d been sometime last night, between her riding his face like she was the cowhand instead of him and he was nothing but a hungry animal for her use, or maybe when she’d grabbed one of his and Bo’s old toys from the trunk at the foot of his bed like the true siren she was and then bent him over the game table like she was in charge.
Shit, maybe she was. He shook his head. Top from the bottom, exactly like he’d predicted. He blew out a brief sigh. He couldn’t bring himself to feel sorry about that.
He raked a hand over his face again. Maybe the change had been the moment he’d taken off her makeup and seen her freckles, those little kisses of color spattered across her cheeks that made her look like she belonged in the warm sun instead of a bar’s darkness. She kept the best parts of herself hidden from the world. But not from him.
For him, she’d been open and honest, willing to show herself. She’d put her trust in him. He wanted to do the same. Anything to make her happy.
There’d been a fear in her eyes last night that he hadn’t understood. Not when they’d been making love, but in the moments in between their shared pleasure. Last night, he’d been her distraction from whatever it was that had plagued her. In those quiet spaces, she’d stared up at the ceiling, naked and relaxed in his arms, listening to the familiar howls that filled the nights at Wolf Pack Run, and more than once, he’d seen tears in her eyes.
He hadn’t asked her what was wrong. She’d tell him whenever she was ready. He’d simply done what she had for him so many times before and sat there in the silence with her, held her against him so that if she’d needed to break, he’d catch the pieces of her in his hands and put them back together.
Pushing up from his seat, he stood, only causing Dumplin’s growls to increase.
He sighed. “Look. I mean it,” he said to the dog. “I’m willing to make nice if you do.” He lifted both hands in a sign of surrender and stepped closer to where Dumplin’ lay at the foot of the opposite bunk.
The Rottweiler’s growls grew louder still.
Immediately, Malcolm eased back, willing to go at the animal’s pace. He watched the dog carefully, his eyes following the canine’s to where Bo’s blade was nestled in its sheath at his hip. The other Grey Wolf warriors hadn’t been fully armed when they’d approached the rescued animal, not with their knives anyway, but he had been.
For a long moment, he simply stared at Dumplin’. He watched the dog’s lip sputter and curl, mouth dripping with slobber. The dog’s bad eye was cloudy, white with a cataract and recessed with a jagged scar that cut through it. Both the good eye and the scarred, misshapen one from where he’d been wounded tracked Malcolm’s every move. At quick glance, Dumplin’s raised hackles looked like rage, aggression, but the longer he stared, the more the dog’s growls looked like fear. Fear that he was going to be hurt, should anyone come any closer.
Malcolm swallowed. He knew the feeling.
“Is that what’s bothering you? Did someone hurt you with something like this?” he asked, nodding toward Bo’s sheathed blade at his hip. He didn’t expect the dog to answer, but something inside him felt compelled to ask the question anyway. He’d assumed the scars the other beast bore had been from his fighting days, from another dog’s claws or teeth while whatever human had abused him forced him into the ring, but now…
Now he wasn’t so certain.
A scar like that could have easily been made by human hands. By a blade meant to injure.
“I’m gonna take it and put it on the table, okay?” he said to Dumplin’. “It’ll stay there. You can trust me. I promise.” Slowly, he reached for the blade.
The moment his hand connected with it, Dumplin’ was on his feet, shoulders hunched and snarling like he was about to charge Malcolm and tear a chunk from his leg to protect himself, but the darkness before dawn was always the most terrifying. Malcolm knew that firsthand. He quickly tossed the weapon on the table, abandoning it with a clatter, before he lifted both his hands again to show Dumplin’ there wasn’t anything in them.
“See. Kept my promise.”
Dumplin’s eyes darted between where Bo’s blade lay on the table and where Malcolm stood, unarmed. Immediately, the dog stopped growling. His mouth opened and he panted several fast breaths. His hackles lowered and he relaxed slightly. Still fearful, but more tentative than aggressive. The stance the Rottweiler held was one that said he could run, if needed, but he trusted Malcolm enough that for now, his feet remained firmly planted in place.
“I’m gonna come closer now, okay? Try to pet you, if you’ll let me?”
The Rottie blinked at him.
When Malcolm took a step forward, the dog jumped back, startled. But another step and this time the canine stayed in place. Malcolm inched toward him, and before they both knew it, he was crouched beside Dumplin’, near eye level with him. He reached out and brushed a hand over the smooth sheen of the dog’s fur. Dumplin’ relaxed into his touch, slowly trusting him.
A moment later, Malcolm was wincing at the wet nose that was suddenly shoved into his face as Dumplin’ sniffed him from head to toe in a hurried frenzy. He had to nudge the beast back when shortly after, a wide, wet tongue connected with the side of his face.
“Ugh,” he groaned. “No kisses. I draw the line at kisses.” He wiped the slobber from his face. But Dumplin’ was in his lap a second later, staring up at him with suddenly affectionate eyes as he panted. Malcolm chuckled. “You really are a softie, aren’t you?”
He wasn’t certain whether he was speaking to the dog or himself.
A moment later, the bunkhouse door opened and Trixie blew in along with a gust of winter wind. She’d returned from her walk and was now flitting about the bunkhouse kitchen like a hummingbird. Finally, when she glanced in their direction, her eyes grew wide.
She blinked. Then blinked again. “Am I…seeing what I think I’m seeing?” she asked.
Malcolm shrugged, turning his head away slightly with another grumble as Dumplin’ pressed his wet nose against Malcolm’s cheek again. “We made our peace, I guess. For you.”
Trixie stared at him for a long moment, silent, before she smiled. If Malcolm hadn’t been paying attention, he wouldn’t have noticed her chin quivering.
His heart plummeted into his feet.
“What’s wrong?” He hadn’t wanted to ask her the night before, to pry, but now he couldn’t stop himself.
To Trixie’s credit, she didn’t hesitate and draw the pain out. She flayed him open with little more than a sentence. “I–I can’t stay here, Malcolm.”
This was it then.
Malcolm blew out a long breath, his hand resting on Dumplin’s head like it belonged there. He had known this moment was coming from the first minute she’d set foot on the ranch. He hadn’t known exactly what she’d been running from then, because she hadn’t told him, but he’d known it was something more than she was saying. He’d recognized the desperate look in her eyes. The one that Dumplin’ had had only moments ago. Fear fueled by a drive to survive.
He’d seen it reflected in his own eyes once, too, reflected back in the windows of that repurposed police car. Rock bottom had a look, a smell, and a taste that only those who’d been there could recognize, because they’d lived there, experienced it. Grief changed a person.
He’d known there was more to her situation with the Triple S than she’d let on. So had Maverick. How could there not be? Still, the Grey Wolf packmaster had trusted that whatever it was, Malcolm would handle it. He’d make it right with the pack’s blessing. Whatever it might be.
He’d known from the moment he’d first slept with her that she was going to break his heart. He was too sensitive for her not to. He’d simply decided the pain would be worth it for the memories he’d have long after she was gone from his life. Memories seemed to be all he was destined to have these days. The details of Bo’s face were already fading from memory along with the few photographs he had. Why not Trixie’s, too?
“I would if I could, but I can’t… I–I made a mistake, a big one, that I can’t take back,” she said. “It was before I knew where…where this was going, and I…” She struggled to hold in her tears, keep her mascara from pouring farther down her face. “I’m sorry, Malcolm. I never counted on this.”
This being loving him. She didn’t have to say it for him to know.
He’d known the moment she’d let him see her true face beneath the makeup. Not saying the words out loud didn’t make it any less real.
He couldn’t blame her. He hadn’t said it either, hadn’t counted on it. But he’d forgiven her from the very start. “Let go of your tears, Trixie.” He met her gaze. He didn’t enjoy her crying, but he needed to see the real emotion there, see what he meant to her.
Trixie’s chin wobbled, tears streaking down her face with it. A moment later, he was on his feet, moving toward her, pulling her in to his chest at the exact moment those tears turned into racking sobs. “Don’t you want to know what I did?” She sniffled, for once seeming to take little notice or consideration of how her makeup had smeared. “How I hurt you?” She hiccupped.
Malcolm shook his head. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does. It does matter.”
You matter. He heard the truth there, as if her magic had become his own, though he knew that was impossible. He simply knew her, better than most, like he’d told her before.
“Not to me,” he said gruffly. He held her tighter for a moment before pulling back. A knife wound was a knife wound no matter the kind of blade. He gripped both her shoulders, staring down at her. “Whatever it is, will telling me make you feel better? Will it make you stay?”
It was both a question and a subtle plea.
Don’t leave me.
I promise I’m worth the risk.
Trixie shook her head. “I can’t stay, Malcolm. Even if I wanted to.”
The grief that cut through him stopped his breath short, but he resigned himself to it. “Then I don’t want to hear it.” He stepped away from her, putting a bit of distance between them, even as he held onto her hand. His thumb traced slow circles over her palm, the smooth lacquer on her manicured nails. Her hands were so soft, unworked. Not worn and ragged like his.
Trixie sniffled again. She swiped at her tears with the sleeve of the Carhartt he’d loaned her. It was so big on her that she was nearly drowning in it. “You’re not going to try and s-stop me?” she sputtered. “Try to convince me not to walk away?”
“No,” he grumbled. “I won’t treat you like that.” He didn’t beg. He didn’t plead. Even when he’d held Bo’s body in his arms, he hadn’t prayed to a god he wasn’t certain existed. That wasn’t his way. Fate dealt him his hand and he accepted it. “You’re a grown woman, Trixie. I won’t try to make those kinds of choices for you.” He gave a rough clear of his throat. “If you say you need to go, that it’s your only option, I believe you.” He met her gaze. “I trust you.”
Trixie was trembling from head to toe. “I think that trust’s misplaced.”
Malcolm shook his head. “I don’t.”
Trixie inhaled a shuddering breath through her mouth. “You will,” she breathed.
It was a warning, but he didn’t need it.
Malcolm nodded. He’d accept whatever she gave him. No matter how much it hurt. “Well until then, there’s nothing else left to say.” His thumb stopped tracing circles on her hand, and before he could stop himself, he was gently leading her along behind him, out of the bunkhouse and into the freezing Montana cold. “There’s something I want to show you.”