Page 18 of Rough Marshal Daddy
I swing the axe again, harder this time. The impact sends a deeper vibration up my arms and into my injured shoulder. Sweat beads on my forehead despite the freezing air, trickling down my temple and mixing with the melted snow on my skin. My injured arm protests with a sharp throb, but I ignore it. Physical work has always been my way of clearing my head. Today it’s not working nearly as well as I need it to.
The truth keeps circling in my mind like a vulture. I want her. Not just for the storm. Not just for the heat that explodes between us every time we touch. I want her in my life. In my cabin. In my bed every single night. I want to wake up to the smell of her baking those ridiculous cookies and hear her bright laugh when she beats me at chess again. I want to be the man who keeps her safe, who makes her feel like the sunshine she is. But wanting something doesn’t mean I deserve it.
And soon the storm will end completely. The roads will clear. WITSEC will take her, give her a new name and a new life far away from here. Far away from me. I’ll never even know where she ends up. The thought sits like a heavy stone in my gut, cold and unyielding.
I split another log, the loud crack echoing in the quiet morning air. Snow crunches under my boots as I toss the split pieces onto the growing pile beside me. My breath comes harder now, chest rising and falling with effort. The cold air burns in my lungs but it feels good.
The satellite phone in my jacket pocket vibrates sharply against my chest. I set the axe down against the chopping block with a heavy thud and pull the phone out, recognizing Kane’s number immediately.
“Cole,” I answer, my voice low and guarded.
“Got movement on the Morettis,” Kane says without preamble. His tone is dead serious, all business. “Two vehicles just crossed the border into Montana. Jax and Colt are already heading that way to see what they’re up to. We don’t think they have her exact location yet, but they’re definitely getting closer. The storm’s easing faster than predicted. We may need to move her early. Roads are starting to clear.”
I glance back at the cabin. Through the small window I can see Riley moving around the kitchen, flour dusting her cheek, humming softly to herself as she works at the counter. The sight hits me hard, warm and painful all at once.
“Wherever she goes,” I say, my voice coming out roughand final, “I go with her. Until she’s fully settled in WITSEC. I’m not handing her over to anyone else.”
Kane is quiet for a beat on the other end. “You sure about that, man? This is getting complicated. Real complicated.”
“I’m sure,” I reply without hesitation. “She stays under my protection until the handoff is complete.”
“Alright,” Kane says after a moment. “I’ll pass it up the chain. Stay ready out there. We’ll update you the second we know more.”
I end the call and slide the phone back into my pocket. The axe feels heavier when I pick it up again. I split three more logs in quick succession, the physical work doing nothing to quiet the storm raging inside my head. Riley deserves safety. She deserves peace. She deserves a life without constantly looking over her shoulder. And as much as I want to be the one to give her all of that, I know how the system works. Once WITSEC has her, even I won’t be able to find her. That’s the entire point. Complete separation for her protection.
I don’t know how the hell I’m supposed to let her go.
The cabin door creaks open behind me. I turn slowly and there she is, wrapped up in one of my heavy coats that swallows her small frame. Her cheeks are pink fromthe warmth inside, and she’s holding two steaming mugs of coffee.
“I thought you might want something warm,” she says, that soft, sparkling light still in her eyes even after everything we’ve been through. “I’m about to start baking cookies.”
I set the axe down against the chopping block and walk over to her, my boots crunching through the snow. She hands me one of the mugs and I take it, our fingers brushing together. The small contact sends a jolt of heat straight through me. I sip the coffee, strong and black, the bitterness grounding me for a second while the steam warms my face.
“Thank you,” I say, my voice quieter than usual.
She studies my face for a long moment, searching. Then she steps closer, the snow crunching softly under her boots. “You okay out here? You’ve been chopping wood for a while.”
I look down at her, this bright, brave woman who stumbled into my life and turned everything upside down. The truth sits heavy on my tongue but I swallow it back. Instead I reach out and tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers linger against her warm cheek for just a moment.
“Yeah,” I lie softly. “I’m okay.”
But as we stand there together in the cold morning light with the storm finally breaking around us, I know the real storm is just beginning. The one inside me. The one that doesn’t want to let her go.
And I have no idea how I’m going to survive it when the time comes.
19
Riley
The kitchen smells like pure happiness right now, which is exactly what I need because my brain keeps trying to spiral into full panic mode every five seconds. I have flour on my cheek, chocolate on my fingers, and a ridiculous amount of determination in my heart as I stir the cookie dough with way more enthusiasm than necessary.
The wooden spoon scrapes against the big mixing bowl in a satisfying rhythm, the thick dough resisting at first before giving way with a lovely, sticky pull. The scent of melting butter, brown sugar, and vanilla rises up in sweet, warm waves that wrap around me like a hug from better days. I add another handful of chocolate chips, watching them disappear into the dough with little plops, and hum an off-key version of an old love song my dad used to play on the radio.
Baking’s always been my happy place. Right now it’s also my very determined attempt to pretend the world outside this cabin is not closing in. The Moretti family might be out there somewhere, but in here I have chocolate chip cookies, and that feels like a small victory. I scoop a generous ball of dough onto the baking sheet, pressing it down gently with my fingers. The dough is cool and soft, yielding perfectly under my touch. I smile at the little mound like it’s a personal triumph.
“Take that, scary mafia people,” I mutter under my breath, adding another scoop. “You can’t ruin perfect cookies.”
The oven’s already preheated, radiating steady heat that warms the whole kitchen area. I slide the first tray in, the metal rack making a soft scrape as I push it inside. The door closes with a satisfying click, and I set the timer, wiping my hands on the oversized apron I fashioned from one of Mason’s dish towels. Flour dusts the air every time I move, floating in the sunlight coming through the small window like tiny sparkling stars. The cabin smells like a bakery now, sweet and comforting, and it makes me feel a little lighter.
