Page 4 of Wild Embers
Ahumanfigure.
Shit.
Throwing the gear into park, I don’t even take time to turn off the engine. My stomach contracts into a tight ball when I realize the person in the fire is draped on a cross like a scarecrow.
And they aren’t moving.
I grab handfuls of snow and rush them over to the base of the stake. As I drop the snow in an attempt to douse the flames, my face turns pink from the heat.
Repeating the method multiple times barely makes a dent.
I pant heavily, the cold creating its own type of burn in my lungs. A bead of sweat trickles from my hairline down the side of my face from exertion. My gloves are wet from the snow, causing my fingers to throb.
Defeat and exhaustion weigh on my shoulders.
Who did this? Who is in the fire? And why?
The piercing shriek of sirens has me turning my head toward the sound as a large truck turns onto the dirt path I used a few minutes ago. The flashing red and blue lights on top of the cab hurt my already tired eyes.
When the truck slams on the brakes, stopping next to my Jeep, I’m able to make out a word on the side in big bold letters.
SHERIFF.
My racing heart stills.
The cab door opens, and out hops someone I haven’t laid eyes on in twelve years.
A man who has always been closed off to me.
The last person I wanted to see.
His tanned wool coat hangs open despite the cold, revealing a charcoal Henley stretched across his broad shoulders and muscled chest. Faded jeans disappear into weathered boots that have seen more Wyoming winters than most people.
His dark hair is almost a little too long, his jaw perpetually covered in stubble. He’s all sharp angles and hard lines.
There's something about the way he carries himself—steady, controlled, unmovable. He's intimidating without trying to be.
He’s the type of man that parents warn their daughters to stay away from.
Walker Maddox.
And he looks pissed to see me.
CHAPTER 2
WALKER
Taking one last drag from the cigarette between my fingers, I drop it on the asphalt of the Main Street Diner parking lot and step on it with my boot. I release the heavy smoke from my lungs along with the sweet burn.
The burn makes me feel. It cuts through the numbness in my chest where nothing else can.
Not freezing air.
Not a quick romp in a bar bathroom.
Not the crack of a bullet leaving the barrel of my gun.
I feel nothing.
