Page 7 of Tormented Hearts

“Definitely not.”

“It’s a legitimate question.”

“It hasn’t been medically recommended in decades. And just…no.”

She didn’t argue, which surprised him as much as two armed men following her had.

She stood and brushed the dirt from her knees with the same brisk efficiency she’d applied to pacing off her mysterious dig site minutes before. “What do you need me to do?”

“My truck. Bring it as close as you can.” He fished the keys from his front pocket and held them out.

Long brown hair swung forward, carrying a scent of fresh citrus as she leaned over him. Her fingers brushed over his palm as she took the keys. “Stay put.”

“Ms. Winthrop—”

“I’ll be right back.”

Though it was totally against his better judgement, she still gripped his weapon, and he knew she could shoot.

She turned and was gone, moving fast through the trees.

And he was on the ground with a numb ass cheek and thigh, two dead men and a rapidly swelling certainty that he just watched the last person on earth obligated to help him disappear into the Wyoming woods.

He lay there and ran the numbers of his next debriefing. One client who fired him mid-op. The same client then witnessed him getting bested by a fucking reptile.

Now here he was, flat on his stomach with venom working through his body that had survived two combat deployments and would apparently be taken out by a snake in front of the one civilian he’d been assigned to protect.

This would be, by a wide margin, the worst debrief of his career. With any luck, the Malone brothers wouldn’t want details.

The ridge had few trees, and he twisted to see where Sinead Winthrop had gone. Sweat ran down his back and soaked the band of his cowboy hat.

The noise of tires crunching over rock sounded close. His vision blurred, and he blinked to clear it as the truck rocked to a stop a few feet from him.

Sinead leaped from the driver’s seat and crouched next to him before he could get a word out. His throat was dry, but his mind was still surprisingly clear.

“Can you sit up?”

He rolled to his good hip and pushed to a stand. His ass was numb where the snake sunk its fangs, but he was able to shift his weight to one leg.

She reached out to steady him.

“If you will just get out of the way, I can walk.” His jaw was clenched.

“If you will only be honest, you’d admit you’ve been lying in the dirt planning your own funeral for at least five minutes. Let me help you.”

He didn’t have the energy to argue, mostly because what she said was accurate. She got a shoulder under his arm—stronger than her frame suggested—and half hauled, half walked him to the back door.

She folded him in with more competence than he expected from someone who, an hour ago, he’d assumed was frightened by a deer.

He collapsed on the back seat, one side of his body throbbing, and his pride in worse shape than his ass.

* * * * *

Sinead had the GPS pulled up on the dash, the blue line unspooling ahead of her through switchbacks. It wasn’t worse than her evening commute in Boston, but she did grip the wheel tighter.

Behind her, Hawk muttered directions she hadn’t asked for and didn’t need.

“Left up here. No—left, the actual left not—”