Page 46 of Breaking His Exile

Tilly whined from her spot by the stove. Rainey glanced over, then stood and crossed to her food bin. She measured a scoop of kibble into Tilly’s bowl and set it on the floor. The dog ate without looking up, her whole body bent to the task, and Rainey watched her with both arms crossed and one hip cocked against the counter.

He watched her, still half-expecting the rejection. He’d braced for it since she caught him in the shed.

And still, it didn’t come. This—the oatmeal, feeding the dog, the ordinary rhythm of morning — threw him harder than rejection would have. He didn’t know what to do with her acceptance.

He finished his second bowl and carried it to the wash basin. Rainey was there, sleeves shoved up, scrubbing the pot she’d used for the oatmeal.

He eased her out of the way. She made breakfast. He wasn’t about to stick her with the dishes, too.

She smiled at him again—would he ever get used to the gut-punch when she did that?—and leaned against the counter to watch. “The rain’s stopped. Can we try to signal Ghost today?”

He didn’t want to. He wanted to keep her here with him. Which was selfish. And stupid.

Evander rinsed the bowl, watching the water cloud with oatmeal residue. “We can try,” he said, though the words felt like gravel in his throat. “But we don’t signal from here. We have to hike to the north ridge.”

“How far?”

“Three miles. Steep.” He set the bowl aside and turned to face her. “Your ribs⁠—”

“Are fine.” She straightened from the counter. “When do we leave?”

He studied her expression. She was determined. It would be a waste of breath trying to talk her out of it.

“We need to go now. No telling how long this break in the weather lasts.” He dried his hands and turned to grab his boots. Hers sat on the floor next to his. Lucky she’d been wearing combat boots and not heels when they fled the Dead Marshall. “Your boots and jeans are good enough for the hike, but you’ll want to dress in layers. It will be cool in the pines, but hot once we pass the tree line. Get dressed.” He nodded to the metal storage locker he used as a wardrobe. “There are extra clothes in the locker. And the radio.”

“Got it.”

Tilly lifted her head from the empty bowl, dark ears swiveled toward Rainey, then back to him, reading the shift in the cabin’s energy.

“Tilly, come.” He slung his rifle over his shoulder, grabbed his pack, and reached for the door handle. The cold morning air hit his face, and he went to check on Sable while Rainey dressed. He wasn’t surprised to find his free-spirited mare had shaken off the blanket and left the lean-to to do whatever it was she did.

Rainey came out of the cabin in his flannel-lined jacket. It was too big for her and made her look like a child playing dress-up. She set down the radio and held out her arms, and the sleeves flopped over her hands. “A little big.”

A smile itched at the corner of his mouth as he crossed to her and rolled the sleeves up. He couldn’t seem to stop touching her. “It’ll do.”

His fingers lingered on her wrist after the last cuff was folded. He rubbed a thumb over the handwritten tattoo there.

Be Loud.

It amazed him that she ever thought she needed the reminder.

She didn’t pull away. Her eyes held his, steady, unafraid of whatever she saw in his face.

He dropped his hand and stepped back. Cleared his throat and bent to scoop up the radio, securing it in his pack before sliding the straps over his shoulders. “Follow my pace. You signal if your ribs give you trouble.”

“I will.”

She wouldn’t. He knew that already. Rainey Beckett would hike those three miles with a punctured lung if it meant getting to her brother.

Tilly ranged ahead as they entered the tree line, her dark coat disappearing and reappearing between the trunks. The ground was soft from the rain, needles giving underfoot with a damp squelch. He kept his strides shorter than natural, listening for her breathing behind him, the slight hitch that would tell him she was hiding pain.

The forest climbed around them. Pine scent thickened, resinous and clean, cutting through the mineral smell of wet stone. Sunlight reached the trail in scattered patches where the canopy loosened, and he watched her move through them, her hair catching the light and throwing back gold, her boots finding purchase on the slick ground.

The trail started climbing, cutting across the mountain’s face in switchbacks that forced them onto their hands over the worst of it. Pines gave way to scattered fir and larch, the underbrush dwindling to bare rock and tough alpine grass. The air heated. The wind picked up, carrying the scent of high country and the far-off promise of rain.

Two miles in, the trail opened onto a broad ridge of weathered granite, and the whole east country fell away beneath them—miles of mountains rolling toward the horizon, the valley a deep green bowl, the highway a thin gray thread stitched through it. The sky ran vast and cloudless overhead, but clouds were gathering again to the west.

Evander dropped his pack and unzipped it. The radio came out first—a compact military-surplus unit that could pull in everything from weather bands to encrypted law enforcement channels if you knew how to work it. He extended the antenna and powered it on. Static hissed, then thinned as he worked the dial.