Page 50 of Mountain Grump Protector
“This is not your mess.” Cal turns so suddenly that I take a staggering step backwards. “This is his mess,” he doesn’t bother looking at Bryson, but we both know who he’s talking about. “And I will not have you getting caught up in it. Again.”
“Cal. This is—”
“Please.”
The softness of the single word surprises us both. His gaze flicks to the garage door at the sound of a slamming door.
We’re out of time.
For a moment, he stares at me.
Another truck door slams. A voice, loud and angry, calls out, but Cal doesn’t look away.
“Willow,” he says quietly, closing the inches between us. “Don’t make me choose between protecting you and dealing with this.”
The words hit me harder than anything else he’s said, because underneath the anger and the secrets I’ve kept, it’s clear that he cares.
I hesitate, but only for another second, and only because never in my life has anyone ever cared enough about me to protect me.
Ever.
“Be careful,” I whisper the words before pressing my lips to his, turning and running out the back door toward the house.
Cal
The second I step out of the garage, my training kicks in. My eyes scan the yard, assessing the scene.
From the corner of my eye, I see the porch door swing shut. Good, Willow's safely inside.
Two trucks.
Four men.
The gravel crunches under my feet as I take a step toward the house, placing myself between the trespassers and the women inside.
Murph is by my side, his teeth bared, a low growl rumbling from his chest.
I glance down at my faithful companion. “Murph, go find Willow.”
The dog looks up with big eyes, but I gesture toward the house with a slight nod. Like the good boy he is, the dog runs off without another word, positioning himself on the top of the porch where he can stand guard for the woman we’ve both fallen for.
It’s only then that I give the situation my full attention.
Ronnie Hatch leans against the hood of a blue truck I don’t recognize, probably because Willow's idiot brother stole his usual ride. I clench my teeth and mutter out a few choice curse words about the moron in my garage who started all of this.
Hatch looks up at the sound of my boots crunching on gravel. His thumbs are hooked through his belt loops, his expression relaxed enough that there’s no doubt the asshole thinks he’s got this situation easily in hand.
He’s wrong. Very wrong.
Beside me, Luke appears from the direction of the cabin and falls into place next to me without a word, only a nod that tells me what I need to know.
The women are safe, and the message has been sent to the rest of our brothers. Holt and Beck will have been notified in case things go sideways out here.
Not that I expect them to. Hatch isn’t the type to want to draw attention to himself more than necessary. With any luck, he’ll take his money and get the hell off my property for good.
Hatch stands, spitting a stream of tobacco juice into the dirt at his feet.
Filthy animal.
