Boneyard Ridge by Paula Graves Page B

grim certainty.
    “So, maybe I should show up for work.”
    His gaze snapped up to meet hers. “No.”
    “It would throw your merry band of domestic terrorists for a loop, wouldn’t it? If I showed up for work like nothing was wrong?”
    “And give them a second chance to kill you?” He closed the distance between them swiftly, all semblance of restraint gone. He caught her upper arms in his first tight grip, drawing her gaze to his. His eyes blazed with intensity, plucking her taut nerves until her whole body vibrated from the cacophony.
    “You said I’m not your prisoner.”
    “I never said I was going to let you go back there to be killed.” His grip on her arms tightened to the edge of pain. “Listen to me. I nearly didn’t get to you in time. So many things could have gone very, very wrong last night and we’re damn lucky they didn’t. You’re safe here. We’ve bought time to figure out what to do next. You can’t throw it all away by being pigheaded and stupid.”
    She jerked her arms from his grasp. “Pigheaded and stupid?”
    He scraped his hand through his hair, his fingers tangling in the dark mass of waves. For a second, he seemed comically surprised by the snag, confirming for Susannah her theory that he’d worn his hair military short not so very long ago.
    He met her gaze again, but in a sidelong way, like a puppy who’d been caught chewing up a pair of $800 Jimmy Choos. “Strong-willed and recklessly brave?”
    “Better,” she relented, trying not to smile. If she smiled, she’d have to consider the notion that she liked him as well as found him smoking hot, and, well, here be monsters, matey.
    “Will you stay here and stay put if I hike over the hill to Bitterwood?” he asked after a long, tense moment of silence.
    “What do you plan to do there?”
    “Just drop in at the diner in town, put my ear to the ground and see what shakes loose.”
    “What if someone recognizes you?”
    “Not too many people in Bitterwood know who I am anymore,” he said in a vague tone that suggested he wasn’t really sure he was telling the truth.
    “But they did once?”
    His gaze slithered away. “Not really.”
    She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Okay. I’ll stay put. Just don’t be long. And don’t get caught.”
    “I’ll do my best.” He nodded at the toast that had grown cold and hard while they talked. “Meanwhile, you can eat your cold toast and think of me and a plate full of Maisey Ledbetter’s hot buttered biscuits and gravy.”
    “You’re such a tool.” She picked up one of the pieces of toast and threw it at him as he ducked out of the kitchen, heading for the front of the house.
    The second pair of bread slices popped up out of the toaster, and she snagged them before they could cool down, telling herself as she munched the peanut butter-and-jelly-slathered toast that she didn’t envy Hunter’s oh-so-fattening biscuit-and-gravy breakfast one little bit.
    Then she cleaned up quickly, mentally calculated how long she thought Hunter might be gone on his morning trip to Bitterwood, and got to work.
    If she was right, he’d be gone no less than an hour, no more than two and a half. He’d taken his rucksack with him, she found as she looked around the front room, checking the small closet close to the fireplace as well as the big footlocker chest that doubled as a coffee table.
    The closet was empty. The footlocker, on the other hand, was full. On top of the pile were a couple of spare pillows and a thermal blanket he’d probably used last night to ward off the chill while he slept on the sofa.
    Below that, however, she hit pay dirt.
    The first item she encountered was a set of dog tags. Bragg, Hunter M. His blood type—A positive—and a nine-digit Social Security number, no spaces or dashes. U.S. Army. Sounded right.
    An Army soldier named Hunter Bragg. Why did that seem so familiar?
    When the memory hit, it hit hard, spreading a hard chill through her limbs.