Boyd glances at the couch, takes in the picture she makes—small, exhausted, safe under my roof—and something softens in his expression before he schools it back to business.
“Figured you’d want to talk,” he says, keeping his voice barely above a whisper. “Rafe filled me in on the basics. Plane. Instructor down. She talked it down solo.”
I nod once. “Rick Harlan. Stroke mid-flight. Last update from the hospital was he’s stable in ICU. They’re running more tests, but he’s breathing on his own now.”
Boyd exhales through his nose. “Hell of a first flying lesson.”
“That’s the thing.” I rub a hand over my jaw, feeling the stubble rasp against my palm. “She mentioned Rick by name like she knew him. Not just ‘the instructor.’ And she was running—has been running—before today. Dropped the word ‘ex’ right before she passed out. Didn’t get further than that.”
Boyd’s eyes narrow. “So why the hell is a woman on the run taking flying lessons? Planning an escape route? Or has she already bolted and this was her ride out?”
“Could be either.” I keep my gaze on Hannah while I talk. She hasn’t moved. “Could be she was trying to get far enough away that he couldn’t follow. Could be she’s been laying low here in Timber Creek, figuring out her next move. Either way, she’s scared. Not just plane-scared. Bone-deep, been-running-for-months scared.”
Boyd nods slowly. “Wyatt and I can run some quiet checks. Nothing official—no pulling records that’d ping anyone. Just surface stuff. Socials, property records, missing persons if it fits. See if we can put a name to the shadow chasing her.”
I meet his eyes. “Appreciate it. Keep it between us for now. She’s skittish. Doesn’t trust easy.”
“Understood.” Boyd glances at her again, then back at me. “You good keeping her here? Couch ain’t exactly luxury.”
“She’s in my bed tonight,” I say, and the words come out rougher than I mean. “I’ll take the chair. She needs real rest, not half-assed on a pull-out.”
He doesn’t comment on the growl in my voice or the way my fists clench at my sides. Just gives a short nod. “You know where to find us if it goes sideways.”
I walk him to the door, clasp his shoulder once. “Thanks, brother.”
“Anytime, Silas.”
He steps back into the night. I lock the door behind him, turn the deadbolt, then lean my forehead against the cool wood for a second. The cabin feels quieter now—too quiet. Just the pop of the fire and Hannah’s soft breaths.
I head to the kitchen, moving on autopilot. Fill the coffee pot with water, measure grounds into the filter, flip the switch. The machine gurgles to life while I brace my hands on the counter and watch her through the open doorway.
Where the hell are you from, Hannah?
What’s got you so spooked you’d rather sleep on a stranger’s couch than go back to wherever you came from?
I pour a mug when it’s ready—black, scalding—and carry it back to the living room. I don’t sit. Just stand there, sipping slow, letting the heat burn down my throat while I study her. The quilt has slipped down to her waist. Her shirt’s ridden up a little, exposing a thin strip of skin at her lower back—pale, smooth, unmarked. No bruises I can see. No obvious scars. Whatever hurt her, it wasn’t fists. Not yet, anyway. But the fear in her eyes earlier wasn’t new. It was old. Practiced.
My grip tightens on the mug until my knuckles ache.
I need to protect her.
Not want. Need. Like it’s coded into my DNA now. Like the second I caught her on that runway, some switch flipped and she became my responsibility. My to keep safe. My to shield. My to?—
I cut the thought off before it can finish. She’s exhausted. Traumatized. The last thing she needs is me growling possessive bullshit while she’s trying to heal.
But the feeling doesn’t go away. It settles deeper. Hotter.
I set the mug on the mantel, cross to the couch, and crouch beside her. She doesn’t stir. I slide one arm under her knees, the other behind her shoulders, and lift her as carefully as I can. She’s lighter than she should be—too much running, not enough eating, probably. Her head lolls against my chest, breath warm through my shirt. I carry her down the short hall to the bedroom, ease her onto the mattress, pull the navy quilt over her.
She sighs once—soft, trusting—and burrows deeper into the pillow that still smells like me.
I stand there longer than I should, watching her chest rise and fall. The lamp on the nightstand throws a warm circle of light across her face. Her lashes are dark fans against her cheeks. One hand has curled into the sheet like she’s anchoring herself even in sleep.
I drag the armchair from the corner—the old wingback I keep for late-night reading—and position it beside the bed. I drop into it, stretch my legs out, cross my ankles. The chair creaks under my weight. I don’t care.
I’m not leaving her alone tonight.
Not with whatever’s out there hunting her.