LITMIR.BIZ

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and she liked to think he’d try to protect her if one came along, but he had yet to have to prove himself.

      “Maybe I should rephrase that,” Logan said. “Gabe Wilson hired the company I work for to find you.”

      “Why?”

      “He had some information he wanted to share with you.”

      “I’m not interested.”

      He cocked his head to the side, and despite the foliage between them, she was sure he was taking in her mud-splattered jeans, her hiking boots, the thick wool coat she wore over her T-shirt. “All right. I’ll give him the message for you.”

      “That’s it?”

      “He hired us to find you, Harper.” He drawled her name, just a bit of a Southern accent in the words. “When he did, he signed a contract stating that if you don’t want to be found, you simply have to say so. He gets no address. No phone number. Nothing.”

      “That doesn’t seem like something Gabe would agree to.” Her brother-in-law never gave up on anything. He was determined and driven to a fault. At least, he had been four years ago.

      “He didn’t have a choice. That’s the way HEART works.”

      “HEART?”

      “We’re a freelance security and hostage rescue team,” he responded as if that explained everything. “I’ll pass along your message.” He slid into the Jeep and would have closed the door, but the sound of an engine drifted from somewhere down the road. He frowned. “You expecting company?”

      “No.”

      “I guess I’ll stick around, see who’s coming.”

      “That’s not necessary.”

      “Sure it is.” He crossed the distance between them and pulled back the pine bough that hung closest to her face. “But it really isn’t necessary for you to keep hiding from me. If I’d wanted to hurt you, I’d have done it by now.”

      “That’s...comforting.”

      “You know what would be comforting, Harper? The idea that someone who lives out in the middle of nowhere and tromps through the woods every day looking for mud—”

      “Clay,” she corrected him, and he nodded.

      “Clay. What would make me feel comfortable is the idea that this person was carrying a firearm.”

      “I have bear spray.”

      “Bear spray isn’t going to take down a guy who’s a dozen feet away, pointing a gun at you.”

      “I—”

      “Guy’s coming fast,” he said, cutting her off and moving into the tree line.

      “How can you t—?”

      Before she could finish the question, a black sedan was racing into view. Picasso barked excitedly. Two visitors was a dream come true. He lunged toward the driveway, breaking from Harper’s hold.

      She followed without thinking, lunging out into the open, the car barreling down on them.

      She had about three seconds to realize it wasn’t going to stop, three seconds to think about the fact that whoever was driving had every intention of mowing her down.

      And then she was tackled from behind, rolled toward the trees again.

      Tires squealed. Someone shouted.

      Logan?

      And then the world exploded, dirt flying up from the ground near her head, dead leaves jumping into the air, dust and debris and the acrid scent of gunfire stinging her nose.

      * * *

      Logan Fitzgerald had a split second to realize he’d been used before the first bullet flew. He didn’t like it. Didn’t like that he’d been used to find a woman whom someone apparently wanted dead.

      Gabe Wilson?

      Probably, but Logan didn’t have time to think about it. Not now. Later he’d figure things out.

      For now, he just had to stay alive, keep Harper alive.

      He pulled his handgun, fired a shot into the front windshield of the dark sedan. Not a kill shot, but it was enough to take out the glass, cause a distraction.

      He rolled off Harper’s prone form and shoved her toward the tree line. “Go!” he shouted, firing another shot, this one in the front tire.

      She scrambled into the bushes, her giant dog following along behind her.

      The sedan backed up, tires squealing as the driver tried to speed away. Not an easy task with a flat tire, and Logan caught a glimpse of two men. One dark haired. One bald. He fired toward the gunman and saw the bald guy duck as the bullet slammed into what remained of the windshield.

      He could have pursued them, shot out another tire, tried to take them both down. This was what he was trained to do—face down the opponent, win. But Harper had run into the woods. He didn’t know how far, didn’t know if she was out of range of the gunman or close enough to take a stray bullet.

      He knew what he wanted to do—pursue the gunman, find out who had hired him, find out why.

      He also knew what his boss, Chance Miller, would say—protect the innocent first. Worry about the criminals later.

      He’d have been right.

      Logan knew it, but he still wanted to hunt the gunmen down.

      He holstered his gun and stepped into the trees, the sound of the car thumping along the gravel road ringing through the early morning.

      Sunlight streamed in through the tree canopy, glinting off leaves still wet from the previous night’s rain. He’d stayed in a tiny bed-and-breakfast at the edge of a national park, waiting for sunrise to come. He hadn’t wanted to drive out to Harper’s place in the middle of the night. If he’d known he had a tail, he wouldn’t have driven out at all.

      He scowled, moving down a steep embankment, following a trail of footprints in the damp earth. He could hear a creek babbling, the quiet melody belying the violence that had just occurred.

      The car engine died, the thump of tires ceasing.

      A door opened. Closed.

      Was the gunman pursuing them?

      He lost the trail of footprints at a creek that tripped along the base of a deep embankment. A bucket was there, sitting near the water, half filled with red mud.

      Clay, Harper had said.

      He didn’t think it would matter much if they were both dead.

      He wanted to call to her, draw her out of her hiding place, but the forest had gone dead silent. Years of working in some of the most dangerous places in Afghanistan had honed his senses. Even now, years after he’d left the military to raise his younger siblings, he knew when trouble was lurking nearby.

      He moved cautiously, keeping low as he crossed the creek and searched for footprints in the mucky earth. The scent of dead leaves filled his nose, the late November air slicing through his jacket. He ignored the cold. Ignored everything but his mission—finding Harper Shelby and keeping her alive.

      He moved up the embankment, dropping to the ground as leaves crackled behind him. Whoever was coming wasn’t being quiet about it. Not Harper. She’d moved like a wraith, disappearing into the forest with barely a sound.

      He eased behind a thick oak, adrenaline pumping through him as he waited for his quarry. It didn’t take long. A few more loud snaps of branches and crackles of leaves and the bald man appeared, inching his way down toward the creek, his belly hanging over a belt that was cinched so tight, Logan was surprised the guy could breathe.

      He could have taken him out then, fired one shot that would bring the guy down

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