the broad slope of his shoulders, the artful curve of his muscular back. She could see part of the tattoo on his bicep now, some kind of symbol she didn’t recognize. Her eyes homed in on his shoulder where a circular scab was surrounded by pink, puckered flesh.
She must’ve made a sound because he whipped around.
A matching wound appeared on the reverse side of the same shoulder. She blinked at the wound. “Is that a . . . ?”
He grabbed his shirt off a rock, and her eyes caught on the possessions remaining there. Boots, socks, and a black pistol.
She stepped back, her eyes darting to his.
He was watching her, expressionless. Calm as you please, he shrugged into the shirt, then grabbed the gun and slipped it into a holster inside the waistband of his jeans. He sat on the rock and proceeded to put on his socks.
She tightened her arms around her small bundle of kindling. She’d been with him all day and had no idea he carried a gun. Why would he have a gun? Sure, he was in “security,” but there was nothing to protect himself from out here. Wildlife, mainly bears, could be defended against with the bear spray she carried—she’d mentioned that before they left the house.
And then there was that bullet wound on his shoulder—what else could it be? Of course, he could’ve been shot in the line of duty. It was time for a few questions, even though she was half afraid to hear the answers.
“You carry a gun.”
“I have a concealed-carry permit.”
“Okay, but why are you carrying out here? And who shot you?”
He gave her a long, searching look before he proceeded to tug on his boots. “Look, I can see you’re a little shaken up. There’s no need to be. I was shot on the job. The guy who did it is in jail.”
“Is it loaded?”
“Yes.”
She stared at him, wishing he’d look at her so she could read his eyes or something—not that they ever gave much away. But he was looking down, tying his laces.
He might very well be telling the truth. Then again, he might just be a good liar. How did she know if he was really in security? And what did that mean, anyway—security? She’d told Molly he was a security officer, but she supposed the mafia might consider themselves in security too, or a hit man or a random thug for that matter.
Wyatt gave his laces a final tug and looked up at her. His gaze roved over her face, and she had a feeling he saw a lot with that one sweep.
“I carry because I never want to be caught off guard. I don’t want to be vulnerable in the case of a threat, and I don’t want innocent civilians to suffer because I couldn’t protect them.”
She took in his unwavering expression and his unthreatening posture. She hoped he was telling the truth. For better or worse she had bet her life on it when she’d set off on this adventure. And now she had nothing to protect her but three burly guys who seemed like more of a threat than Wyatt did.
He held her eyes captive with that invisible magnetism he seemed to possess in spades. “I would never hurt you, Grace.”
The sticks in her arms began snapping. She loosened her grip. “Right. Okay. Well . . . supper’s ready. We’d best get back.”
Chapter Twelve
Back at camp Grace and Wyatt settled at a picnic table and ate, mostly in silence. From the other site the delicious aroma of grilled burgers carried to her nostrils, teasing her senses. It was getting darker, the shadows pressing in on the campground.
One of their neighbors let out a guffaw, drawing Wyatt’s attention. “You didn’t tell me we had neighbors.”
“We have neighbors.”
His eyes slid briefly to hers, then back to the men.
So she was feeling a little bristly. She didn’t much like feeling vulnerable, and now she was out in the middle of nowhere with three strange men and a mystery guest who carried a loaded gun. And she had no one to blame but herself.
“Doesn’t look like they’re staying the night. No tents.”
Grace glanced over, making out a cooler and snacks. Wyatt was right. They could have tents in the truck bed, but they would’ve set those up before they lost daylight. They’d already laid a fire with wood they’d brought along. It was burning bright, sizzling and snapping in the relative quiet.
A tall, dark-haired guy manned the