“You might be on to something,” Annie replied slowly, turning to Sawyer. “He was the one who contacted the paper and suggested that I do that story on Garret.”

“Does he happen to drive a Honda Civic by any chance?” Quinn asked, remembering the car that scared her recently in the A Novel Experience parking lot.

“That’s his mom’s car,” Garret replied. “He still lives at home. But I’m telling you, he’s harmless, not our guy.”

Wilder folded his arms. “Go to his house and I’ll bet you’ll find everything you need. I might have been wrong thinking Garret was the culprit, but Lenny fits the bill. He wanted to make his buddy a hero so he could bask in the limelight.”

“A hypothesis does not a search warrant make,” Sawyer said. “I say we all get on home and in the morning I’ll look into everything.”

“Remember the milk jugs?” Wilder pushed.

Garret jerked. “What about milk jugs?”

Wilder studied him. “That’s what started the fires. Gasoline was poured into milk jugs as an accelerant and a cotton sock was used as a wick each time to light it.”

“We never found a milk jug,” Garret said.

“You didn’t look, or rather, didn’t know what to look out for. We had a few arsonist situations on and off in Montana over the years and one’s method of choice was the milk jug.”

“Lenny is allergic to dairy,” Garret muttered, “but I saw him buying two gallons last week. Didn’t think much of it at the time.”

“Think you can keep your trap shut, not alert him that he’s a suspect?” Sawyer said with a layer of menace.

“Sure thing, Sheriff. But are you sure about Lenny?” Garret shook his head. “This guy makes more sense.” He jutted a thumb at Wilder.

“This guy isn’t sitting in the hot seat for one second longer,” Quinn said, reaching out a hand. “He’s coming home with me.”

Wilder blinked at her hand. She still wanted him? “Home?”

Shit. That was a hell of a thing to say.

“Your home,” she clarified.

Grandma nodded. “I knew I liked this one.”

Wilder glanced down at Quinn’s beautiful, trusting gaze and knew what he felt was a good deal more than like.

Chapter Nineteen

QUINN STARED AT Wilder’s back as he bent, big hands braced on his kitchen counter. He was a powerfully built man, no doubt about it, with shoulders that could carry more than his fair share of the load. Morning was still a ways off. “The darkest hour is just before dawn,” she whispered.

“What’s that?” he asked, his voice distant.

“Sharing your story with your brothers tonight was brave. I am proud of you.”

“Feels like a dream.” He shook his head. “I always thought that if they knew, they’d hate me as much as I hated myself.”

Quinn walked to him, rested her hand on the small of his back, and felt the big muscles tense and bunch at her touch.

“Your mother sounded like she loved you very much. She was a brave woman.”

“I wonder if she can see me ever.” Wilder shook his head. “If she looks down and sees the man I’ve become. Whether I’ve disappointed her.”

“I don’t know where she is, or what she sees, but I do know one thing. You are the kind of man any mother would be proud to claim. You’re a hero—”

“No.”

“Yes,” Quinn retorted firmly. “You protected vulnerable people when you were younger, even if the fight wasn’t your own. You had a job where you jumped out of freaking airplanes to battle wildfires. You leave out cracked corn for deer in winter and worry if they are getting enough to eat. You were kind to a strange man who needed a helping hand, and as much as you might say you’re a fighter, you’re also a lover.” She gave a naughty smile. “And a darn good one at that.”

He turned around and faced her full-on. “Can I ask you for one thing, Quinn?”

“Of course.” Her stomach rolled at his use of her name. This sounded serious.

“Hold me?” he asked gruffly.

God, this man knew how to melt her. “Come.” She took him by the hand, led him into his room. There in the quiet dark, they removed their clothes. Not fast or urgent, but as if they’d done this a hundred times before. Wilder set his leg against the dresser. “Same as leaving out a glass of water,” he said ruefully.

She leaned out and stroked his injured leg as he sat, his thigh muscle still rock hard and solid. “When I look at this injury, I do feel sadness. Sadness that you suffered and even illogical fear because while you are safe beside me, warm and alive, I can’t believe you lived after a freaking parachute malfunction dropped you into a fire. The idea has given me a couple of nightmares.”

“Me too.” He buried his face in her hair and inhaled deeply. “But when I sleep beside you, hold you close, and smell the wildflower scent in your hair, I’m taken to a world where there is no smoke, no fire. I’m safe.”

“You’ll always be safe here, in my arms, next to me.” She tried to ignore the shiver shooting down her spine. The one that worried he was attached. That she was too attached. Wilder was beginning to dismantle his walls, open up, and believe the world might hold something good for him after all. What if she was the one to snatch that newfound hope away?

Her test results still hadn’t come in.

She wanted him to keep walking toward the light, not be pulled back into the darkness of a bad diagnosis. He was a good man. If the worst was true, he’d want to stick by her, he’d try and do the right thing even if it came at the cost of his own future.

She couldn’t ask him to give up his life for sacrifice or suffering. Determination bloomed through her. No, she would never ask for that, but she could hold him until the sun rose and the earth spun to a new day.

He pressed his length against her and they adjusted their bodies until they found the perfect fit, their ribs rising and falling in synchronicity, fingers laced, foreheads touching. He wasn’t physically inside her and yet he was still imbedded deeply.

She knew that the fact she was willing to let him go was proof that this feeling filling up her insides, however illogical, was real.

“I’m falling in love with you,” she murmured.

He squeezed her hand. “Good, because I’ve been on my ass about you since the night you walked into my house during the worst storm in half a decade and started arguing.”

“That’s all it took?”

“That and this pretty backside.” He slid one of his hands down to squeeze the top of her rump.

“Stop, I’m serious,” she said with a giggle.

“I can’t say it was love at first sight, Trouble. More like love at first challenge.”

She leaned down, pressed her lips to his neck, sucked softly as he let out a soundless moan—his ribs swelled, but no sound escaped.

I love you. I love you. I love you. She branded the words into every nip and suck of his skin. This wasn’t a love that had been battle tested, polished by years and shared experience. It was new, jagged on the edges, and had the potential to slice through her like a ninja throwing star.

But this wasn’t affection or mere attraction. It was a recognition of his intense fragility beneath the intimidating attitude. It was the fact that his innate cockiness also carried a recognition of his own fallibility. He was a mess of contradictions, but stripped to his core, he was the kind of guy who could have gone bad, made rotten choices, and in some ways she wouldn’t have blamed him. No kid should be expected to suffer what he did. Instead, he dug in, through sheer stubbornness, and if all of his choices weren’t perfect, that only rendered him more human.

He pulled her head back, bracing her face between his hands.

“What is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’. Need to taste you.” He tugged her close, his lips parting hers, his tongue pressing inside with hard, thick thrusts, rough and needy, holding just enough recklessness to make her respond to the challenge.