Page 3 of Man of Honor

“Did you do that?”

I swallowed hard. “What do you think?”

Silence stretched between us, tight as a rubber band, ready to snap in my face any moment.Judging by the look on Wyatt’sface, I was seconds away from being dragged from the truck and cuffed face-down in the gravel.I took a deep breath, ignored the icepick jab in my lung, and said, “I’m trying to help.”

Wyatt closed his eyes, and a spasm of frustration crossed his expression.He yanked the door open and jammed the gear shift into park before hauling me out by the back of my shirt.“And you thought stealing this death trap was the best way to do it?You haven’t grown up at all, have you?”

That stung, but I kept my mouth shut while he checked the girl’s pulse.I felt strangely protective of her.I doubted anybody besides me cared if she made it through the night, and that made us a team in some messed-up way.

Wyatt’s expression was grim as he lifted her into his arms and carried her to his cruiser.“There’s no time to wait for an ambulance.Get in.”

I hesitated. “No, I?—”

He whirled on me so quickly that I stumbled back a step.His eyes were nearly black in the darkness, boring straight through my brain like a bullet.That gaze held more than frustration or disgust, but I couldn't put my finger on what I was seeing.All I knew was that it made my heart feel too big for my chest.

“You think I’m leaving you here?” Wyatt asked, sounding almost curious.

“Yeah.”

He shook his head, like I was somehow even stupider than he'd thought, but I didn't think that was possible.To him, I was probably still a dumb kid with a crush.“Get in the car, Gage.”

I shoved my hands in my pockets and tried for a careless shrug.“Nah.”

“Get in, or I’ll put you there in cuffs,” Wyatt snapped, losing patience.“Your choice.”

I took a step back. My gaze pinballed between him, the cruiser, and the dark tree line just over my shoulder.

“Don’t do it,” he warned.

Wyatt’s thighs were the size of treetrunks.He was big, strong, and ready to sprint, and while I might be younger and faster, the trek through the bayou had sapped the last of mystrength.It hurt tobreathe.

Besides, running from Wyatt wouldn’t change a damnthing.The Beaufort family was notorious in Devil’sGarden.We were easy tofind.

With a silent curse, I limped over to the cruiser.My damp jeans stuck to the vinyl seat while I squirmed to find a position that didn’t aggravate myribs.

Wyatt climbed in beside me, brushing my arm with the bulk of his Kevlarvest.The scent of his aftershave hit me again, flooding me with memories that sank their hooks deep before I could brace myself.

This was going to be a long ride.

Chapter Two

WYATT

After midnight,nothing good happened this deep in the bayou.I'd have gone after anyone speeding down this stretch of empty highway, but it was my bad luck that the speeder turned out to be Gage Beaufort.Now, he was sitting in my car, taking up more space than he should, breathing the same air as me.

I gripped the wheel in both hands and locked my eyes on the road, doing my damndest not to look at him.Five years and a dozen states between us, and I’d thought—hell, I’d hoped—that would be enough to dull his effect on me.No such luck. If anything, it was worse.

Gage had left this town a boy, but he’d come back all man.Not different, exactly. Just more.Grown, hard, and sexy as sin.The years hadn’t changed him; they’d only made him more of what he was always destined to be.

He sprawled in my passenger seat like he owned it, one arm slung around his middle, the other leg kicked up against the dash without a second thought.Scuff marks? Not even on his radar.Typical Gage. His jeans were so worn and thin they clung to his thighs like a second skin, and his grimy t-shirt stretchedtight across a chest packed with muscle that hadn’t been there five years ago.The lanky, scrappy kid I remembered was long gone, replaced by someone sharper and harder, a man shaped by experiences I could only guess at.

I couldn’t look at him without feeling gut-punched.

He shifted, trying to get comfortable, fingers tapping out some restless rhythm on his thigh.My focus zeroed in on that hand: knuckles bruised and split, veins like a roadmap to nowhere good.My wrist still tingled where he'd grabbed me earlier.

Dispatch crackled over the radio, and I thumbed my shoulder mic to reply.“Traffic. En route to Baptist Memorial with two on board.”

Gage objected. “I don’t like Baptist Memorial.”