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risk your ass.”
    “Jesus, Remy. Don’t you ever say
    anything unpredictable?” Now his words
    were darker, more gravelly, and slurred
    a bit. “That’s what I do. I risk my ass.
    For people.”
    “I’ll tell you when you tell me why
    the hell you’re so damn angry all the
    time,” she said, setting the whiskey
    down a lot harder than necessary.
    That drew a laugh from him, a short,
    uncivil bark. “All right, I take it back.
    You aren’t predictable. By the way, now
    I’m getting drunk.”
    “Great. How soon till you pass out?”
    Another bark. “Not fucking soon
    enough.” He drew in a deep breath.
    “Never fucking soon enough.”
    The light was flickering, so she
    turned it off. But not before she caught a
    brief look at him as she picked up the
    flash, accidentally—or maybe not—
    directing it his way. His head was tilted
    back against the wall, his too-long dark
    hair a wavy mess around his face and
    unshaven jaw. His eyes appeared to be
    closed, and she could see the outline of
    his cheekbones and strong nose.
    He’d be handsome enough if he
    didn’t have that dark, angry brood
    strapped to him all the time. He was
    built nicely, that was for sure. He wore
    his battered jeans well, and his
    shirtsleeves were rolled up to show
    firm, muscular forearms. And he even
    had attractive feet, solid, strong, and
    elegant. They matched his hands.
    She put the flash away and settled
    down to sleep, her world muzzy.
    Hopeful she wouldn’t dream.
    The last thing she heard was the soft
    clink of the whiskey bottle.
    W yatt opened his eyes to bright, warm
    sunshine. He was still tilted back against
    the wall, the bottle of Jameson’s still
    wedged between his legs. Damned if it
    wasn’t even half empty.
    Maybe that was a good thing. He’d
    have some for tonight.
    He stretched, capped and put the
    whiskey aside, and glanced over at
    Remy. Wrapped in the blanket, she was
    curled up in a ball, and appeared to still
    be sleeping, tucked next to Dantès,
    who’d lifted his head in query.
    His mouth tightened. He didn’t
    remember dreaming. He hoped like hell
    he hadn’t.
    Wyatt gestured for the dog to come
    with him, and moments later he was
    lifting Dantès down from the high door
    of the truck rig so they could both do
    their business. To his dismay, the injured
    canine wasn’t as confident on his feet as
    he’d hoped.
    “You’re not going to be able to travel
    today, are you bud?” Wyatt asked,
    kneeling next to him to examine the
    jaguar’s claw marks and bites.
    In the daylight, his diagnosis of a full
    recovery was borne out, but not without
    a day or two of rest first. There was no
    way Dantès should be hiking twenty,
    thirty miles a day for a while. Wyatt
    glanced at the truck. He hoped Remy
    wasn’t in a hurry to get to Envy. Not
    only were they going to be delayed, but
    she’d been heading in the wrong
    direction for the last day and they would
    have to backtrack about twenty miles.
    He shook his head. How the hell had
    she managed to evade the zombies, the
    Strangers, and the bounty hunters—who
    were all looking for Remington Truth—
    for so long without getting herself
    killed?
    Of course, there was one bounty
    hunter she hadn’t avoided. Ian Marck.
    They’d been partners for a while before
    Ian was tossed over a cliff after having
    the shit beat out of him by Seattle, a rival
    bounty hunter, who’d then abducted
    Remy.
    He’d seen a lot of horror in his day,
    but Wyatt’s stomach still pitched when
    he remembered the condition in which
    he’d found her. Chained beneath
    Seattle’s Humvee, ready to be dragged
    off when he drove away, she’d been half
    dressed, beaten and raped, and God
    knew what else. It was a wonder she
    was even half sane.
    If she had nightmares last night, he
    hadn’t heard it from her. But back at
    Yellow Mountain, when their bedrooms
    were only a short distance down the hall
    from each other, he had. Fucking
    bastard.
    “Good boy,” he said, giving the