Kit Wilkinson - Protector's Honor

Oh, Lord, please help me.

Battling some kind of flu or major dehydration, Rory Farrell was having the worst race of his life. Bent over at the waist, he veered off the path to wait for the cramps and nausea to die away. A few racers passed. If he weren’t so spent, he might have cared that this would be the first time in five years he wouldn’t win the Hendersonville Triathlon.

Instead, he collapsed his large figure down the side of a birch tree and tried to relax his aching body. He focused on steady breathing, taking a moment to soak in the beauty of his native Smoky Mountains. His gaze floated lazily down the steep bank of the mountainside, until it stopped at a most bizarre sight.

Two hunters carried a racer toward the foot of the mountain. A woman. Was she injured? It seemed unlikely considering the way she flailed around between them.

Rory stood then launched himself down the rocky incline to investigate. Something strange was happening and he had a gut feeling that he needed to interfere.

“Hey! What’s going on?” he shouted.

The men paused to locate his position. The larger of the two turned, revealing a nice shiny handgun. A shot rang out and Rory’s trained responses kicked in. He dashed for cover behind a tree. The bullet whizzed by, striking a nearby leaf as it passed.

Well, no doubt about it now. He was definitely going to interfere.

In fact, Rory no longer felt sick. Other, stronger emotions had driven that from his system. His veins pulsed with heated energy and his own innate sense of justice.

The men descended swiftly, dragging the female racer between them. She struggled violently. Another shot echoed across the mountain.

Rory continued to slide closer. Steadily, he gained on them, now close enough to hear her muffled cries and catch a glimpse of her frightened face. A face he recognized. It was the racer he’d noticed at the start—the one with the big brown eyes and great smile. The men had gagged her, further fueling his anger. He pressed on, forgetting the dangers he faced as he drew near.

Rory crept as close as he could, using large trees for cover. Then, he charged at the armed man, yelling at the top of his lungs. A rebel-yell attack. It worked, too. They dropped the girl and stood still for a full second before taking action. Rory moved in and grabbed the armed man’s wrist. Rory pointed the 9 mm down. With his other hand, he struck hard below the ribs. The big guy went down and so did his weapon.

Rory kicked the gun out of reach and spun around as the second man took a swing. Pain riveted through his body as the man’s knuckles made contact with his face. Rory took repeated blows before landing a right hook. The little guy stumbled to the side. Rory retrieved the gun from under the brush. He aimed fast, but the men had already fled. Rory started to follow but hearing the woman moan stopped him in his tracks.

In a thick patch of fern, she lay trembling on her back. She had removed the gag but made no attempt to sit up.

He knelt beside her. “Ma’am, are you okay? Did they hurt you?”

Instead of answering, she closed her eyes while her body shuddered through another violent tremor. He reached a hand to her forearm to steady her, but she tucked away, every muscle tensed and rigid.

“It’s okay.” He softened his tone. “They’re gone. They’re not coming back. I got their gun. See?” She looked up, with large, unfocused eyes. Her face was so pale he feared she would pass out. “Really, ma’am. You’re safe now. But…you’re kind of scaring me. Can you talk? Can you hear me?”

With a sudden jerk, she spun around on all fours and was sick. The sight brought Rory a renewed wave of his own gastric unease. A discomfort he squashed with a quick exhale.

“Feel better?” he asked her.

She turned back and nodded slowly. “I—I didn’t…” Her eyes lifted to his face and widened. “Your nose!”

Rory wiped his face with his forearm and glanced down at the blood. “Oh. That’s nothing,” he said. Although judging from the pain when he moved his head, it was probably broken. That little guy had given it to him good. “Don’t worry about me. What about you? What happened?”

“Those men…They—they said I…” She shook her head and shifted her eyes away. Her lips pressed together tight and flat.

Rory let the questions go. They needed to move. Her story could come later. “You think you can get up?”

She stared back at him and shrugged.

Rory straightened, offering a hand to her. As her palm settled into his, a warm sensation rippled through him—not unlike the pleasant jolt he suffered when he’d spotted her on the lakeshore earlier that morning.

She pulled up and applied weight to both feet then collapsed. Rory shot his arms out and pulled her to his chest. No jolt this time, but he couldn’t pretend he didn’t notice her soft curves brushing against him.

“Okay. Take it easy. Where’s the damage?”

“Right ankle. I turned it. That’s how they got me.”

Already she seemed calmer, her speech more steady. She hobbled back and pushed his hand away as if she didn’t need his help.

He grinned at her determined efforts. “Ms.—”

“Tabitha Beaumont,” she said softly. “And thank you. Thank you for helping me.”

“Tabitha.” He grinned. “I like that. A good strong name.” He put his hand on her elbow, again offering his support. “Rory Farrell and it’s my pleasure. Now, the closest place for us to get help is at the inn, just up the hill here. I’ll piggyback you.”

“Piggyback? No. I’m all right.” She stared up the steep slope and again slid her elbow from his grasp.

“Look, ma’am, I’m a marine. Trust me. I won’t drop you. I’ve done this sort of thing plenty of times.”

She gave him a funny look then began scanning the area below. “You know, there’s another path down there. We could go down instead of up.”

Rory narrowed his eyes and flattened his lips. He wasn’t used to people questioning his authority, especially in this kind of situation. “That trail leads to the falls. We need to go up.”

Tabitha folded her arms across her chest—a stance which he supposed was meant to look defiant. The movement threw her off balance. Rory had to grab her arms again to keep her from toppling over.

“I promise it’s better to go up.” He pulled her close, forcing her weight into his arms, taking the pressure off her bad ankle. Her face scrunched up with disapproval, but he didn’t release her. “Trust me. Let me help you.”

For one moment, she quit struggling and steadied her eyes into his. “I’m sorry. I’m just nervous. I know I need your help.”

A little too quickly, Rory lost himself in her large chocolate eyes. The urge to brush his knuckles across her cheek where some errant curls stuck to her smooth olive skin overwhelmed him and he shook his head to clear his mind. He should have been too focused for such a senseless thought.

“You’re sure there’s not another way?” she asked.

“Positive.” He released her long enough to reclaim the 9 mm Beretta from the ground and engaged its safety. “We’ll need to give this to the police.”

“Police?” She blinked.

“Of course. As soon as we get back, we have to report this.”

“Yes. Right. I’m not thinking clearly. Sorry.”

“Understandable.” He looked at the gun and then down at his flimsy bike shorts. “Could you—”

She turned a shoulder. “Here?”

He tucked the gun snugly into the back of her jogging top. Then he squatted for her to climb aboard. Her hand tentatively came down to his right shoulder blade. It retreated just as quickly.

“No time to be shy.” Urging her bad leg forward, Rory knocked her weight onto his back and felt her slide into position. Two long legs wrapped around his torso. Her hands went to his shoulders. She left as much space as possible between their bodies.