Chapter Six
Hazel
The sky had grown dark, the distant sound of wild animals rustled through the grass. I kept in the meadow, the road just a few feet away, but I wouldn’t walk on the paved surface.
Every time a car drove by, I stopped and ducked, laying against the grass, hiding from the men who were out searching for me, the same men who killed the U.S. Marshals. Was it Franco or one of his goons? Either way, I wasn’t safe.
My feet hurt and were blistered. I couldn’t remove my shoes though, that would be even more painful and stupid.
I hadn’t anticipated that the U.S. Marshals would end up dead. This was all my fault.
I wrapped my arms around myself, the steep incline up the mountain difficult on my city girl calves. I was not in shape, at least not for a hike of this magnitude. I was out of breath.
The higher I climbed; the more snow covered the route.
The sound of tires on gravel and sludge forced me to freeze. Someone was coming. Was it Franco? I ducked down and held completely still, the forest surrounding me, allowing the vehicle to pass by as I went unnoticed by the driver.
The truck sped along the slushy snow and gravel road up the mountain. In the distance, through the forest a porch light flickered. I went off the road and through the brush, branches crunching under my feet. I needed to take the shortcut. It was the only way to get out of the cold as fast as possible.
From my crouched position, I watched with fascination as a man stepped out from his truck and stood outside the building. It was too big to be a house. It wasn’t possible for him to see me. I took several more steps forward.
He couldn’t know I was out here, right? My stomach flopped, and I wiped the sweat from my palms on my jeans.
He was nothing more than a silhouette, a handsome one at that from what I could tell, but it was dark, and within a few short moments, he had gone inside. I hovered near the forest entrance and stepped into the slick, snowy muck. My shoes sunk into the dampness as I approached the building with a darkened sign that read ‘Lumberjack Shack.’
Outside, two vehicles were parked. Was it the owner and a staff member? It didn’t look open, but it was also very late or incredibly early, depending on how you looked at it. I hurried toward the entrance and tried the door, curious if they kept it locked.
It didn’t budge. I peered into the window; the chairs were situated upside down on the tables. The place was closed for the night. Would they be opening soon? The sun might not come up for a few more hours, but if they served coffee and breakfast, then they would open.
The front door flung open, and I jumped, startled. It wasn’t one of the men after me. One glance at the gentleman, and he looked every bit of a mountain man with his thick beard and a flannel shirt. “You almost gave me a heart attack!” I said.
“Me? You’re the one peeking in through my windows.” He studied me before glancing at the near-empty parking lot. “No car?”
There was no point in lying to him. “I walked.” I wrapped my arms around myself, feeling tiny compared to his size and stance. He could easily overpower me, but his eyes shined with mirth. He didn’t look scary, not like Franco.
“Come in, out of the cold,” he said.
I didn’t wait for him to ask twice or second guess himself. I followed on his heel and joined him inside. I exhaled a loud, long breath, the warmth of the building already soothing my aching and tender muscles.
The restaurant was dimly lit, and he fixed that right away, making my eyes hurt. I shielded my gaze until I adjusted to the brightness.
“You look like you could use a meal and maybe a shower,” he said.
Yeah, I wasn’t taking my clothes off. Fat chance of that, buddy. “Coffee sounds good.” I needed caffeine to keep me awake. I’d slept maybe an hour or two max in the car on the ride across the country. Had I known what would have gone down, I’d have tried sleeping more.
“I’m Lincoln,” he said, introducing himself.
I stared at him, debating on whether I should give my name or lie. “Ashley Sinclair.” The lie slipped out before I could even stop myself if I wanted to.
“It’s nice to meet you, Ashley Sinclair.” His eyes were tight, narrow as he headed behind the counter to put on a pot of coffee.
I followed, my feet leaving a mess of snow and ice on the inside of the restaurant floor. Lincoln would hate me. He’d hate me more when he realized I couldn’t pay for the coffee. “Actually, I could just use a glass of water.”
I didn’t even have a dollar to my name. My wallet and possessions were back with Franco. Everything I owned had been left behind.
“You look like you’ve been through a lot today. Coffee is on the house,” Lincoln said.
“Really?” I couldn’t believe he was nice just to be kind. People in Chicago weren’t genuinely nice unless they wanted something, and it was to their benefit.