"Ranger, hold!"

My command cuts through the downpour as I watch my German Shepherd freeze at the edge of the clearing. His ears prick forward, body tense like a coiled spring. Something's wrong.

"What is it, boy?" I move toward him, boots sinking into the mud. This training exercise should have ended an hour ago, but Marcus insisted we push through despite the worsening storm.

Something he's definitely regretting now.

Ranger whines, a sound I rarely hear from him. He's one of the best search dogs in the Pacific Northwest. Disciplined, focused, unshakable. Tonight, though, something's got him spooked.

"Knox, we need to wrap this up," Marcus calls from twenty yards back, his headlamp creating an eerie spotlight in the darkness. "This storm's getting worse."

I ignore him, focused on Ranger's behavior. Almost four years together, and I know every quirk, every signal. This isn't part of the training scenario we've set up. This is something else.

Ranger barks once, sharp and insistent, then bolts into the trees.

"Shit," I mutter, following immediately. Rule number one: trust your dog. Always.

The rain lashes against my face as I follow Ranger's path. I'm soaked through, but the cold doesn't register. Twenty-three years in the military teaches you to ignore discomfort. My headlamp bounces with each stride, illuminating sheets of rain and the occasional flash of Ranger's tail ahead.

The terrain drops suddenly, and I skid down a muddy embankment, catching myself on a tree trunk. Ranger is at the bottom, circling something on the ground. Something that isn't moving.

The beam of my headlamp finds it.

Her.

A woman, face-down in the mud. Dark hair plastered to her head. Blood mixing with rainwater and dirt.

I slide the rest of the way down, dropping to my knees beside her. Two fingers to her neck. There's a pulse. Weak but steady. She's alive.

"Marcus!" I shout over my shoulder. "Get down here! We've got a live one!"

I hear him radioing the rest of the team while I carefully roll the woman to her side, then onto her back. She's young, mid-twenties maybe. Pale face streaked with mud and blood from a nasty gash on her temple. Dark lashes against even darker circles under her eyes. Soaked to the bone and cold as ice.

Swearing under my breath, I shrug out of my rain jacket and cover her. It won't do much against the downpour, but it's something. I run through the assessment protocol mechanically: airway, breathing, circulation. Her chest rises and falls shallowly. Her skin is clammy, her lips tinged blue.

Hypothermia setting in. Possible concussion from the head wound. No obvious broken bones, but that doesn't rule out internal injuries.

"Jesus," Marcus says, skidding to a stop beside me. "Where the hell did she come from?"

"No idea." I keep my voice even, controlled. "No car nearby that I can see. Must have been walking."

"In this?" Marcus gestures at the storm raging around us. "She'd have to be crazy."

"Or desperate," I mutter, more to myself than to him.

I check her pockets for ID. Nothing. Just soaked clothing plastered to a shivering body. She's slim but athletic, with small hands that feel like ice in mine. Something about her vulnerability triggers a protective instinct I thought I'd buried years ago.

"We need to get her to a hospital," Marcus says, already on the radio again.

I shake my head. "Storm's taken out the Cascade Pass road. Sheriff radioed it in an hour ago. Mudslide's blocked the only route to Whitethorn General."

"Shit." Marcus runs a hand over his face. "Medevac?"

"In this weather? Not happening."

The woman groans softly, her eyelids fluttering but not opening. Her head lolls against my arm.

"My cabin's closest," I say, already gathering her into my arms. She weighs almost nothing, folding against my chest like she belongs there. The thought is unwelcome, inappropriate. I push it away. "I've got supplies. I can stabilize her there."

Marcus looks like he wants to argue but knows better. In situations like this, minutes matter. My cabin is less than a quarter mile away. The nearest alternative is his place, over two miles through the storm.

"I'll radio ahead to Sheriff Winters," he says, already backing up the embankment. "Let him know we've got an emergency."

I nod, already moving with the woman cradled against my chest. Ranger circles us anxiously, uncharacteristically concerned about a stranger.

"It's okay, boy," I tell him. "Lead the way home."

He needs no further encouragement, darting ahead through the trees. I follow, careful of my footing on the slick ground. The woman weighs little, but the terrain is treacherous. One wrong step could send us both tumbling.

She stirs against me, a small whimper escaping her lips. Something in my chest tightens at the sound. It's been a long time since I've held anyone this fragile. This breakable.

"You're safe," I say, though I doubt she can hear me. "I've got you."

The words surprise me. I'm not a comforting man. Never have been. Ask my ex-wife. Ask my son.

The trek feels longer with the storm and my burden, but eventually the outline of my cabin appears through the trees. It's not much. A one-bedroom structure I built myself, back when I first moved to Whitethorn seven years ago. Stone foundation, timber walls, metal roof that usually sings me to sleep with the rain. Tonight it sounds like war drums.

Ranger reaches the porch first, waiting impatiently while I maneuver up the steps with the woman. The door isn't locked. No need out here, miles from the nearest neighbor. I shoulder it open, stepping into the warmth of my living room.

The fire in the woodstove is still burning, casting orange light across the room. Ranger shakes vigorously, sending water flying. I make a beeline for the couch, gently setting the woman down.

"Blankets," I murmur, more to focus myself than anything. "First aid kit. Dry clothes."

I move efficiently around the cabin, gathering supplies. The woman hasn't moved, her breathing shallow but steady. Up close, in the light, I can see her better. She's beautiful. The thought is intrusive and unwelcome, but undeniable. High cheekbones, full lips, a small scar above her left eyebrow. Long dark lashes against pale skin.

And young. Christ, she's young. Maybe half my age.

I grab my phone, but there's no signal. The landline is dead too. The storm must have taken out a line somewhere.

"Just us, then," I tell her unconscious form. "Let's get you warmed up."

The first aid training kicks in. Treat for shock and hypothermia first. I grab towels from the bathroom, then hesitate. She needs to get out of those wet clothes. The thought makes me uncomfortable in a way I haven't felt in years.

"Pull it together, Sullivan," I mutter to myself. "This isn't about you."

I've treated countless injuries in the field. Seen more blood and bare skin than most doctors. This shouldn't feel different. But it does.

Carefully, I remove her soaked jacket, then her shoes and socks. Her feet are pale and cold. I rub them briskly with a towel before wrapping them in a blanket.

Her jeans are next, soaked through and clinging to her legs. I keep my eyes on my hands, not letting them wander. Not acknowledging the inappropriate awareness that keeps trying to surface. Her legs are athletic, toned. I cover them quickly with another blanket.

Her shirt is thin, plastered to her skin, revealing the outline of a simple bra underneath. This is where my resolve falters. I've gone too long without a woman. That's all this is. Biology. Nothing more.

I turn away, grabbing one of my own flannel shirts from the bedroom. It'll swallow her whole, but it's dry and warm.

When I return, her eyes are open.

Brown. Unfocused. Confused.

"Where..." Her voice is barely a whisper, cracked around the edges.

"You're safe," I say, keeping my distance. "I found you in the woods. You're injured."

Her gaze tries to focus on me but can't quite manage it. Definitely concussed. Her eyelids flutter closed again before she can say anything more.

I wait, but her breathing has steadied, and she's unconscious again.

Swallowing hard, I finish what needs to be done, keeping my touch professional as I ease her out of the wet shirt and into my dry one. I don't look more than necessary. Don't let my fingers linger. I'm a rescuer, not a creep.

With her settled on the couch, wrapped in blankets with a pillow under her head, I finally step back. Her color is already improving, the blue tinge fading from her lips. The gash on her temple isn't as bad as it first appeared. Head wounds always bleed like a bitch. I clean it carefully, applying butterfly bandages. It won't need stitches.

Ranger has planted himself beside the couch, his large body pressed against it, eyes never leaving the woman's face. It's strange behavior for him. He's usually wary of strangers, the result of abuse before I found him. But something about this woman has triggered his protective instincts.

"You and me both, buddy," I murmur, running a hand over his damp fur.

I should check in with Marcus, let him know she's stable. But the radio's by the door, and I'm reluctant to leave her alone. What if she wakes up, disoriented and afraid in a strange place?

What if she doesn't wake up at all?

I push that thought away, annoyed at my own uncharacteristic worry. I've handled hundreds of rescues over the years. This one shouldn't feel different.

But it does.

I build up the fire, then settle into the armchair across from the couch. Close enough to monitor her, far enough to maintain appropriate distance. The adrenaline of the rescue is wearing off, leaving me aware of my own soaked clothing, the mud caked on my boots.

I should change. Should radio Marcus. Should do anything but sit here staring at an unconscious woman half my age.

Instead, I watch the gentle rise and fall of her chest beneath the blankets. Watch the way the firelight plays across her features, softening them. She looks young but not naive.

Who is she? What the hell was she doing out in a storm like this, miles from anywhere?

Ranger whines softly, nosing at her hand where it's slipped from beneath the blanket. Almost unconsciously, her fingers twitch, curling slightly against his muzzle.

Something shifts in my chest. Something I haven't felt in a very long time. Something dangerous.

I force myself to stand, to move away. To grab the radio from my pack by the door and step onto the covered porch. The rain is still coming down in sheets, wind howling through the trees. The storm isn't letting up anytime soon.

We're stuck here, just the two of us. A stranger in my home, in my clothes. A woman who stirs something in me that should have died years ago.

I radio Marcus, keeping my report clinical and brief. Yes, she's stable. No, I don't know who she is. Yes, I'll call when the phones are back up.

When I return inside, she's shifted slightly, her face turned toward the fire. A strand of dark hair has fallen across her cheek. Without thinking, I reach out to brush it away, my fingers hovering just above her skin.

I catch myself, pulling back.

What the hell am I doing?

I retreat to the bedroom to change into dry clothes, annoyed at my own behavior. I'm acting like some lovesick teen instead of a 47-year-old ex-military professional. It's the isolation, that's all. Too long up here with just Ranger for company. Too many years since Lauren left, taking my son and what remained of my heart with her.

When I return to the living room, the woman is exactly as I left her. Still unconscious, still vulnerable. Still wreaking havoc on my solitude.

I settle back into the chair, prepared for a long night of watching over a stranger who's already gotten under my skin without saying much.

"Who are you?" I ask softly, not expecting an answer.

None comes. Just the sound of the rain on the roof, the crackle of the fire, and Ranger's contented sigh as he guards her.

Whoever she is, whatever brought her to my woods, my instincts tell me nothing will be the same after tonight. And after twenty-three years in the Rangers, I've learned to trust my instincts.

Even when I don't like what they're telling me.