Finley met Luke’s eyes with a look that said a hundred things. Alarm. Love. Apology.

Luke lunged for her just as Ken shoved her off the ledge.

She fell out of sight.

He’d once seen concrete collapse the hallway where his brother had been. Watching Finley fall—just as terrible.

He rushed to the side of the cliff, where there wasn’t a sheer drop. Here, he could run down.

“Freeze!” one of them yelled.

He didn’t.

Gunshots rang out. He ducked, and the descent took him out of their line of fire. He turned, gun ready. As soon as one of them appeared above, Luke fired. The man wheeled back, out of sight.

“I have plenty of ammunition,” Luke said loudly. “Every time you come into view, I’ll shoot.”

He could see Finley’s body lying motionless a short distance away. It was about a ten-foot drop from the ledge to where the steep, rocky mountainside had caught her. By the look of it, she was unconscious. She might have broken bones. Might have a broken neck.

“I’d get busy taking the gold if I were you,” Luke said. He needed them gone. Now. “People must have heard those gunshots. Rangers will be here soon.”

He crossed to Finley, looking repeatedly for more signs of the men . . . who must be Carla’s brothers. She’d had three of them. And the oldest was named Ken.

He heard them talking in urgent tones. He couldn’t make out all of what they were saying, but it seemed they’d decided to load the gold.

He knelt beside Finley. She appeared fine, except for a bleeding scrape on one wrist. He gently swept her dark hair out of her face. “Finley,” he whispered.

No response.

His fingers probed the back of her head. Warm, sticky liquid. Blood.

He feared moving her. But even more, he feared leaving her here, where Ken and the other two would have a clean shot at her. With extreme care, he lifted her and carried her behind two thick trees. The branches would shield her from sight and the trunks would provide some protection.

She was breathing steadily, but her skin felt cold. He laid her down just long enough to strip off his vest, which he pressed against her head injury. Screaming inside, he hugged her against him and willed his heat into her. His vision latched on the cliff above. His free hand gripped his gun.

With his mind, his body, his soul—he loved her. He loved her, and he should have stopped the hunt long ago. At the very least, he should have told others about the hunt and brought several people here tonight. He’d been an idiot, and he hated himself for not doing the things he should have done.