My eyes shot to my guitar. He hung it from his long fingers as if it was a piece of trash to be tossed aside. He was more focused than I would have given him credit for as he seemed to notice where my attention had landed.

He looked at the guitar with surprise, almost as if he’d forgotten he was holding it. He lifted it up and strummed it roughly. The discordant sound sent several critters from the nearby trees and I startled. He laughed again.

“Give her the damn guitar,” an angry voice called from above. Another pair of black motorcycle boots lumbered with preternatural ease down the rough terrain. This man was just as tall but with dark blond hair and facial hair. There was much more emotion in his face. In fact, he had a face that was hard to look away from. He reached the spot where the first man was standing and wrenched the guitar from his hand without a struggle. They were both over six feet tall with imposing, almost threatening physiques that would make any sane man think twice before crossing them.

The second man stepped closer, and instinctively, I took a step back which, from the tiny tilt of his mouth, seemed to amuse him. He had a black plug in each ear and a deep scar lined one side of his perfectly squared jaw, the kind of jaw that made a man undeniably handsome. A ham handed doctor or possibly even a friend or the man himself had done a poor job stitching the gash, yet it didn’t detract from his face.

He stretched his arm out to hand me the guitar. As I reached to take it, our fingers accidentally brushed together and the oddest feeling, a feeling akin to déjà vu, a weird familiarity, pushed the breath from me. His eyes, brown but with flashes of feral gold, met mine for a brief second. It almost seemed as if he’d felt the same thing, but I brushed off the idea as my runaway imagination, a result of the earlier panic attack.

“Don’t you fucking dare turn on that charm, bro,” the first man barked. “I spotted her first.”

The man who had returned the guitar looked back. “She’s not prey, and she’s not for you. Now get your ass back up on your bike.” The first man, the one who seemed to be a few pancakes short of a stack, as my Aunt Carly liked to say, took the time to look me up and down before turning and heading back up to the road.

I was left standing with the second man, a man who looked like trouble just as much as he looked like heartache, deep, unshakeable heartache.

He stared at me for a long, hard moment. His Adam’s apple moved along his throat with a deep swallow. “Christ, you are a goddamned heartbreaker,” he said quietly as if he was just talking to himself. He seemed to shake off another thought. All sense told me I should be afraid to be standing in a deserted ravine with this man, a man whose gaze was now riveted to me, but the earlier fear I’d felt at seeing his friend hike toward me had vanished.

He lifted his hand toward my guitar. I pulled it out of his reach, thinking he’d decided to keep it.

He smiled, but the sorrow behind it seemed to be permanent, as if he hadn’t been happy in a long while. “Relax, darlin’, I’ve got no use for a guitar. Can’t even sing in the shower without scaring the birds outside. I just thought I’d carry it up for you. You look a little out of it, and it’s a harder hike up than down.”

Reluctantly, I handed him the guitar. His fingers once again brushed mine. I was sure it wasn’t just a coincidence because his hand lingered longer than necessary. The way he looked at me made me feel as if I was standing completely naked in front of him. There was a glimmer of amusement in his light brown eyes as his gaze drifted down over my body.

I shifted slightly on my feet. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing at all. The opposite, in fact. Just wondering if you’ve got a peace sign or the words ‘make love not war’ tattooed somewhere on that body of yours.”

“I don’t. Sorry if my clothing style amuses you.”

“Nope, I like it.” He motioned with his head. “Come on, Woodstock, follow my steps, and you should be fine.” He turned back toward the makeshift trail.

I stayed close behind him. His height and impressive shoulder span in his black leather jacket made me feel as if I was following a gothic Goliath up the mountain. I scurried behind trying to keep pace with his long legs and confident steps.

He glanced back over his shoulder. The waning sunlight made his eyes nearly glow gold. “What were you doing down there?”

I didn’t answer.

He stopped and turned around. “You lost someone on the curve.” It wasn’t a question. But, as Everly had said, it was common for people to visit this spot.

“Yes.”

He stared at me for a long, drawn-out moment again before turning back around. Up above, a motorcycle roared to life. I hoped that the other man would be gone before we reached the road. He was unsettling, to say the least.

I followed behind my intimidating but intriguing trail guide. My gaze strayed to the mesmerizing movement of his butt and leg muscles beneath his jeans, and I stepped too far near the edge. I gasped as the trail gave way. A terrifying vision of me falling head over heels down into the ravine flashed through my mind. Strong fingers wrapped around my arm. I slipped no farther than a few inches, but my heart raced as if I’d fallen a hundred feet. It was an odd, uneasy feeling I couldn’t shake even moments after both my feet were back on solid ground. He held my arm until I steadied myself.

“Guess you’ll think twice before hiking down here again.” He stepped up to the ledge of flat ground running behind the highway railing. He turned back to me. A rush of recognition went through me that pushed a lump into my throat. Impossible. He was a complete stranger. This was not a man who would just dash out of your memory after meeting him. There was no way I’d ever seen him before. I pushed all my crazy thoughts off as the product of a long, emotional day and my first whole day away from home.

It took me a second to notice the hand he’d lowered to me. I placed my palm on his. It was strong, warm and callused as he closed his fingers around mine. He held my hand as I climbed back over the railing.

It had been shady down in the ravine, but the light on the highway was fading fast. The dusk sky was filling with the velvet gray of the coming night.

His motorcycle was parked a few feet down along the railing. He looked up and down the highway. “How did you get here?”

“I walked from the last bus stop.” My voice sounded shaky and small standing in the majestic mountain setting and in front of this striking man.

His dark brows creased together. “You walked? What’s your name, darlin’?”

“Tashlyn. And I suppose I should thank you for getting back my guitar and getting me out of that ravine safely.”

“My brother wouldn’t have hurt you. He just likes to act before he thinks.” He looked down at the duffle bag at my feet. “Where are you heading?”

“Blackthorn Ridge.”

His scar twitched as he tightened his jaw. “Why the hell are you heading there?” His tone had hardened.

“I’m looking for something.” I wasn’t about to start telling my story to a complete stranger, especially one who looked as if he could break my heart just as easily as he could reach in and rip it from my chest.

His expression grew grim. “You should get back on the bus and head straight back to wherever the hell you came from.”

I stiffened my shoulders, trying hard not to let his harsh words upset me. “I don’t see how that is your business.”

Again, he stared at me a long moment before speaking. “It’ll be dark soon, and you’ve got two miles ahead of you. Want a ride?”

I looked at the bike and the cold, hard gaze of the man in front of me.

“No, thank you. I prefer to walk.”

He nodded and headed back to his bike.

“Thank you again, Mr.—”

The fading light cast a wild gold glow in his eyes. “Name’s Wolfe. Jem Wolfe.” He threw his long leg over the seat of the motorcycle. It rumbled beneath him as he leaned his massive shoulders forward and sped off.