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was that a goddamn it she heard?
    Closer . She dropped down, sliding beneath a particularly thick manzanita bush and inched forward on her belly as she palmed her firearm. Tracking 101 to the rescue.
    The man emerging from the trees ate up the ground with a sure, confident prowl. He was definitely far too large to be her tango. That big body of his put him at well over six feet, and there was no missing so much as an inch of him. The bright yellow jacket he wore unbuttoned painted an unmistakable target on his shoulders and back. The baseball cap pulled low over his forehead shaded his face and eyes from her gaze. He’d pulled a bandana over his mouth because the air was growing thicker and smokier with each passing moment. Definitely not her tango, but she didn’t know why he was dogging her ass, either.
    Keep on walking, buddy.
    Work boots drew level with her hiding spot and she got a finger on the gun’s trigger. Before she could sight, however, he dropped fast to one knee, a big, gloved hand reaching for her.
    “Come on out,” he growled.
    Made . Adrenaline hit her hard and she bucked against his grip.
    If this man got his hands on her good, she’d be going nowhere. He swore and she slammed her shoulder up, connecting with a rock-hard abdomen. He was too big, too fast. Before she could blink, he’d pinned her, one arm wrapping around her middle and dragging her up against his body. His other arm came down and grabbed her wrist. She didn’t drop the gun, but the air left her lungs in a fast, hard rush as he squeezed. He had to outweigh her by sixty pounds.
    Hotshot . That was the first word that came to mind. The fire she’d spotted over the eastern ridge had the area crawling with the elite wildland firefighters and this one looked fresh from the field. He sported the obligatory Nomex fashion statement, bottle-green work pants and a bright yellow work shirt. He’d unbuttoned the cuffs, rolling the fireproof fabric up to reveal strong, tanned forearms.
    Unexpectedly drool worthy.
    No . She bucked hard, aiming for his forehead, and followed with a hip check. He flowed with her, off-balance but not letting go. When he finally went down, another gritty curse exploded from his mouth as he took her with him. Onto him, as he shouldered the brunt of the impact. Splayed on his chest, her wrists pinned against the ground and face-to-face with her attacker, she was looking at a whole new kind of trouble.
    Sam Clayton.
    He’d been beautiful the summer they first met, young and broad-shouldered with a wardrobe of faded cotton T-shirts that clung to each powerful ripple of muscle. She’d watched him hike mile after mile, and she’d wanted him to run. Straight towards her .
    Now, he was bigger, his muscled frame more solid. His face wore a layer of experience he hadn’t had before, experience that gave his face harder lines. There were new scars, too, fresh lines beneath the blond curls he’d inherited from his European ancestors and that he cut ruthlessly short. He still had those high cheekbones, though, and the sun-kissed complexion that had had the park’s female visitors dreaming. And, like before, the sight of him set off a sensual fire low in her belly that threatened to burn out of control. Her Sam . She opened her mouth. Closed it. Because, even though this was his park, he was still the last person she’d expected to run into out here.
    “You are aware there is a three-hundred-acre wildfire blowing up maybe a mile from here?” He didn’t seem surprised to see her, his smooth, deep voice as unhurried as ever. And wouldn’t you know it, she still got the shivers listening to him, hoping he’d go on talking, when she knew he’d lapse right back into silence as soon as he’d said the bare-bones minimum.
    Sam didn’t chatter.
    Or fuss.
    He got in, he got out—and he always, always got the job done. Sam redefined slow, steady patience. Thorough and intent, he had the fierce focus of a warrior. And he’d