“Found a way to take Moonie down,” Mason said. Everyone stiffened and the air around us shifted. He pulled the truck door open to reveal a sleeping woman. A beautiful woman. Her hair was reminiscent of the fire that nearly killed Denver and me. She was tucked under a fuzzy tan blanket, her light pink lips parted. She was also clutching a teal metal water bottle to her blanket-covered chest with both hands. “Who the hell is that?” Denver questioned. Mason looked to me and back to his brother. “My wife.”
