“How do you know?”
“Because that’s what I would do.”
I nod, staring at our laced hands. “This is going to change us.”
“We won’t let it.”
“You believe that?”
“No.” He blows out a breath. “But you’re still my future sister-in-law. Jake’s still my brother. Lorne’s still my best friend.” He wraps an arm around my back, tucking me against his side. “The important stuff won’t change.”
My throat constricts. “Okay.”
“Are you?” He gives me a sidelong glance. “Okay?”
“I don’t think so.”
“God, Conor.” He stares at the body across the ravine, flexing his hand against mine. “What they did to you…”
The muscles between my legs spasm, aggravating the hurt. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
I don’t want to think about it or dwell on it or inspect it in any way.
“You’ll have to,” he says softly. “When we get to the house.”
“Yeah.” Torment pushes down my shoulders.
There will be interrogations. Probing, humiliating, personal questions. I don’t want to relive what happened here.
“Did you and Jake…?” He shakes his head. “Never mind.”
“Did we have sex?” My chest aches so badly I can’t look at him. Can’t let him see the devastation in my eyes.
“I shouldn’t have asked.”
Since when is any topic off limits? We share everything without embarrassment or discomfort.
Until now.
Things are already changing between us.
“They’ll ask.” My chin quivers. The cops, the doctors, my dad—they’ll ask all the questions. “The answer’s no. Jake and I… We didn’t get that far.”
“Jesus.” He pulls his hand from mine and rubs his face. “Jake is… Fuck, he’s not going to get over that.”
Jake was supposed to be my first. My one and only.
“I know.” More torment. My shoulders weigh a ton with it.
Jarret hugs me tighter, and his hand strokes a restless path up and down my arm. He’s built like Jake, his chest wide and muscled and his jaw a square slab of stone. I love him dearly and am glad he stayed with me. But I need Jake.
The minutes that follow feel like hours, the wait unbearable. Just as I open my mouth to break the silence, the distant boom of a shotgun shivers the air.
Jarret jumps up, wildly scanning the perimeter as he thrusts a finger at me. “Stay there.”
I hug my knees to my chest, too rattled to move. “Which direction?”
Spinning away from the ridge, he faces south. “The back road.” He tilts his head, listening. “Makes sense he would run that way. They probably left a car there. No one around to see them come and go.”
Who fired the shot? Jake and Lorne both have guns, but so does every man on the ranch.
Something crashes down the trail. I’m on my feet in a heartbeat, pulse racing and palms sweaty. Jarret rushes toward the commotion and stops as Barnabe bursts into the ravine with Jake in the saddle.
He drags a running, stumbling, barefoot man behind him, connected by a rope—one end in Jake’s fist, the other around the man’s neck. A familiar black mask gags the man’s mouth, his hands tied behind his back with shoestrings.
Jake caught him.
And he’s still alive?
I step forward, aching for Jake’s arms around me. “The gunshot?”
“Wasn’t me.” He pulls Barnabe to a halt and dismounts, his eyes ablaze with manic rage.
My limbs shake as I close the distance. “Where’s Lorne?”
“Don’t know.” He grabs the rope and jerks it, causing the man to crash face-first on the ground. “He’s probably on his way back.” As distracted as he is with his prisoner, he takes a second to find and hold my gaze. “It’ll be over soon.”
“Why is he breathing?” Jarret moves in and presses a boot down on the man’s head, pinning him to the dirt.
“I want to kill him slow and painful like.” Jake turns toward the dead body, and his gaze lands on the knife they held against my throat.
No. I can’t let him do this. How would he explain a dismembered body to the cops? And the restraint marks on the wrists? What if they don’t believe his self-defense plea and charge him for murder?
I’m half the distance to the knife and beat him to it. I clutch it, yank it behind my back and out of view. “Just hang on for—”
“Hand it over.” Nostrils flaring, he tries to grab around me.
I spin, dodging him. “You’re not thinking straight.”
“Conor,” he growls in a patronizing tone, clenching his hands at his sides. “Give me the goddamn knife.”
“We need to find Lorne. The gunshot—”
The sound of an approaching horse stomps down the trail. We all turn, fixed on the noise, as Lorne appears in the ravine. His face is white as a sheet, his shoulders stiff and eyes harried.
“What happened?” I run toward him, powering through the pain in my groin as I inspect him for bullet wounds.
“I did something…” With jerky movements, he dismounts and shoves his hands in his wind-blown hair. “Oh God, it was dark as fuck, and I thought—” His attention seizes on the squirming man beneath Jarret’s boot. “That fucking motherfucker!”