He yanks the knife from his boot and charges forward.
“Lorne, no!” I lurch in front of him. “Wait!”
He whirls around me and collides with Jake’s chest.
“Who fired the shot?” Jake grips his arms, holding him.
He gives Jake a blank look, one of stupefied horror. His breathing quickens. His throat bobs, and his lips part.
“I shot him.” He stumbles back, presses a palm over his lips, and paces away in quick, scuffing steps. “I saw someone running near the back road and chased him down on horseback. I was shouting, telling him to stop. He kept running. Why wouldn’t he listen?”
Oh no. Oh God, please, no. My neck goes painfully taut, and I drop the knife, my fingers too shaky to hold it.
“Lorne?” Jake falls into step with him slowly, cautiously, as if afraid to spook him. “Are you sure you shot someone?”
“I never miss.” A whisper.
“Who?” Jake asks.
“I thought he was the man who hurt Conor.” He clasps his hands on his head and stares, unblinking, at his boots. “When I fired, someone screamed behind me. Goddamn Andy. He saw me pull the trigger. He was over by the fucking fence, and I didn’t fucking see him.”
Andy Longley. One of our oldest cowhands. He lives on the ranch with his thirty-year-old son, Wyatt. The father-son team always works together, tending the cattle and repairing the fencing.
“Was it Wyatt?” My voice breaks. “Is that who you shot?”
“I—I don’t… Dammit, I freaked out and hightailed it on the horse. Andy knows it was me.” He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “Oh my God, I fucking killed his son. They’ll come for me.”
“It was dark.” Jarret digs his boot into the man’s back while pulling on the noose. “You didn’t know.”
“You were trying to protect me.” Anguish attacks my lungs, my throat, my heart. “After everything that happened tonight, they’ll sympathize. You didn’t mean to do it. They’ll understand that.”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it.” Lorne resumes his pacing. “I plowed a man down with every intent to kill him. An innocent man!” He yanks on his hair, gasping for air. “I’m so fucking fucked. There’s no fixing this. No redo’s. None of this would’ve happened if—”
He spins toward the gagged man, who stares up at him with bulging eyes. A black murderous cloud storms across Lorne’s features. Jake and Jarret wear the same malicious expressions. When they look like that, stripped down to pure, raw fury, it’s hard to remember they’re only teenagers.
If I don’t defuse this, they’ll spend their adult lives behind bars.
“If anyone’s going to kill him, it should be me.” I hold a hand out to Jake. “Give me the gun.”
He cuts hard eyes at me. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I’m not asking.”
All flexing muscle and rock-grinding teeth, he glares at me. I return his glare, refusing to back down.
His spine straightens. As if he needs any more height on my five-foot-two frame. Then he slips the shotgun off his back and holds it out.
I take it, aim it skyward, and smash the wooden stock against our attacker’s skull. “That was for hitting Jake in the head.”
The man slumps in the dirt, unconscious and bleeding above his eye.
“He’s not dead.” Lorne nudges the limp body with a boot.
“We can explain two deaths but not three.” I pump the shotgun, ejecting the shells. “We’re going to send him to prison.”
“Then what?” Jake widens his stance, eyes burning with challenge. “He won’t stay locked up forever. When he gets out in three years, five years—”
“We’ll kill him.” I set the gun aside and face the group. “We’ll do it calmly, smartly, when we’ve had time to plan and make damn sure we don’t get blamed.”
Sirens sound in the distance, and our huddle of four snaps into a livewire of tension.
“Conor.” Jake clutches my hand, his tone urgent. “I want this behind us. It needs to end now.”
“You’re the most patient guy I know.” I intertwine our fingers. “Let him sweat it out in prison. Then we’ll get our revenge. He won’t see us coming.”
Wheels turn behind his eyes, but he doesn’t nod or give any sign of agreement.
“She’s right.” Jarret shifts beside me. “Andy Longley would’ve called the cops. They’re coming. If we kill him now, it’ll weaken Lorne’s defense.” He looks at my brother. “Hold out your knife.”
Creases mar Lorne’s eyes as he angles the blade toward the center of our circle.
“When he gets out, I vow to kill him.” Jarret grips the blade and slides his palm along the razored edge, hissing as it tears through his skin.
I hold out my palm. “When he goes free, I vow to kill him.”
I reach for the knife, but Lorne uncurls my fingers, cradles my hand, and does it for me. He cuts deep, leaving a blood-welling gash meant to scar. The pain steels me with purpose, grounding me to the only three people who matter.