Jake and Lorne follow suit, uttering their blood oaths through clenched teeth. We seal it with our hands joined in a tangle of fingers and blood and unbreakable friendship.
The din of commotion drifts beyond the ridge—the rumble of cars, barking dogs, and blaring sirens.
My toes curl against the rocky ground as Lorne and Jarret drag the unconscious man to the dead body, tying him to the lifeless weight.
I’m not ready for the interrogation. The medical examinations. The personal questions. What if I say something that jeopardizes Lorne’s defense? What should I be doing now? Practicing my testimony? Helping Lorne and Jarret? I feel uncertain and utterly shell-shocked.
Jake moves into my space and touches a knuckle beneath my chin, lifting it. There’s a deep fracture in his eyes, and it sees how lost I am and pulls me in.
His arms come around me, and I sink against the warm skin of his chest. My face finds a home there, right against his sternum. My hands follow the grooves of his ribs, around to his back, and dig into muscle and spine.
“I’m sorry.” He drags his nose along mine and breathes against my lips. “You needed me, and I left you. I wasn’t thinking.”
“No, you weren’t, but you got him.” My heart reaches up, floating pieces into my throat and around my words. “Thank you for…for enduring that…” I close my eyes and open them. “When the worst of it was happening, you were with me.”
“I couldn’t get to you. I couldn’t—”
“You were there, looking right at me, holding me with your presence. It made a difference.”
He grips the back of my head and crushes me to his heaving chest. A low, rumbling sound vibrates against my ear, followed by a sharp sob. He silences his sorrow, trapping it behind pinched lips, but a drip lands on my cheek. Then another, and another. The splash of his tears unleashes my own, sending up clouds of heartache.
Another pair of arms encircle me from behind, and my brother bows his head against the back of mine. “We’ll get through this.”
Jarret joins our side, and Jake pulls him in.
The horses flick their heads and chuff, but we don’t move. Shouting and footsteps invade the trail, and we squeeze tighter together.
Uniforms and badges sweep into the ravine, guns drawn but not raised.
“Lorne Cassidy.” Gravel crunches beneath the tread of boots, hunching my shoulders.
My brother straightens, turns, and I clutch his hand.
A beam of light shines on his face. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Wyatt Longley.”
Three days later, I stand at the kitchen sink and soak in the guitar chords drifting through the open window.
The view of the ranch from here gets me every time. The rolling green meadows, grazing cattle, sparkling ponds—the rawness of the landscape imprints itself on the soul.
But it pales in comparison to the mesmerizing girl on the back porch.
Conor sits sideways on the steps, red hair swaying around her angelic face as she evokes powerful emotion with strings and wood. Eyes closed, she strums rhythmically, quietly singing Mile On The Moon by Sarah Jarosz.
Since that night, she’s been zoned out on songs with thematic threads of sorrow and feeling lost. I don’t pretend to understand the depth of hurt that’s been done to her or what she needs to heal. If it had been me in that ravine enduring what she did, I’m not sure I’d ever leave my bed.
That’s the difference between her and me. She’s stronger, more resilient, and she’ll overcome the physical trauma without complaining about the pain. Maybe she doesn’t need me hovering over her like a mother hen. But I need it. I need her to know she’s not alone.
So when she’s in her room, I pace outside her door. I sit in the hall. I knock and demand to fetch things for her. Then I pace some more. When she emerges, I follow her, hold her, listen to her, and feed her. She won’t eat, but I make the food. And I’ll keep making it. I don’t know what else to do.
I grab the orange juice with my bandaged hand and a plate of scrambled eggs with the other. Halfway to the door, I remember the toast. Circling back, I pull the slice from the toaster with my teeth and head to the porch.
I know Conor hasn’t mentally dealt with what happened to her. Hell, I’m still struggling with the feelings that haunt me day and night. With Wyatt dead and Lorne in jail, she and everyone else is too wrapped up in the impending trial to address her emotional wellbeing.
Has her dad even said two words to her? He has plenty to say to my dad. Dalton and John spent most of the last three days behind closed doors. When they emerge, bitter tension chokes the house. Whatever’s going on between them isn’t friendly.